A Column of Fire by Ken Follett Page B

‘Then the beggar threw off his filthy robes and revealed himself to be – an angel!’
    Bertrand was half sceptical, half awestruck.
    ‘The angel blessed my grandfather’s cousin, then flew up to heaven.’ Pierre lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I think
your
mother gave alms to an angel.’
    Bertrand, who was not completely drunk, said: ‘Maybe.’
    ‘Is your mother kind?’ Pierre asked, knowing that few men would answer ‘No’.
    ‘She is like a saint.’
    ‘There you are.’ Pierre thought for a moment of his own mother, and how disappointed she would be if she knew that he was living by cheating people out of their money. Bertrand is asking for it, he told her in his imagination; he’s a gambler and a drunk. But the excuse did not satisfy her, even in his fantasy.
    He pushed the thought from his mind. This was not the time for self-doubt: Bertrand was beginning to take the bait.
    Pierre went on: ‘There was an older man – not your father – who gave you important advice at least once.’
    Bertrand’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I never knew why Monsieur Larivière was so helpful.’
    ‘He was sent by your angel. Have you ever had a narrow escape from injury or death?’
    ‘I got lost when I was five years old. I decided that my way home was across the river. I almost drowned, but a passing friar saved me.’
    ‘That was no friar, that was your angel.’
    ‘It’s amazing – you’re right!’
    ‘Your mother did something for an angel in disguise, and that angel has watched over you ever since. I know it.’
    Pierre accepted a cup of wine and a wedge of cheese. Free food was always welcome.
    He was studying for the priesthood because it was a way up the social ladder. But he had been at the university only a few days when he realized that the students were already dividing into two groups with radically different destinies. The young sons of noblemen and rich merchants were going to be abbots and bishops – indeed, some of them already knew which well-endowed abbey or diocese they would rule, for often such posts were effectively the private property of a particular family. By contrast, the clever sons of provincial doctors and wine merchants would become country priests.
    Pierre belonged to the second group, but was determined to join the first.
    Initially, the division was only dimly perceptible, and during those early days Pierre had attached himself firmly to the elite. He quickly lost his regional accent and learned to speak with an aristocratic drawl. He had enjoyed a piece of luck when the wealthy Viscount Villeneuve, having carelessly left home without cash, had asked to borrow twenty livres until tomorrow. It was all the money Pierre had in the world, but he saw a unique opportunity.
    He handed the money to Villeneuve as if it were a trifle.
    Villeneuve forgot to pay him back the next day.
    Pierre was desperate, but he said nothing. He ate gruel that evening, because he could not afford bread. But Villeneuve forgot the following day, too.
    Still Pierre said nothing. He knew that if he asked for his money back, Villeneuve and his friends would understand immediately that he really was not one of them; and he craved their acceptance more than food.
    It was a month later that the young nobleman said to him languidly: ‘I say, Aumande, I don’t think I ever repaid you those twenty livres, did I?’
    With a massive effort of will, Pierre replied: ‘My dear fellow, I have absolutely no idea. Forget it, please.’ Then he was inspired to add: ‘You obviously need the money.’
    The other students had laughed, knowing how rich Villeneuve was, and Pierre’s witticism had sealed his position as a member of the group.
    And when Villeneuve gave him a handful of gold coins, he dropped the money into his pocket without counting it.
    He was accepted, but that meant he had to dress like them, hire carriages for trips, gamble carelessly, and call for food and wine in taverns as if the cost meant