Le Colonial Read Online Free PDF Page B

drifting away. The images materialized in spite of his effort to repress them. He could see the tile rooftop of a roadside inn, shimmering under a summer sun. He approached the stone structure, noticing the tall gables and ornate details that blended against the bright sky . . .
    Stop it . . .
    François could not stop.
    The laughter and music drifting through the inn’s thick walls stirred in him a longing that felt almost like homesickness. It was a harmless memory. It did not make his heart ache when he decided to enter the building through the back door near the kitchen. He knew he would find her there, an attractive woman a few years older than he. A large loaf of bread nestled against her bosom. The crust, honey-colored, emitted a scent of baked yeast that made his mouth water. He stared at the bread and the girl. His mind was vacant, but his stomach rumbled out loud.
    I am Helene, daughter of the innkeeper . . .
She lowered the bread, and he could see more of her chest. He had never seen skin so beautiful so close. He looked away and caught her stare. She had large, sky-blue eyes capped by neatly shaped brows. Her gaze seemed to penetrate his mind and expose his thoughts . . .
    François moaned. The memory he knew so well faded, losing its sharpness. It was like watching his life reflected in a lake. One touch and everything that had once been real was swept away in the ripples. When the calm returned, another scene rose to the surface.
    What must I do in order to escape her bewitching stare?
He could live a thousand years and would never know the answer. He fought the urge to cling to her feet like her shadow. She reached for a sheet to cover her nakedness. A few paces away stood his rival. François turned his head to stare directly at him.
    Get out!
Her voice was devoid of sympathy.
    I can’t! Tell me what I have done to cause the loss of your affection.
    The sound of her laughter made François furious. He looked up as the other man stepped forward, brazen in his state of undress. His flaming red hair and dark umber eyes matched the fire behind them. The stranger reached into the pile of his discarded clothing and grabbed an iron dagger, which he shifted back and forth from one thick hand to the other. François could tell he was an experienced fighter. Even his grin was intimidating.
    Are you brave enough to challenge me?
said his rival.
    Helene quivered with laughter. Her hand pressed against his chest, forcing him to retreat. He could feel the open window and the rain against his back. She looked at him. Both her hands were on his body as the sheet slipped, forgotten, to the floor. The black circles of her irises dilated. And without a word she pushed with all of her strength.
    Caught off guard, he fell out the window. The tree’s branches embraced him, breaking his fall . . .
    François sat up. His body was bathed in sweat. The monsignor, like a statue, stood in front of him. His black robe was invisible against the dark curtain.
    “Why are you here?” he asked the ghostlike vision.
    The monsignor looked at François. “The monks have always considered this chapel to be one of the holiest places in the south of France. Luckily, I am an acquaintance of Abbot Beaufort, the superior of this charterhouse. Monsieur Beaufort is a friend to poor people. You are here as his ward, and I am here to watch over you.”
    A look of guilt passed over François’s face. “My sickness has caused everyone a lot of trouble, especially you,” he said.
    The monsignor shrugged. “It is my duty to serve God readily and without consciousness of merit. It was He who desired to save you. Your recovery shows that the Lord has reserved some holy purpose for you. In this matter I am just a simple priest, chosen to carry out His divine plan.”
    “What is His purpose for sparing my life?”
    “Monsieur Gervaise, as a child, I once prayed to God for a personal request. I asked Him to save the lives of two people I held dear in my