Elysée looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, his face blank, his skin wrinkled parchment.
The old man's had his share of grief. Too bad he couldn't find reason to be happy with me. But that's his fault.
In a low, hoarse voice Elysée said, "Thank you, son. It was good of you to come today."
Raoul sensed an accusation.
"Why wouldn't I come to my own brother's funeral?"
"Because you hated him," Elysée said softly.
At least the old man didn't seem to suspect that he had another reason for being here today. Containing his anger, Raoul helped his father walk to the grave. There he left Elysée with Guichard and went around to stand facing north, where he could see the château.
His nagging fear eased a little. So far he had seen no sign that he would meet with any opposition. It was hard to believe that the mongrel and his supporters could be planning anything in secret. Still he knew his heart would not slow down till this was all over.
Père Isaac stood at the head of Pierre's grave, next to Marie-Blanche's tombstone. A faint breeze from the river didn't disturb his gray-black hair or his beard, but rustled the tassels of the purple stole around his neck, the winglike sleeves of his white surplice and his ankle-length black cassock.
Trying to hold still as his heart pounded and his hands trembled, Raoul watched Père Isaac shake holy water over the coffin, which now lay at the bottom of the grave. The priest gave his sprinkler to one of the boys assisting him, opened a prayerbook bound in black leather and began the graveside prayers.