The Brethren by Robert Merle Page A

Périgueux, where a great assembly of nobles was being gathered for the march to Paris.
    Once Ricou had left, my father announced in a sombre and sonorous voice, “My friends, in view of the perils we are going to meet in the north in our defence of the kingdom and of the dangers that those who remain here may have to confront, I ask that we all commend each other to the grace and mercy of God in a short prayer recited together.” Whereupon, with a grave voice but withoutthe bombast or any of the mechanical quality that our priest always adopts, without mumbling or stumbling over words, but pronouncing each of them in a sincere tone as if each one were new to him, Jean de Siorac recited the Our Father, and we all began to pray along with him, including the children.
    Night had fallen and the hall was lit only by the two oil lamps on the table. I was astonished by this Our Father, recited so slowly, with such force and fervour. And believing that my father was going to be killed in battle, just as the horrible notary had said repeatedly while reading his document, a shiver went down my spine and tears streamed down my cheeks. Certainly I loved my mother and adored Barberine, who had suckled me and raised me and Samson—much more than my elder brother—and my little sister Catherine. But no one at Mespech seemed more admirable, stronger, more knowledgeable in all things, wiser, more able and indestructible than Jean de Siorac. I loved everything about him, his clear eyes, his eloquence, and especially the way he stood so straight and tall, head held high, the scar on his cheek adding to his majesty.
    As the prayer came to an end, my tears continued to flow unremittingly and I didn’t even try to wipe my eyes. Then an incident occurred which broke the solemnity of the scene and shook me to the core. In the silence following the prayer, Isabelle de Siorac suddenly announced with her usual petulance, “My dear husband, I would like to add to the paternoster a little prayer intended for your special protection.” And she immediately began the Ave Maria.
    Had lightning struck the middle of the great hall of Mespech, it could not have produced a more terrifying effect. Sauveterre and Siorac stood silent, still as statues, fists clenched behind their backs, teeth gritted, staring icily at Isabelle. Geoffroy directed an equally furious look at his cousin, and his elder brother, who was also a reformer, though not so passionate as the others, seemed intenselyembarrassed. Cathau, Barberine, little Hélix and I recited the Ave Maria along with Isabelle. Samson, who had never been prey to the influence of my mother and who was consequently ignorant of this prayer, said not a word. As for François, after reciting the opening words, he stopped short as soon as he saw my father’s face. I resented his cowardice and continued reciting to the bitter end, convinced that my mother was wrong to have so antagonized my father, yet little inclined to abandon her, for I could see her chin trembling as she braved the terrible stares from all sides. As for my cousins and the soldiers, all remained immobile, their eyes glued to the floor, utterly silent, looking as if they wished they were a thousand leagues away.
    “My friends,” said my father when she had finished, his face pale, his teeth clenched, but his speech calm enough, “you may withdraw into your chambers for the night, I must take leave of my wife.”
    He warmly embraced François and Geoffroy de Caumont, who were the first to retire, followed by Sauveterre, who escorted them, limping, to their rooms. My cousins and the soldiers were next, and with them went François, who was no longer treated as a child and had his own room. Cathau and Barberine were slowest to withdraw, gathering the children in their skirts. Once the door to the great hall was closed, I noticed that they lingered in the kitchen, seeming to busy themselves there and imposing the strictest silence on all of