The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles Read Free

kings!”
    “Always is not forever, Phillipe. There is absolutely nothing inherent in the structure of the universe which dictates that any free man should be expected to obey authority unless he wishes to—for his own benefit, and by his own consent. Even the best of kings rules by tradition, not right. And a man must make up his own mind as to whether he’s willing to be ruled by the authority in question.”
    “Yes, I got that much.”
    “Our mad Swiss was even more blunt about it. He once observed that if God wished to speak to Monsieur Jean Jacques, He should not go through Moses.” Girard paused. “Scandalous stuff I’m teaching you, eh?” he said with a twinkling eye.
    “Confusing, mostly.”
    “Well, save your questions until we devote a little attention to something more conventional. When you return we’ll try an English play. There are witches in it, and old Scottish kings who murder one another. You’ll find it stimulating, I think. Learning ought not to be dull though God knows it is the way the priest peddle it.” With mock seriousness, he concluded, “I consider it not just my job but my sacred obligation to sweeten your preparation all I can, my young friend.”
    At the inn door, Phillipe turned. “Preparation for what?”
    “That, dear pupil, is for madame the actress to tell you.”
    Phillipe frowned. “Why do you always speak of her as madame?”
    “For one thing, she insists upon it.”
    “But she has no husband. I’ve no father that I know about.”
    “Nevertheless, I consider your mother a lady. But then”—Girard shrugged, smiling again—“when she’s in a bad mood, she herself calls me an unconventional, not to say dangerous, fellow. And she’s not the only one! Pity I can’t force myself to stick to sums and English where you’re concerned. I can’t because you’re a bright lad. So before you keep on pestering me with questions, remember what I’ve told you before. Some of my philosophical ideas could land you in serious trouble one day. Consider that the warning of a friend. Now hurry along for the cheese, eh? Or I can’t guarantee you’ll be safe from Mademoiselle Charlotte!”
iv
    So, on a gray November morning in the year 1770, Phillipe Charboneau left Les Trois Chevres. He had never, as a matter of record, seen a single goat on the premises, let alone the three for whom Marie’s father had named the establishment.
    He set off up the rock-strewn road in the direction of Chavaniac. As the morning mist lifted gradually, the sun came out. Far on the north horizon he glimpsed the rounded gray hump of the Puy de Dome, a peak, so Girard had informed him, that was surrounded with pits which had once belched fire and smoke. Small extinct volcanos, said the itinerant scholar.
    Phillipe walked rapidly. On the hillsides above him, dark pines soughed in the wind blowing across the Velay hills. The air of Auvergne could shiver the bone in the fall and winter months. The inn was seldom warm this time of year, except when you stood directly at the fireside.
    He wondered what it would be like to dwell in a splendid, comfortable chateau like the one near Chavaniac. The Motier family—rich, of the nobility —lived there, his mother said, usually hinting whenever the chateau was mentioned that he would experience a similar sort of life one day. In the stinging wind, Phillipe was more convinced than ever that she was only wishing aloud.
    His old wool coat offered little protection from the cold. He was thoroughly chilled by the time he turned up a track through the rocks and emerged on a sort of natural terrace overlooking the road. Here stood the hovel and pens of du Pleis, the goatherd. Higher still, behind a screen of pines, bells clanked.
    A fat, slovenly boy about Phillipe’s age emerged from the hovel, scratching his crotch. The boy had powerful shoulders, and several teeth were missing. Phillipe’s eyes narrowed a little at the sight of him.
    “Well,” said the boy,