by Frieda Watt
Pierre was surprised when the prisoner was brought in. Michel had been cleaned and shaved, and new, or at least clean, clothes had been put on him. He looked less like the monster he was accused of being and more like a labourer Augustus would have employed near the docks of Louisbourg. But Michel seemed diminished somehow, as if the months he had spent incarcerated had drained him of his life force.
Pierre sat in his hard, wooden seat and waited as the Judge introduced the parties involved. There was a prayer and then the spectacle began. Pierre wished this wasn’t such a famous case and that less of the city had turned out to see it. Scanning the crowd, he did feel a pang of regret for the prisoner. Everyone in attendance had come to see him hang; not a family member was in sight. With a jolt, he realized that both Jean and Daniel were sitting at the back, waving jovially at him as if they had bumped into him at a card game and not at the trial of the year.
His name was called and Pierre stepped forward to present the evidence against Michel. It was known that Michel had been caught stabbing a Madame Claire Girat. While Madame Girat had survived, there was little doubt that Michel had been trying to kill her. There was also proof that Madame Girat had been assaulted in other ways by Michel before the police arrived to rescue her.
The more he spoke, the calmer Pierre became. Soon he was striding up and down the courtroom, speaking as calmly to the Judge as if he were talking with Renault back at the office.
While there was little more than coincidence to tie Michel to the six other murders and disappearances of young women, the lack of further attacks once he’d been apprehended strongly suggested that he was also behind them. Three of the bodies had been recovered, all the victims having been stabbed to death by a weapon matching the measurements of the blade found on Michel. All the women had been similarly assaulted and the chances of another man running around the area doing the exact same thing were very unlikely.
Madame Girat was not called to testify. It was felt that it would be too traumatic for a woman who had already been through so much. Instead, her husband took her place.
Monsieur Girat was a quiet man, a tanner with six children. The attack on his wife was brutal and senseless. He recounted taking his children to the hospital to see their mother and the pain the family had endured as she had struggled to heal. Madame Girat no longer left the house alone and kept the windows and doors locked at all times.
There was little that the defence could present. Poor Félix Poirier didn’t look very happy, but he made a valiant effort. He was careful not to villainize any of the victims. One had been a nun, and clearly the Girats were productive members of society.
A verdict was reached in less than half an hour. No one was surprised by it, and the Judge seemed to find a great deal of pleasure in handing it down. Michel remained as stone faced as ever, as he was pulled from the room to meet his fate. For one brief moment, his eyes locked onto Pierre’s, and immediately Pierre felt a shiver go down his spine. He had never seen eyes like that before and was sure he had just met Lucifer himself.
Pierre didn’t wait to see justice being served. A large crowd was already gathered around the gallows, but he had no interest in being there. Pulling off the ridiculous wig, he packed up his belongings and turned to go home, but a gnarled hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“You cannot leave after a performance like that,” Renault grinned up at him.
His legs still felt weak from the effort it had taken him to stride around the room, but now that the trial was over, he wasn’t sure why he had been so nervous.
With Renault on one side and Jean on the other, he was steered to one of the taverns down the street. It was a step above most of the taverns frequented by sailors, but that wasn’t saying much. It was a dark, dingy place with a bar that ran the length of the room, cutting it in half. The wood floor looked as if it had last been cleaned when it was installed, but no one but Pierre seemed to mind.
Jean had obviously picked the place, as he was on a first-name basis with the owner. Jean was also never concerned about appearances. After placing orders, he started a card game and proceeded to challenge anyone in the vicinity.
A massive tankard of ale was placed before Pierre. With little practice in the last three years, he had some doubts about his ability to hold alcohol, but he wasn’t about to express those concerns. Even Renault had replaced his usual brandy for a glass of something pale green.
Uncle Tomas eventually joined them, as did the clerks. Jean continued to supply Pierre with a steady stream of drinks, completely oblivious to the latter’s protests that he couldn’t handle anymore. More people were arriving, and Pierre had the vague sense that he should know who they were, but it was becoming more and more difficult to remember names.
The last thing he remembered was Jean challenging him to a fight. He couldn’t remember why. He knew Jean wasn’t mad at him. He lay in bed trying to pull the details back into focus, but that only made his head hurt. He tried to open one eye, but the light streaming in through the window made it feel as if it was burning. He threw his pillow over his head and rolled over. The movement almost made him vomit.
“Good morning,” the all-too-happy voice of Renault announced a short while later. “How is the newest prosecutor doing this morning?”
Pierre just groaned. His mouth tasted as if something had died in there. “Keep it down.”
“But why? It’s a lovely day. The sun is shining,” Renault chirped, pulling back the drapes. “You won your first case.” He was purposely stomping around the room, making as much noise as possible.
“Just let me die.”
Renault laughed. “Then you’d never get to read your letter.”
Pierre’s eyes snapped open. Bloodshot as they were from the night before, he squinted, trying to see the writing on the envelope Renault was dangling in front of him.
“Are you sure you want to read this?” Renault held the letter up. He was having far too much fun to stop goading Pierre now.
Pierre sat up and snatched the letter away. Not very steady, he collapsed back on the mattress, his head pounding.
“I told you she never married.”
Pierre flipped the envelope over. It was still sealed. “How do you know that?”
Renault grinned. “Married women do not write to single men. Especially ones who live on the other side of the world.” Still chortling, he stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Pierre lay in bed, trying to get his eyes to focus. When he could finally see straight, he ripped the letter free from its casing.
Dear Pierre,
I thought you’d forgotten about me. When your letter came and I realized the Orion had just been delayed, I felt rather foolish for doubting you.
The war will be over soon! Claude has written from Versailles to say that the leaders are speaking, trying to come to terms that they can all agree on. He also says that Louisbourg may be one of the bargaining chips that is used. We may be able to go home. I realize home to you now is Quebec, but I hope I can see the island again.
I don’t want to marry any stupid nobleman and I told Annette that. She finally seems to understand that I’m serious. There was a lot of whining and crying, but what else is new? I don’t want to have to stay in this country any longer than I have to.
I hope you know that I’ve never loved you because of your father’s money. Nor did I ever once think about it. I love you because you listen and you make me laugh. You never ran away from me when I was upset. I think you’re the first person after my parents’ death who actually cared about what I had to say. I know Elise, Nic, and Madame Badeau did, now that I think about it, but that spoils the mood. I didn’t want you to leave Louisbourg. I would have gone with you if you had asked.
Know that you aren’t forgotten, but I’m glad you’re happy in Quebec. If I do return to Louisbourg, I expect a visit.
Love, Marie
Pierre stretched, his head still pounding. He wished more t
han anything that he could see her right now and tell her about the trial. He could write to her, but it wasn’t the same. There would be other trials, he reminded himself. Maybe she would come for those.
Chapter 6
THE WAR OF THE AUSTRIAN SUCCESSION, as it would come to be known, ended in October 1748 with the signing of the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. After two implementation treaties were signed in December of that year, Louisbourg was given back to the French. Louis XV gave all the territory in the Netherlands conquered by the French back to the Austrians. Of course, the French people weren’t happy about this state of affairs, since it appeared that the war had been a complete waste of lives and money. However, the people of New France celebrated the return of Louisbourg, and they admired Louis for securing Île-Royale.
By early April, the news of peace had arrived in Quebec with the first ship of the year, and François Bigot called on Pierre personally to give him the news before the official announcement was made. Then the information was made public, and fireworks and parties broke out in the street. An entire week went by before life returned to any sort of normalcy. In the midst of the festivities, Pierre received another letter from Marie—just a few weeks after the first. She was finally going home, she wrote, and she couldn’t be more excited, though Marie and her family wouldn’t be leaving until July, as Claude had unfinished business at Court. She’d been away four long years, but the fortress was waiting for her, and that was all she cared about. She promised to write once she arrived in September, but she said nothing about what would happen once she was home.
Pierre had celebrated with the rest of the colony, but he knew he wouldn’t be returning to Louisbourg with the other displaced residents. His life was in the capital now. His father had sent word that he too was going back to Louisbourg, but he’d said nothing about wanting Pierre to visit.
Pierre carried on with his work, but he had trouble focusing. Renault never mentioned Louisbourg unless Pierre brought the subject up, but Pierre rarely did that. He felt as if his entire life hinged upon whether Marie successfully crossed the Atlantic, and he didn’t want to reveal his deep anxiety to Renault or anyone else.
Summer and autumn went by with no word. The river froze, and the city was covered in its usual blanket of white. The snow was so deep this year that it was impossible to navigate even the main arteries of the city without snowshoes.
Pierre knew he should have been accustomed to Quebec’s winters by now. It was his fourth snowy season in the capital, but somehow, he was never prepared when the freezing winds came.
***
It was another snapping cold night in January 1750. Pierre sat by the fire in the office, the only one still working at that late hour. To fight off the chill, he kept his hat on and was wearing a pair of fingerless gloves. Renault was out late at another meeting of the Superior Council. He’d been gone for hours, but Pierre was waiting up, hoping to meet with his mentor before they both retired for the night.
Pierre now ran the business completely, travelling when needed. Renault was greatly enjoying his much-reduced responsibilities and was keen for Pierre to take over on paper as well as in practice. However, because Pierre had never attended law school in France, he could not officially take over as Procurator General. Renault was fighting to have that law changed, but in the meantime, he was the one who continued to deal with the Superior Council. Pierre had no complaints about that. The meetings dragged on far longer than they needed to, since each man’s ego had to rear its ugly head before any actual decisions were made.
It was well past midnight when the door blew open, snow swirling into the room and up to the oak desk where Pierre was sitting. Renault shut the door quickly, cursing the weather as he took off his coat. I’m getting too old for this climate, he thought miserably. If he could get Pierre to officially take over, he could retire to the sunny hills of Southern France.
“What are you still doing up?” Renault wiped the snowflakes from his greying goatee. “Whatever projects you have can’t be that important.” It was true that Pierre’s days of working perpetually long hours, morning and night, were long behind him. One of the upstairs maids now cleaned and organized the room in the morning, and Gagné, the clerk, prepared the next day’s work.
Pierre shrugged and continued writing. “Do you ever read a case and think the victim deserved his punishment?”
Renault’s bark-like laugh filled the dark room as he pulled off his thick overcoat. “Are you referring to Gaston Laflamme? I’m surprised no one killed him sooner.” Renault peered over Pierre’s shoulder. “However, it was still murder. Did you get the statement from the brother-in-law?”
“It wasn’t hard; the man was sitting in prison awaiting his trial. Unlike Michel, this man was eager to talk, trying to justify his actions.” Pierre rubbed his eyes. He never enjoyed a trip to the prison.
“You should retire,” Renault clapped his twisted hand on the shoulder and chuckled. “Not as young as you once were.”
Pierre stretched and yawned. “I had a question for you.”
Renault stopped and pulled up a chair. He was dead on his feet, but he had a feeling he knew what this was going to be about.
“Most of the people are back in Louisbourg now, trying to rebuild their lives.”
Renault nodded. He was surprised it had taken Pierre this long to bring up the subject.
“Have you heard from your father?”
“Yes, he’s settling in fine, though apparently the British did a terrible job of rebuilding during their occupation.” Pierre stared into the firelight. “But that’s not it.”
“That girl.” Renault’s yellow eyes twinkled. Pierre looked surprised. “You received another letter from her today. Vivienne told me. Are you ever going to tell me anything about her?”
Pierre felt a little embarrassed. “Marie Lévesque. She’s a friend from home.”
Renault mused for a moment. “She’s not related to Caleb Lévesque, is she? the officer?”
Pierre laughed. “Her father. She moved to Louisbourg after Caleb and his wife died.”
Renault leaned back in his chair. “Small world. I remember him from years ago. He came here on assignment and met Colette, his wife, while he was here. Refused to go back to France. Said they could shoot him or give him a new posting. Always liked his daring.” He stared off into the distance, lost in memory.
Pierre allowed him a few moments, then interrupted. “I was wondering if she would come here.”
“You don’t need my permission for that.”
Pierre looked up. “Really?”
Renault chortled, rapping his knuckles on the wooden desktop. “You’re twenty-two. I think it would be healthy for you to move out. I could turn your chamber into something useful.” His eyes twinkled. “You can walk to work.”
Renault had never understood the spell this girl from home had cast. Pierre was young, good looking, and well educated, and with his job as Renault’s assistant, he made a desirable companion, but he had no interest in the women here. “I look forward to meeting her.”
Pierre fiddled absentmindedly with a spare quill. “Could I go there?”
Renault thought for a moment. He was enjoying his semi-retirement, and if Pierre left, even temporarily, his card game would suffer. “She wouldn’t follow you here?” he asked, stalling his moment of decision making.
“Yes, she might. After all, she was born here, though … you know how that ended. I sort of already asked. But I’d like to see the fortress again. Feel the ocean breeze.”
Renault’s knuckles picked up speed as they beat a steady rhythm against the table. “A fortnight,” he said eventually. “But ask her first. That is a great amount of money and time to spend if she were to reject you. When is the Laflamme trial again?”
“Three days from now.”
“Fine. Once the river thaws. Take one of Tomas’s boats. He’ll get you there in good time.”
Pierre tried very hard not to grin. He kn
ew it was a sacrifice for Renault to let him go because he’d have to go back to spending hours doing paperwork and interviewing people who were lying through their teeth. It was a young man’s game, Renault had often said whenever Pierre complained.
Later that night, Pierre sat in his room, which, as usual, was just as cold as the office. Snow had piled up high against the glass windows, and the lone candle sputtered against the night air. Wrapped in a heavy woollen blanket, Pierre stared at a blank piece of paper he’d placed on the desk in front of him.
That morning, he’d finally received the long-awaited letter from Marie. It had been delivered by some intrepid explorers who had snowshoed across the frozen land between Louisbourg and Quebec. Pierre thought they were an odd bunch for travelling in such weather, but he admired their courage and was grateful to them. He learned from the letter that Marie had arrived back in Louisbourg in September—on one of the last boats carrying the former inhabitants of Louisbourg back from France. They’d made the trip safely and in relatively good health, and Marie was now back in the manor house overlooking the harbour. Nic had survived, having suffered no lasting physical damage from his time in Boston, although she said he refused to talk about the experience.
Pierre had always wondered if Marie would come back to New France. Despite her reassurances, a shadow of doubt had often crept into his mind. That’s one reason why he’d waited until she was on the continent again before fully revealing his feelings for her. Since he’d been so churlish, deserting her in Louisbourg before he’d left for Quebec, he couldn’t be sure that she’d trust him now. Not for the first time, he wished he hadn’t let her go but had just helped her escape with him through the wilderness to Quebec.
He continued to stare at the blank piece of paper, knowing that morning was coming fairly soon, and if he didn’t get some sleep, tomorrow was going to be painful. Finally, he picked up his quill and scribbled a few lines.
