Isabelle not only never consented to renounce the cult of her fathers, but also, on the strength of a thoughtless agreement concluded with Jean de Siorac before their marriage, declared her intention to raise her children according to the Catholic rites. When it was my turn to be born, my father wanted to give me a biblical name. Isabelle adamantly refused. Hardly had I uttered my first cry in this vale of tears when Barberine was sent to fetch the curate and she maliciously had me baptized Pierre, since upon this rock His Church had been built.
Doubtless she had other reasons for her scornful fury, since, but a short week after my own arrival, a girl in Taniès gave birth to a son whom Jean de Siorac named Samson, signifying that, by the grace of God, this lad would be bigger and stronger than any of his sons baptized in the Catholic faith. Which turned out to be true for my brother François, but not for me.
My half-brother Samson’s mother was a shepherdess named Jehanne Masure, a beautiful and good girl, according to our nurse Barberine, but whose parents were dreadfully poor, if I am to judge by the many loans of grain, hay, salt pork and money that were sent their way by Jean de Siorac. These gifts coincide exactly with the entry in the
Book of Reason
in which Jean de Sauveterre first began to pray for his brother. As I flip through the pages of the book, this largesse seems to multiply—especially in lean years—and I find Sauveterre’s pointed questions next to each notation of these loans: “To be repaid when?” To which my father invariably responded: “When it pleases me to ask.” But it never pleased him to do so, for the loans continued over the months and years and were never repaid.
A few pages further, opposite the notation of a particularly generous sum, Sauveterre wrote: “Is this not shameful?” To which Siorac impatiently replied: “Jacob knew Leah, and then he knew Rachel and the servingwomen of his wives, and from these came forth the strongest and most beautiful tribe of the Hebrews ever to serve the Lord. Would it not be a greater shame to allow my son Samson to run barefoot, ill clad and hungry like a wolf? Rest assured that when the time is ripe for his education, Samson will live at Mespech with his brothers.”
But Samson moved to Mespech sooner than anticipated, for in November of 1554—when we were both three years old—the plague broke out in Taniès, and, hearing this, my father had his horse saddled within the hour, galloped to Jehanne’s house, bringing her enough nourishment for a month since the village would soon be quarantined for the duration of the epidemic. Jehanne begged my father to take Samson with him, which he did, burning all of the boy’s clothes upon his return to Mespech and washing the child in hot water after rubbing him with ashes and cutting his hair.
A great commotion among our servants ensued, doubtless fomented by my mother’s mercurial nature, against this intruder who was “bringing the contagion”. But my father put a quick end to it by isolating himself with the boy in the west tower, nourishing him by his own hand for forty days, never once stepping beyond the threshold of the tower, where eating and reading matter were left each day according to his orders.
When Jean de Siorac finally emerged from his seclusion, it was only to learn that Jehanne Masure had died along with her entire family, the plague having carried off half the village. Among the victims was my uncle, Raymond Siorac, but his two sons were spared—the same who, on the eve of the purchase of Mespech, had helped Cabusse to exterminate the rascals from Fontenac down in les Beunes.
Samson emerged from the tower a strong and beautiful lad, with thick, curly hair, whose reddish-blond tint recalled his great-grandfather Charles’s.
I was his age and size and I loved him from the minute I set eyes on him. The only thing I resented, though it surely wasn’t his fault, was that
Doubtless she had other reasons for her scornful fury, since, but a short week after my own arrival, a girl in Taniès gave birth to a son whom Jean de Siorac named Samson, signifying that, by the grace of God, this lad would be bigger and stronger than any of his sons baptized in the Catholic faith. Which turned out to be true for my brother François, but not for me.
My half-brother Samson’s mother was a shepherdess named Jehanne Masure, a beautiful and good girl, according to our nurse Barberine, but whose parents were dreadfully poor, if I am to judge by the many loans of grain, hay, salt pork and money that were sent their way by Jean de Siorac. These gifts coincide exactly with the entry in the
Book of Reason
in which Jean de Sauveterre first began to pray for his brother. As I flip through the pages of the book, this largesse seems to multiply—especially in lean years—and I find Sauveterre’s pointed questions next to each notation of these loans: “To be repaid when?” To which my father invariably responded: “When it pleases me to ask.” But it never pleased him to do so, for the loans continued over the months and years and were never repaid.
A few pages further, opposite the notation of a particularly generous sum, Sauveterre wrote: “Is this not shameful?” To which Siorac impatiently replied: “Jacob knew Leah, and then he knew Rachel and the servingwomen of his wives, and from these came forth the strongest and most beautiful tribe of the Hebrews ever to serve the Lord. Would it not be a greater shame to allow my son Samson to run barefoot, ill clad and hungry like a wolf? Rest assured that when the time is ripe for his education, Samson will live at Mespech with his brothers.”
But Samson moved to Mespech sooner than anticipated, for in November of 1554—when we were both three years old—the plague broke out in Taniès, and, hearing this, my father had his horse saddled within the hour, galloped to Jehanne’s house, bringing her enough nourishment for a month since the village would soon be quarantined for the duration of the epidemic. Jehanne begged my father to take Samson with him, which he did, burning all of the boy’s clothes upon his return to Mespech and washing the child in hot water after rubbing him with ashes and cutting his hair.
A great commotion among our servants ensued, doubtless fomented by my mother’s mercurial nature, against this intruder who was “bringing the contagion”. But my father put a quick end to it by isolating himself with the boy in the west tower, nourishing him by his own hand for forty days, never once stepping beyond the threshold of the tower, where eating and reading matter were left each day according to his orders.
When Jean de Siorac finally emerged from his seclusion, it was only to learn that Jehanne Masure had died along with her entire family, the plague having carried off half the village. Among the victims was my uncle, Raymond Siorac, but his two sons were spared—the same who, on the eve of the purchase of Mespech, had helped Cabusse to exterminate the rascals from Fontenac down in les Beunes.
Samson emerged from the tower a strong and beautiful lad, with thick, curly hair, whose reddish-blond tint recalled his great-grandfather Charles’s.
I was his age and size and I loved him from the minute I set eyes on him. The only thing I resented, though it surely wasn’t his fault, was that
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