The Lost Seigneur Blog Tour

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The Lost Seigneur

A Chateau Laux Odyssey, Book #2

by David Loux

The Lost Seigneur is a sequel to the award-winning Chateau Laux.

It is the story of Jean-Pierre du Laux, a nobleman in southern France, who was wrongly imprisoned during a time of religious intolerance and subsequently endeavors to return to his family. Many years have passed since he saw them, and his long incarceration has broken his health.

Any reunion would clearly have been impossible, without the unlikely help of a youthful companion that he meets along the way.

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Excerpt 2:

During Jean-Pierre’s long incarceration, life had continued apace, and in far-off Penn’s Woods, a granddaughter he knew nothing about knelt next to her bed, clasped her hands, and implored God to explain why life had to be so hard.  Magdalena was only seven at the time.  It had been less than a year since the fire that killed her sister and her sister’s baby, and she begged God to give her a reason why such a tragedy had to happen.

When no response was forthcoming, she finally got to her feet, dragging a heavy heart with her.  Dressing dutifully, she paused at the window and watched as the sun seemed to cast first one leg and then the other over the heavily forested ridge to the east.  First it skipped, then it hopped, and finally lifted in flight, and she shuffled in stocking feet to the door and down the hall to the creaking stairs that seemed to her like a tunnel that burrowed into the earth.

Her mother stood at the stove, frying bacon in an iron skillet.  That’s the way it was in the mornings, the food preparation for a large family, frying the bacon and then the eggs, the toasting of yesterday’s bread.  There were six place settings at the table, along with a pitcher of milk and lumps of butter.

Magdalena’s gaze drifted to the seventh spot, the now empty chair where Catharine once sat.  Magdalena had not spoken since her sister’s death.  Words just seemed to wither and die on her tongue, ever since the moment when she sat next to her mother as the wagon that they rode in crested the hill above the smoldering ruins, and even now, Magdalena could see them plain as day, the intertwined spirits of mother and child that rose up in the column of bitter smoke.  Even now, she saw the heavens open to receive the souls and heard the rumbling growls of an earth that didn’t want to give them up.

“Come on now and get to the table,” Beatrice said, in her officious manner, for a mother of four surviving children on a pioneer farm did not have much time to dwell on the past.  She raised her voice.  “Jean?  Andrew?  Boys?  Come on, now, while the breakfast is hot!”

There were three in all, including Georgie, who was the youngest.  They used to come tumbling down the stairs like puppies, tripping and falling over each other in their haste to be first at the table.  But that was before.  That was when things were different.

“I worry about you, child,” Beatrice said.  “How are you going to grow if you don’t eat?”

Magdalena looked down at her plate.  Her mother didn’t seem to understand how eggs soured in her throat and the very thought of bacon made her gag.

“Come on, now.  At least take a nibble.  And another thing.  It’s about time you started to talk to us again.  It’s not natural to stay bottled up the way you are.  If you don’t talk, you might forget how, and then what will you do?  Think of the pickle you’ll be in then!”

Magdalena’s father, Pierre, cleared his throat and slid his chair back a little.  He had finished his breakfast, along with the strong India tea, with cream and sugar, lots of sugar, in fact, ladling one teaspoon after another into his cup.  His eyes sought out his daughter’s downcast gaze.

“Come here, ma petite chou,” he said, patting a knee with a big hand.  He smiled in that slow, careful way of his.  “Come here and let me hold you.  I haven’t told you a story in a long time.  Would you like to hear one?” 

Tears darted to Magdalena’s eyes as she thought of her father’s knee, and she climbed up onto it.  She tilted her head against his shoulder.  The warm arm that circled her waist reminded her of better times.

“Have I ever told you the story about how the wolf got its howl?” he asked, and she shook her head.  “No?  Well, it’s a special one,” he said, shaking his head in a meaningful way.

He hesitated long enough to make sure he had her rapt attention.

“You see, once upon a time, before wolves knew how to howl, there was a very special puppy, who was a lot like you.  She saw how unfair life was—how one creature ate another and how so very few seemed to get along.  Her brothers and sisters might have seen these things too, had they bothered to look.  But they were too busy, chasing grasshoppers and arguing among themselves.”

He gave her a lingering look.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” he teased, and she nodded eagerly.

“Well . . .” Pierre said, then went on to say that since words got stuck in their poor wolf puppy’s throat, she had no way to tell anyone about the sadness that she felt, until one day, she was so desperate that she bade her family farewell.  They didn’t want her to leave, of course.  They begged her to stay!  But she was determined to find her voice and nothing they said could deter her.  Alas, when she went to the north, her voice was nowhere to be found.  She went to the south and then to the east and the west, but it wasn’t there, either.

“But we are never as alone as we think,” Pierre said, touching his finger to little Magdalena’s nose.  “The spirit of the mountains took pity on her.  Our precious puppy had been unable to find her voice anywhere else, so the spirit of the mountains sent the wind to lead her in the only direction that was left.”  Pierre lifted a finger, pointing upward.  “The wind took her higher and higher, until she at last sat on a mountain top, where the trail ended and there was nothing left between her and the stars.  The moon was so big and beautiful that it made her ache, and as she sat there gazing in wonder, she opened her mouth, and a moan came out.  The moan turned into a howl.  It echoed down through the canyons and gorges of the Pyrenees and the whole world stopped to listen.  The puppy grew up and when she had children of her own, she taught them what she had learned, and to this day,” he wagged a finger, “you can still hear a howl from time to time.   You will hear it high in the mountains, where wolves still roam and where the wind likes to blow.  Sometimes you can even hear it in your dreams and then you will know.”  He gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head.  “You will know that you too have a voice, and that you will find it again when the time is right.”

Magdalena started to cry and couldn’t stop.  Then, when the pain in her chest finally subsided and she could brush aside the veil of tears, she found that the kitchen was empty.  Dirty plates still lay on the table, but the chairs were vacant.  Even her mother was gone, and a cool breeze seemed to snake along the floor, as if a door stood open somewhere.  Her father’s arm was still around her waist, though by now it was damp, and his head leaned against hers, which still lay on his shoulder.  His eyes were closed, and she would never forget the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

About the Author

David Loux

David Loux is the author of Chateau Laux, a critically acclaimed, award-winning novel that tells the story of a shocking incident in eighteenth century America. His second novel, The Lost Seigneur, expands on the themes detailed in Chateau Laux, and completes the story of a French family’s migration to America in the eighteenth century.

He lives in the Eastern Sierra with his wife, Lynn.

Connect with David:

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