But it wouldn't hurt to try to get in good with the old man. Raoul walked quickly over to him. "Take my arm, Papa." Elysee 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 Elysee 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," Elysee 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 Elysee with Guichard and went around to stand facing north, where he could see the chateau. 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. Pere 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 Pere 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. _Will this never end?_ Raoul stood with his head bowed. He puzzled over what Elysee had said about hating Pierre. _Papa always loved Pierre more than me. Thought I was some kind of savage because I don't have all those French ways like him and Pierre. I'm the most American member of this family, and he should be proud of me._ _I didn't hate Pierre. It was just this damn business of him caring more about redskins than about his own people._ _And he wasn't there when I needed him._ Raoul found himself wishing he could talk to Pierre one last time, try to make him understand why he felt as he did and had to do the things he did. Looking down at the coffin in the grave, Raoul thought back to the last time he had seen Pierre. In early spring after the last of the snow melted on the ground, out riding Banner on the prairie, alone, he'd come upon Pierre, also riding alone. They had stared at each other and passed without a word. _I didn't know then that was my last chance to speak to him._ Raoul's eyes traveled over the people standing by the grave. Auguste stood between Elysee and Nicole, looking down into the pit. It pleased Raoul to see that apparently Auguste had no idea what was about to happen to him. But how could he be _sure_ Auguste was unprepared?