The chapel bell struck midday. Nicolas, who knew his way around the castle well, pushed open the heavy door of the great hall. A young fair-haired girl, simply clad in a green dress with a lace collar, sat near the fireplace working. At the sound of Nicolas entering she looked up from her sewing.
‘You frightened me, Father,’ she exclaimed without turning round. ‘Was the hunting successful?’
Receiving no reply she became worried, turning to stare into the shadows.
‘Who are you? Who allowed you to enter?’
Nicolas pushed the door shut and removed his hat. She let out a faint cry and restrained herself from rushing into his arms.
‘I see, Isabelle, that now I truly am a stranger at Ranreuil.’
‘Can it be you, Monsieur? How dare you come here after all that you have done?’
Nicolas looked bemused.
‘What have I done, except trust you, Isabelle? Fifteen months ago I had to obey your father and my guardian, and leave without saying goodbye to you. You were, it seems, in Nantes, staying with your aunt. That’s what I was told. I left and during all these months that I’ve been alone in Paris, not a word, not a single reply to my letters.’
‘Monsieur, I am the one with grounds for complaint.’
Nicolas’s anger grew in the face of such an unfair remark.
‘I thought you had given me your word. I was very foolish to believe someone so unfaithful, someone …’
He stopped, out of breath. Isabelle looked at him, petrified. Her sea-blue eyes were brimming with tears, whether of anger or of shame he did not know.
‘Monsieur, you seem very skilled in reversing roles.’
‘Your irony hurts me, but you are the unfaithful one. You are the one who made me leave.’
‘Unfaithful? In what way? These words are beyond me. Unfaithful …’
Nicolas began to pace around the room, then suddenly stopped in front of a portrait of a Ranreuil who stared sternly at him from his oval frame.
‘They’re all the same, century after century …’ he muttered under his breath.
‘What are you talking about, and what has it to do with us? Do you think he’s going to come down from his frame and reply to your soliloquising?’
Isabelle suddenly seemed to him frivolous and detached.
‘Unfaithful, yes, you. Unfaithful,’ Nicolas repeated sombrely, drawing closer to her.
He stood over her, furious, reddening, with fists clenched. She was frightened and burst out sobbing. Once again he saw the little girl whose childhood sorrows he used to console and his anger subsided.
‘Isabelle, what is happening to us?’ he asked, taking her by the hand.
The young woman huddled against him. He kissed her.
‘Nicolas,’ she stammered, ‘I love you. But my father told me you were going to Paris to be married. I didn’t want to see you again. I made it known that I was in Nantes, at my aunt’s. I couldn’t believe that you had broken our oath. I felt lost.’
‘How could you have believed such a thing?’
The suffering that had tormented him for so many months suddenly vanished in a burst of happiness. Tenderly he held Isabelle to him. They did not hear the door open.
‘That will do. You forget yourself, Nicolas …’ said a voice behind him.
It was the Marquis de Ranreuil, hunting whip in hand.
For an instant the three figures seemed rooted to the spot like statues. Had time stopped? Was this eternity? Then, everything restarted. Nicolas was to retain a terrible memory of this scene, one that would haunt him at night from then on. He let go of Isabelle and slowly turned to face his godfather.
The two men were the same height and their anger made them even more painfully alike. The marquis was the first to speak.
‘Nicolas, I want you to leave Isabelle alone.’
‘Monsieur, I love her,’ replied the young man in a low tone.
He drew closer to her. She looked at each of them in turn.
‘Father, you misled me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nicolas loves me and I love him.’
‘Isabelle, that is enough. Leave us. I must speak with this young man.’
Isabelle put her hand on Nicolas’s arm and squeezed it. At this heartfelt gesture, he turned pale and faltered. She rushed out, gathering up her flowing dress.
Ranreuil, who had regained his customary calm, said in a low voice:
‘Nicolas, please understand that all this pains me greatly.’
‘Monsieur, I understand nothing.’
‘I no longer wish you to see Isabelle. Do you understand?’
‘I understand, Monsieur, that I am nothing but a foundling, taken in by a good man and that I must disappear.’
He sighed.
‘But know, Monsieur, that I would have laid down my life for you.’
He bowed and was preparing to leave when the marquis stopped him, grasping him by the shoulders.
‘My godson, you cannot understand. Trust me, one day you will. I cannot explain anything to you now.’
Ranreuil suddenly seemed old and tired. Nicolas freed himself and left.
At four o’clock the young man galloped away from Guérande with no hope of ever returning. All he was leaving there was a coffin still awaiting burial and an old woman crying in a grief-stricken house. He was also leaving behind his childhood and his illusions. He would never think back on this senseless journey home.
Like a sleepwalker, he passed through forests and rivers, towns and villages, stopping only to change horses. However, sheer exhaustion forced him to take the fast mail-coach to Chartres.
It was the very day on which old Émilie had spied two suspicious-looking individuals in Montfaucon.
Y quieren que adivine
Y que no vea …
And they want him to guess
Without being able to see …
FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO Y VILLEGAS
Sunday 4 February 1761
Entering Paris brought Nicolas back to earth with a jolt. He emerged from a long period of torpor.
Darkness had fallen long before the mail-coach reached the central post office in Place du Chevalier-au-Guet. His carriage