though his eyes danced in merriment.
When the two Jeans arrived at the Château de Mespech the next morning, they were surprised to find the drawbridge raised. After repeated cries, a hairy head finally appeared on the ramparts, wild-eyed and face flushed with drink: “Go your way!” the fellow croaked. “I have orders to open to no man.”
“What is this order?” asked Jean de Siorac. “And who has given it? I am the Chevalier de Siorac, nephew of Raymond Siorac de Taniès, and I wish to purchase the castlery with my friend and companion, Jean de Sauveterre. How can I make a purchase, my good man, if I cannot visit the premises?”
“Ah, Monsieur,” whined the man, “I humbly beg your pardon, but my life and my family’s lives would be worth nothing if I opened these gates.”
“Who are you and what is your name?”
“Maligou.”
“He seems to like his drink,” muttered Sauveterre.
“Maligou,” said Siorac, “are you a servant in this house?”
“Not on your life,” answered Maligou proudly. “I have lands, a house and a vineyard.”
“A large vineyard?” asked Sauveterre.
“Large enough, Monsieur, for my thirst.”
“And how do you come to be here?”
“My harvest is in, and I agreed, for my misfortune, to serve as guard at Mespech for the heirs of the estate, for two sols a day.”
“You seem to be earning them badly if you don’t open the doors to prospective buyers!”
“Monsieur, I cannot,” said old Maligou plaintively. “I have my orders. And I risk my life if I disobey them.”
“Who gives these orders?”
“You know very well,” said Maligou, his head hanging.
“Maligou,” answered Sauveterre, knitting his brow, “if you don’t lower the drawbridge, I will ride to Sarlat in search of the king’s lieutenant and his archers! And they will hang you for refusing entry to us.”
“I will certainly open the gates to Monsieur de La Boétie,” Maligou sighed in relief, “but I don’t think he’ll hang me. Go find the lieutenant, Monsieur, before I am killed by the others. I beg you in the name of the Lord and all his saints!”
“The Devil take the saints,” grumbled Sauveterre, “does this fool also wear a medallion to the Virgin?”
“Perhaps, but not in so beautiful and goodly a place,” whispered Siorac. And, out loud, “Come, Sauveterre. Let’s ride to Sarlat! We must hie ourselves all the way back to Sarlat thanks to this fool.”
“Or thanks to those who’ve terrorized him,” countered Sauveterre worriedly, spurring his horse. “My brother, we must consider this bad neighbour we shall likely have, if it’s true that the lands of Fontenac border those of Mespech.”
“But ’tis a beautiful chateau,” replied Siorac, standing full up on his stirrups. “’Tis handsome and newly built. We will have much joy from living in a house so new as this. A pox on the narrow windowsof the old fortresses with their blackened, moss-covered walls. Let me live instead in shining stone and with doubled windows which let in the sun!”
“And offer easy entry to our assailants…”
“If need be, we’ll reinforce them on the inside with oak shutters.”
“You’re buying a pig in a poke, brother,” growled Sauveterre. “We haven’t even seen the fields.”
“Today the house. Tomorrow and the day after the land,” cried Siorac.
Anthoine de La Boétie, police lieutenant by authority of the seneschalty of Sarlat and of the domain of Domme, lived opposite the church in Sarlat. He had a beautiful new house, pierced with the double casement windows so admired by my father, who loved all the new ideas, whether in matters of religion, agriculture, military science or medicine. For Jean had continued his diligent study of the medical sciences. I recently found in his impressive library a treatise by Ambroise Paré entitled
The Method of Treating Wounds Made by the Blunderbuss and Other Firearms
, bought, according to my father’s notation, from
When the two Jeans arrived at the Château de Mespech the next morning, they were surprised to find the drawbridge raised. After repeated cries, a hairy head finally appeared on the ramparts, wild-eyed and face flushed with drink: “Go your way!” the fellow croaked. “I have orders to open to no man.”
“What is this order?” asked Jean de Siorac. “And who has given it? I am the Chevalier de Siorac, nephew of Raymond Siorac de Taniès, and I wish to purchase the castlery with my friend and companion, Jean de Sauveterre. How can I make a purchase, my good man, if I cannot visit the premises?”
“Ah, Monsieur,” whined the man, “I humbly beg your pardon, but my life and my family’s lives would be worth nothing if I opened these gates.”
“Who are you and what is your name?”
“Maligou.”
“He seems to like his drink,” muttered Sauveterre.
“Maligou,” said Siorac, “are you a servant in this house?”
“Not on your life,” answered Maligou proudly. “I have lands, a house and a vineyard.”
“A large vineyard?” asked Sauveterre.
“Large enough, Monsieur, for my thirst.”
“And how do you come to be here?”
“My harvest is in, and I agreed, for my misfortune, to serve as guard at Mespech for the heirs of the estate, for two sols a day.”
“You seem to be earning them badly if you don’t open the doors to prospective buyers!”
“Monsieur, I cannot,” said old Maligou plaintively. “I have my orders. And I risk my life if I disobey them.”
“Who gives these orders?”
“You know very well,” said Maligou, his head hanging.
“Maligou,” answered Sauveterre, knitting his brow, “if you don’t lower the drawbridge, I will ride to Sarlat in search of the king’s lieutenant and his archers! And they will hang you for refusing entry to us.”
“I will certainly open the gates to Monsieur de La Boétie,” Maligou sighed in relief, “but I don’t think he’ll hang me. Go find the lieutenant, Monsieur, before I am killed by the others. I beg you in the name of the Lord and all his saints!”
“The Devil take the saints,” grumbled Sauveterre, “does this fool also wear a medallion to the Virgin?”
“Perhaps, but not in so beautiful and goodly a place,” whispered Siorac. And, out loud, “Come, Sauveterre. Let’s ride to Sarlat! We must hie ourselves all the way back to Sarlat thanks to this fool.”
“Or thanks to those who’ve terrorized him,” countered Sauveterre worriedly, spurring his horse. “My brother, we must consider this bad neighbour we shall likely have, if it’s true that the lands of Fontenac border those of Mespech.”
“But ’tis a beautiful chateau,” replied Siorac, standing full up on his stirrups. “’Tis handsome and newly built. We will have much joy from living in a house so new as this. A pox on the narrow windowsof the old fortresses with their blackened, moss-covered walls. Let me live instead in shining stone and with doubled windows which let in the sun!”
“And offer easy entry to our assailants…”
“If need be, we’ll reinforce them on the inside with oak shutters.”
“You’re buying a pig in a poke, brother,” growled Sauveterre. “We haven’t even seen the fields.”
“Today the house. Tomorrow and the day after the land,” cried Siorac.
Anthoine de La Boétie, police lieutenant by authority of the seneschalty of Sarlat and of the domain of Domme, lived opposite the church in Sarlat. He had a beautiful new house, pierced with the double casement windows so admired by my father, who loved all the new ideas, whether in matters of religion, agriculture, military science or medicine. For Jean had continued his diligent study of the medical sciences. I recently found in his impressive library a treatise by Ambroise Paré entitled
The Method of Treating Wounds Made by the Blunderbuss and Other Firearms
, bought, according to my father’s notation, from
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