Everything in Paris, in the world of crime, revolved around gaming, prostitution and theft, and these three worlds were interconnected in countless ways.
*
In fifteen months Nicolas learnt his trade. He knew the price of silence and of secrecy. He had matured and was now better able to control his feelings by restraining his imagination, which was still too wild for his liking. He was no longer the adolescent whom Père Grégoire had welcomed on his arrival in Paris. It was a different Nicolas who received a letter from Guérande informing him of the desperate state of health of his guardian. The sombre and stern silhouette standing at the prow of the barge, facing the raging Loire, on this cold January morning in 1761 was already that of a man.
Passion da Vener
Maro dar Zadorn
Interramant d’ar Zul
Dar baradoz hec’h ei zur.
Dying on Friday
Dead on Saturday
Buried on Sunday
Going to paradise certainly.
SAYING FROM LOWER BRITTANY
Wednesday 24 January 1761
The Loire was kind as far as Angers. Rain which sometimes turned to snow had fallen incessantly and during the overnight stay in Tours the river level had continued to rise. Sometimes, through a break in the fog, a ghost town emerged, grey and lifeless. The banks slipped by unseen. On reaching Angers the barge was caught up in an eddying current. It struck the pier of a bridge, spun around several times and then, out of control and breaking up, it ran aground on a sand bank. The passengers and crew were able to reach the riverbank in a punt.
After reviving himself with some mulled wine at an inn for boatmen, Nicolas made enquiries about possible ways of getting to Nantes. He had been on the barge for several days. Would he reach Guérande in time to see his guardian again? He anxiously assessed the further delays that threatened to build up. The river was becoming less and less navigable and no boat would risk going downstream for the time being. The road seemed no better for the carriages and he gave up the idea of waiting for the next mail-coach.
Confident in his riding ability, Nicolas decided to get hold of a horse and to continue his journey at full gallop. He now had money saved up from the wages paid him by Lardin. He was about forty leagues away from his destination and planned to take the most direct route from Angers to Guérande. Nicolas felt capable of facing up to highwaymen. At this time of year he also had to reckon with the packs of ravenous wolves that roamed around in search of prey and would not hesitate to attack him. But nothing could shake his determination to get there as soon as possible. So he chose a horse, which cost him a king’s ransom – the postmaster was reluctant to risk his precious animals in such weather – and he spurred it on as soon as he was beyond the city walls.
That same evening he slept in Ancenis and the following day headed off into the countryside. He reached the abbey of Saint-Gildas-des-Marais without mishap and was greeted with curiosity by the monks, who were delighted by this unexpected diversion. Near the monastic buildings, some wolves were tearing at pieces of dead flesh; they took no notice of him.
By daybreak he had reached the forest of La Bretesche. This was where his godfather, a friend of the Boisgelin family, used to hunt wild boar every autumn. Only the base of the castle towers could be glimpsed in the distance. He was entering a landscape familiar to him.
During the night the wind had turned into a gale, as often happens in these parts. His horse was struggling. The storm raged so loudly that it almost deafened Nicolas. The sodden track, which bordered a peat bog, was strewn with broken branches. The clouds were so low in the sky that the tips of the tall pine trees seemed to be ripping through them.
Sometimes the fury of the elements would suddenly abate. All was still, and in the restored silence the piercing cry of huge seabirds that had been driven inland could be heard as they hovered over the countryside.
But the storm soon resumed. The ground was covered with scudding shreds of white foam which stopped and then moved on. Some became caught in thickets or in the hollows of tree stumps, like sea snow. Others slid along the still-frozen surface of the marshes. A few leagues away the waves deposited white mounds flecked with yellow onto the beach which the storm tore and broke up, thinning out the remains which it carried inland. Nicolas could taste the salty trace of the ocean on his lips.
The old medieval town appeared through a clump of trees. It stood amidst the marshes like an island cut off from the black and white patchwork of land that surrounded it. Nicolas urged his horse on and galloped up to the walls that ringed the town.
He entered Guérande through the gateway of Sainte-Anne. The town seemed to have been deserted by its inhabitants, and the sound of his horse’s hooves echoing off the ancient stones reverberated through the streets.
In the old market square he stopped in front of a granite house, tied his mount to a ring on the wall and with trembling legs stepped inside. He bumped into Fine, who, on hearing a noise, had hurried to the door to greet him.
‘Oh, it’s you, Monsieur Nicolas! Thank God!’
She embraced him tearfully. Beneath her white coiffe, the wrinkled old face of the woman he had cuddled up to for comfort as a child became tense, her cheekbones purplish.
‘What a terrible misfortune, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Our good master fell ill at Mass, on Christmas night. Two days later he caught a cold when he went to relight the Holy Lamp. Since then, everything has got worse, and now there’s the gout as well. The doctor says it’s started to affect his insides. There’s no hope. His mind’s gone. He was given the last rites yesterday.’
Nicolas’s gaze fell on the chest upon which his guardian’s cloak, hat and cane lay. The sight of these familiar objects brought a lump to his throat.
‘Fine, let’s go to him,’ he said, in a voice choking with emotion.
Small and slight, Fine put her arm around the tall horseman’s waist as they went upstairs. The canon’s bedroom was in semi-darkness, lit only by flames from the fireplace. He lay motionless, his breathing irregular and rasping, with both hands clutching the top of the sheet. Nicolas fell on his knees and whispered:
‘Father, I am here. Can you hear me? I am here.’
He had always addressed his guardian in this way. In truth it really was his father who lay dying there, the person who had taken him in, who had looked after him devotedly and always shown him great affection, whatever the circumstances.
In his despair Nicolas became aware of the love he had always felt for the canon, a love that he had never spoken of because he had taken it so much for granted. Never again would he have the chance to express it. He heard again the canon’s voice say to him gently – and, he now realised, with such tenderness – ‘My dear ward.’
Nicolas took the old man’s hand and kissed it. They remained like this for a long while.
Four o’clock was striking when the canon opened his eyes.