The Brethren Read Free

exchange of compliments.
    François de Caumont had already learnt of his guests’ exploits, and congratulated them on their courage in the service of the king. All of this had to be expressed in the pompous style practised by our fathers’ generation, which I personally find tiring, and prefer the simpler language of our peasants.
    François de Caumont (whose brother Geoffroy was to share some hair-raising experiences with me which we survived only by the greatest miracle) was small but powerfully built, with a deep voice and a bright and attentive expression. At twenty-five, he seemed to have the wisdom of a much older man, always inclined to weigh his options, inevitably wary and ready to retreat at the slightest sign of danger. After the ritual exchange of greetings, François sensed in his two visitors a pair of allies open to “the new opinion” of Protestantism, and sounded them out with a few delicate questions. Despite their prudent answers, François’s suspicions proved to be well founded. He knew, of course, the enormous weight such men would lend to his party and immediately resolved to help us to get established in the region.
    “Messieurs,” said he, “you couldn’t have come to a better place. In a week’s time, the castlery of Mespech will be auctioned by sealed bids. As you will see, the place has fallen into disrepair since the death of its owner, but its lands are spacious and fertile and include some good grazing land and handsome hardwood forests.The Baron de Fontenac, whose lands abut on the Mespech domain, would naturally like to round out his holdings as cheaply as possible, and he has done everything he can to delay the sale in hopes that the castle will fall into such disrepair that no other buyers would be tempted. However, despite the manoeuvrings of Fontenac, the authorities in Sarlat have finally decided in the interests of the heirs of Mespech to proceed to a sale. The auction will take place on Monday next at noon.”
    “Monsieur de Caumont,” said Jean de Sauveterre, “do you count the Baron de Fontenac among your friends?”
    “Absolutely not,” answered Caumont. “No one here counts Fontenac as his friend, and he is friend to no man.”
    From the silence that followed, Sauveterre understood that there was a long history behind his words that Caumont preferred not to relate. Siorac would have pressed the matter, but at that very moment a gracious maiden entered the great hall, clothed in a very low-cut morning dress, her blonde hair falling freely about her shoulders. Since the beginning of his visits to the noble families of Sarlat, Siorac had seen a great many women whose necks were so bound in plaits and ruffles that their heads appeared to be served on platters. His heart gave a mighty leap at the sight of this white breast sculpted with the grace of a swan, while, for her part, the maiden returned his gaze with her large blue eyes. As he limped forward to exchange greetings with her, Sauveterre caught sight of a medallion on her breast which displeased him mightily.
    “Isabelle,” Caumont announced in his deep bass voice, “is the daughter of my uncle, the Chevalier de Caumont. My wife is forced to keep to her bed as a result of the vapours, otherwise she would herself have come down to honour our guests with her presence. But Isabelle will take her place. Although she is not without her own fortune, my cousin Isabelle lodges with us—a distinct honourand a pleasure, for she is perfection itself.” This last was directed, accompanied by a significant look, at Siorac.
    François added, jokingly, this time glancing at Sauveterre, “Really there is nothing one could reproach her for, except perhaps her strange taste in medallions.”
    Sparks flew from Isabelle’s blue eyes as she replied with a petulant movement of shoulders and neck, “A taste shared, my cousin, by my king, Louis XI—”
    “Who was a great king, despite his idolatry,” interrupted Caumont gravely,