firmly. “Everything goes on just the same.”
“But we,” I stammered, a lump in my throat, “we won’t be here to see it.”
“No,” said Samson.
“But, Samson, how is that possible?” Tears streamed down my cheeks, I grabbed his hand and squeezed with all my strength.
The day after I had discovered that the earth would continue to be just as beautiful when I was no longer there, a rider bearing letters from the north for the chateaux whose lords fought for the king brought us a missive from my father. It was addressed to Jean de Sauveterre, and my mother seemed reluctant to take it when, his face beaming with joy, Sauveterre handed it to her after perusing its contents. But since he was called outside at that moment, he placed the letter on the table of the great hall and left. Seeing this, my mother approached almost in spite of herself, reached out a hesitating hand, as if both attracted and repulsed by the letter, and ended up by seizing it and retiring immediately to a window seat, at a discreet distance from Barberine and her children. She skimmed most of the letter rapidly, until she got to the end, which she read much more slowly, with sighs and tears.
Sauveterre, returning at this moment, went up to her and said quietly and with an unusual gentleness: “Well, my cousin,you see your husband is concerned about your health and your children.”
“But the letter is not addressed to me,” replied my mother with a half-angry, half-plaintive tone, her blue eyes brimming with tears.
“That’s as it should be, since it’s a matter of wars and campaigns. But the last part proves that Jean has thoughts only for you.”
“And for you as well, Monsieur,” answered my mother with an effort at generosity evidently much appreciated by Sauveterre, for he seized her two hands in his and pressed them.
“Am I not his brother,” he said with a voice at once vibrant and veiled, “devoted to his person, his wife and his children to my dying day?”
This “to my dying day” resonated through me painfully, for I naively believed that our deaths were now literally imminent. I little realized then that people who use this expression are usually quite alive and consider their own deaths a possibility so remote that they can speak of it without anguish.
That evening after dinner and common prayer led by Sauveterre (and to which my mother and perhaps others among us felt it necessary to make secret additions in the privacy of their chambers), Sauveterre addressed us all, and particularly the children, regarding the affairs of the kingdom, and reporting the good news that my father had sent.
By his account, François de Guise had succeeded in extracting his troops from the Italian campaign, which had been but a series of errors, and had reached Saint-Germain on 6th October. Henri II had immediately named him lieutenant general of the kingdom and placed him at the head of an army, swelled by Swiss mercenaries (for the most part paid for by the burghers of Paris) and by the many nobles who had hurried there with their soldiers from all the provinces of France, which now numbered some 50,000 men eager for battle.
Guise apparently feared that all this ardour would burn itself out right there before reaching its true object. But a redoubtable adversary was beginning to undo the army of Felipe II of Spain: lack of money. “It may seem astonishing,” wrote Jean de Siorac, “that a sovereign as methodical and painstaking as Felipe II should have undertaken such a great campaign without assuring himself of the financial means to carry it out.” And yet that is exactly what was happening. Unable to pay his soldiers, Felipe’s able general, Emmanuel-Philibert de Savoie, was cashiering his army. And Guise, instead of meeting the awesome legions, which had crushed Montmorency before Saint-Quentin, encountered only absence.
The French court now remembered that we were also at war with Mary Tudor and, though they had
“But we,” I stammered, a lump in my throat, “we won’t be here to see it.”
“No,” said Samson.
“But, Samson, how is that possible?” Tears streamed down my cheeks, I grabbed his hand and squeezed with all my strength.
The day after I had discovered that the earth would continue to be just as beautiful when I was no longer there, a rider bearing letters from the north for the chateaux whose lords fought for the king brought us a missive from my father. It was addressed to Jean de Sauveterre, and my mother seemed reluctant to take it when, his face beaming with joy, Sauveterre handed it to her after perusing its contents. But since he was called outside at that moment, he placed the letter on the table of the great hall and left. Seeing this, my mother approached almost in spite of herself, reached out a hesitating hand, as if both attracted and repulsed by the letter, and ended up by seizing it and retiring immediately to a window seat, at a discreet distance from Barberine and her children. She skimmed most of the letter rapidly, until she got to the end, which she read much more slowly, with sighs and tears.
Sauveterre, returning at this moment, went up to her and said quietly and with an unusual gentleness: “Well, my cousin,you see your husband is concerned about your health and your children.”
“But the letter is not addressed to me,” replied my mother with a half-angry, half-plaintive tone, her blue eyes brimming with tears.
“That’s as it should be, since it’s a matter of wars and campaigns. But the last part proves that Jean has thoughts only for you.”
“And for you as well, Monsieur,” answered my mother with an effort at generosity evidently much appreciated by Sauveterre, for he seized her two hands in his and pressed them.
“Am I not his brother,” he said with a voice at once vibrant and veiled, “devoted to his person, his wife and his children to my dying day?”
This “to my dying day” resonated through me painfully, for I naively believed that our deaths were now literally imminent. I little realized then that people who use this expression are usually quite alive and consider their own deaths a possibility so remote that they can speak of it without anguish.
That evening after dinner and common prayer led by Sauveterre (and to which my mother and perhaps others among us felt it necessary to make secret additions in the privacy of their chambers), Sauveterre addressed us all, and particularly the children, regarding the affairs of the kingdom, and reporting the good news that my father had sent.
By his account, François de Guise had succeeded in extracting his troops from the Italian campaign, which had been but a series of errors, and had reached Saint-Germain on 6th October. Henri II had immediately named him lieutenant general of the kingdom and placed him at the head of an army, swelled by Swiss mercenaries (for the most part paid for by the burghers of Paris) and by the many nobles who had hurried there with their soldiers from all the provinces of France, which now numbered some 50,000 men eager for battle.
Guise apparently feared that all this ardour would burn itself out right there before reaching its true object. But a redoubtable adversary was beginning to undo the army of Felipe II of Spain: lack of money. “It may seem astonishing,” wrote Jean de Siorac, “that a sovereign as methodical and painstaking as Felipe II should have undertaken such a great campaign without assuring himself of the financial means to carry it out.” And yet that is exactly what was happening. Unable to pay his soldiers, Felipe’s able general, Emmanuel-Philibert de Savoie, was cashiering his army. And Guise, instead of meeting the awesome legions, which had crushed Montmorency before Saint-Quentin, encountered only absence.
The French court now remembered that we were also at war with Mary Tudor and, though they had
Similar Books
