a book dealer in Sarlat on 13th July 1545, the year of this business concerning Mespech.
Monsieur de La Boétie was elegantly clad in a silk doublet and sported a carefully groomed moustache and goatee. Seated beside him on a low chair was a lad of about fifteen whose homeliness was offset by brilliant piercing eyes.
“My son, Étienne,” Monsieur de La Boétie announced, not without a touch of pride. “Messieurs,” he continued, “I am entirely aware of the machinations of Fontenac. He wants Mespech and will try to get it by any means—no matter how vile and dirty. I have learnt, though alas I cannot prove it, that a month ago he sent somemen by night to scale the walls and dislodge some roofing stones so that water could get in and ruin the flooring, thus depreciating the value of the place. Fontenac has only 15,000 livres and knows that no one hereabouts would lend him a sol. So, unless he’s the only bidder on Mespech, he won’t be able to afford it. To prevent any further damage, the heirs to Mespech hired Maligou to stand guard, but Fontenac, having learnt of your interest—”
“So, he knows about us!” said Siorac.
“Like everyone else in Sarlat,” smiled La Boétie, stroking his goatee. “You’re the talk of every chateau and farm in the region. And everyone knows that Fontenac has threatened to roast Maligou and his wife and children alive in their house if he lets you in.”
“And Fontenac is capable of such a thing?” asked Sauveterre.
“He has done much worse,” replied La Boétie with a helpless gesture. “But he’s as clever as a snake and has never left a trace of his foul play by which we could try him.”
“We have some experience of war and command three good soldiers,” said Sauveterre. “Lieutenant, what harm can this brigand baron do to us?”
“Post masked men in ambush on any wooded road in Périgord and attribute your deaths to the many armed bands that infest the countryside.”
“And how many swords does Fontenac have at his disposal?”
“About ten good-for-nothing scoundrels whom he calls his soldiers.”
“Ten?” sniffed Siorac haughtily. “That’s precious few.”
The moment of silence that followed this remark was broken by Anthoine de La Boétie: “But Fontenac has already begun a campaign of rumours to get at you by subtler means. The monster possesses a kind of venomous sweetness to sugar his plots. He has already advised the bishopric of Sarlat that you are both purported to be members of the reformed religion.”
“We are neither of us members of the reformed congregation,” replied Siorac after a moment of reflection, “and we attend Mass like everyone else.”
Sauveterre neither confirmed nor denied this, but chose to remain silent. This difference did not go unnoticed by Anthoine de La Boétie. As for his son, Étienne, he rose, walked briskly to the window and turned, saying with equal indignation and eloquence, “Is it not shameful to question these gentlemen’s attendance at Mass when they have shed their blood for ten years in the service of the kingdom? And who dares raise this question? This incendiary, this butcher, this wild animal, this dirty plague of a man who wears religion like a shield to cover his crimes! God preserve us from the worst tyranny of all which respects not our beliefs—”
“My son,” broke in Anthoine with a mixture of affection and admiration, “I appreciate the feelings which incite your generous heart against oppression.”
“Moreover, you express yourself admirably,” said Siorac to Étienne. It had not escaped his notice that Étienne had said “in the service of the kingdom” and not “in the service of the king”.
Étienne returned to his place on the stool beside Monsieur de La Boétie’s chair and, blushing, took Anthoine’s hand in a touching gesture that revealed his love for his father. His ardent look conveyed his immense gratitude for the approbation he had received. What good
Monsieur de La Boétie was elegantly clad in a silk doublet and sported a carefully groomed moustache and goatee. Seated beside him on a low chair was a lad of about fifteen whose homeliness was offset by brilliant piercing eyes.
“My son, Étienne,” Monsieur de La Boétie announced, not without a touch of pride. “Messieurs,” he continued, “I am entirely aware of the machinations of Fontenac. He wants Mespech and will try to get it by any means—no matter how vile and dirty. I have learnt, though alas I cannot prove it, that a month ago he sent somemen by night to scale the walls and dislodge some roofing stones so that water could get in and ruin the flooring, thus depreciating the value of the place. Fontenac has only 15,000 livres and knows that no one hereabouts would lend him a sol. So, unless he’s the only bidder on Mespech, he won’t be able to afford it. To prevent any further damage, the heirs to Mespech hired Maligou to stand guard, but Fontenac, having learnt of your interest—”
“So, he knows about us!” said Siorac.
“Like everyone else in Sarlat,” smiled La Boétie, stroking his goatee. “You’re the talk of every chateau and farm in the region. And everyone knows that Fontenac has threatened to roast Maligou and his wife and children alive in their house if he lets you in.”
“And Fontenac is capable of such a thing?” asked Sauveterre.
“He has done much worse,” replied La Boétie with a helpless gesture. “But he’s as clever as a snake and has never left a trace of his foul play by which we could try him.”
“We have some experience of war and command three good soldiers,” said Sauveterre. “Lieutenant, what harm can this brigand baron do to us?”
“Post masked men in ambush on any wooded road in Périgord and attribute your deaths to the many armed bands that infest the countryside.”
“And how many swords does Fontenac have at his disposal?”
“About ten good-for-nothing scoundrels whom he calls his soldiers.”
“Ten?” sniffed Siorac haughtily. “That’s precious few.”
The moment of silence that followed this remark was broken by Anthoine de La Boétie: “But Fontenac has already begun a campaign of rumours to get at you by subtler means. The monster possesses a kind of venomous sweetness to sugar his plots. He has already advised the bishopric of Sarlat that you are both purported to be members of the reformed religion.”
“We are neither of us members of the reformed congregation,” replied Siorac after a moment of reflection, “and we attend Mass like everyone else.”
Sauveterre neither confirmed nor denied this, but chose to remain silent. This difference did not go unnoticed by Anthoine de La Boétie. As for his son, Étienne, he rose, walked briskly to the window and turned, saying with equal indignation and eloquence, “Is it not shameful to question these gentlemen’s attendance at Mass when they have shed their blood for ten years in the service of the kingdom? And who dares raise this question? This incendiary, this butcher, this wild animal, this dirty plague of a man who wears religion like a shield to cover his crimes! God preserve us from the worst tyranny of all which respects not our beliefs—”
“My son,” broke in Anthoine with a mixture of affection and admiration, “I appreciate the feelings which incite your generous heart against oppression.”
“Moreover, you express yourself admirably,” said Siorac to Étienne. It had not escaped his notice that Étienne had said “in the service of the kingdom” and not “in the service of the king”.
Étienne returned to his place on the stool beside Monsieur de La Boétie’s chair and, blushing, took Anthoine’s hand in a touching gesture that revealed his love for his father. His ardent look conveyed his immense gratitude for the approbation he had received. What good
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