The sun had barely risen above the port and houses of La Rochelle and with daybreak there came a sharp cold rain even though it was still the month of August. The townsfolk were accustomed to the vagaries of their coastal weather, they sometimes lived with summer warmth in winter and icy mists when it should have been oppressively hot. Today was such a contrary clime: closed shutters rattled with the wind; the gutters down the middle of the streets overflowed with torrential rainfall. Lanval and his mother felt relieved that the third and final day of wake for Monsieur Aubert had arrived. A candle in the window of their house, the sign of a death within, flickered and petered out – their vigil was at an end. It was the custom of the town for one to view and pay last respects to their frien
