The Casquette Girls

by Arden, Alys

  However, I do not plan to send it. It will be here waiting for you in the capital of New France when you make the voyage yourself.

  With all my love and affection,

  A.S.G.

  My fingers went to the medallion around my neck. A.S.G.? This is A.S.G.’s diary?

  Excited, I fanned the pages. My heart fluttered as my eye caught a phrase amongst the motion.

  I flipped the pages back, frantically scanning them for the words I knew I’d seen. And then, there they were, staring back at me.

  You will never believe what the locals call the orphan girls. The townspeople have given them the funniest name, “les filles aux la cassettes.”

  “A fille à la cassette?” I whispered. “The girl with the cassette… the casquette girls?”

  Although, I shouldn’t speak of them as if they are a group separate from myself. I may have boarded the ship under different circumstances, but after numerous events that have bound us together, I consider them to be my sisters.

  The ring around my finger suddenly felt warm. I rubbed my thumb over the silver disc with its spherical stone, when suddenly it began to rattle with such gusto that it dislodged itself from the ring’s setting. As I examined the disk that held the milky stone, the medallion hanging from my chain floated into my hand, as if it had been magnetized once again.

  With one silver disc in each palm, it was easy to see that they both had the exact same delicately engraved border. How had I not noticed this before? I pressed them back to back, and a golden flicker chased the edges, magically welding them together into one thick medallion. The design no longer looked incomplete – one side had the stone, and the other side had the imprint of the star and the initials.

  I held the letter up next to the ornately engraved script on the medallion.

  “Who were you, A.S.G.?”

  According to my mother, the ring had belonged to my father’s family. Which meant, in theory, A.S.G. was one of my ancestors.

  Ren’s voice boomed in my head. “Only the original caster of a spell could undo it.”

  Part 2: Adeline

  “Carriage, take me with you! Ship, steal me away from here!

  Take me far, far away. Here the mud is made of our tears!”

  Charles Baudelaire

  Chapter 20 Je t’aime Paris

  (translated from French)

  3rd March 1728

  So, the journey has begun, Papa. We have been aboard the S.S. Gironde, under the command of Captain Vauberci, for seven days now, although we have only completed three days’ worth of our journey due to rough weather. Being trapped inside the private cabin makes me feel like a giant stuck inside a doll’s house. I found this extraordinary diary that you gifted to me, and I am obliged to fulfill your wishes because you are my father, although I find the request odd. If your desire to be a part of this journey was so strong that you wish for the details of every passing moment to be recorded, then why didn’t you accompany me instead of disappearing to the Orient three weeks ago? The mystery surrounding your actions has me ever-curious.

  So, here I sit, with only paper and ink to keep me company. I believe the story begins the day before we left the dock in Paris…

  From the moment you told me that you were sending me away, I began reading everything I could find about this new foreign land across the Atlantic. It is still so early in the King’s exploration that there is not much information in circulation, so I spoke with as many people as I could, including some of the sailors down by the dock. (I kindly remind that it was you who forced me into this position.) There, I heard stories of all kinds, but no two were the same except for the tales of the hot and humid weather.

  The day before my departure, I found myself in the tailor’s shop, picking out fabric for a new cloak. I knew my traveling garments would serve well aboard the ship in the cold ocean winds, but what upon arrival? I had heard tales of men and women stripping off layers of clothing due to madness brought on by the sun! I confess, this idea made me even more excited to travel across the ocean.

  The King’s court advertises this New France as the pinnacle of modern society – all the luxuries of Paris but full of endless possibilities for people to make new lives, new investments, and new riches. It is said that a man can start over in New France, that his past can be erased, and that he can be whomever he wants to be. I wonder if this is the same for a woman? It is this prospect that keeps me from jumping over the ship’s edge on this wretched journey.

  Curiously, the tales of the seamen did not confirm the proclamations of the King. Some of the more inebriated sailors even went so far as to call the stories “lies” and the adverts “propaganda.” Some of the sailors’ news had allegedly even come from the church, from a group of nuns of the Order of Saint Ursula who are setting up a hospital in New France. The same Order that is traveling on this very ship with me! (Do not fret; I have not forgotten that you have taught me to never trust anyone on this journey, even those who walk in the eyes of the Lord.) The sailors also said that the land of La Louisianne is full of drifters, prostitutes and criminals – ex-convicts the King has pardoned in exchange for building the grand city of La Nouvelle-Orléans. (My apologies for this digression, but something tells me this is the true prologue of the story.)

  Let us see. I was in the tailor’s shop, getting a cloak made of a light silk. Louis draped the fabric over my shoulders and then pinned and snipped. This task took longer than necessary because of his insatiable need to gossip, but I didn’t mind. I was going to miss not only his magical talent to transform even the ugliest duckling into a beautiful swan, but his friendship, and that was the reason I went down to the shop rather than sending for him. He asked me a hundred questions about my pending journey, and I was just telling him that he was welcome to take my place aboard the S.S. Gironde when in walked a very debonair man. Louis became excitable, which could only mean one thing: that the gentleman’s purse was full.

  The man waited patiently while Louis tended to me. To his credit, Louis did not leave my side (I am sure your position as count had something to do with it), despite seeming absolutely mesmerized by the man. And the man was indeed hypnotizing: his dark hair was held perfectly in place under a top hat, which matched his suit made of fine velvet, and he had the kind of green eyes that were impossible not to notice. It really is unfair when a man has the sort of eyes that sparkle. He had a smile like an innocent boy’s, but a chill on my arms warned me that the innocence was deceptive.

  Of course, I immediately longed to know more about this stranger. It would be false to say I was not excited when we began to converse. He said to me, “Mademoiselle Saint-Germain, what good fortune I have running into you.” Our apparent acquaintance sent Louis into a head-spin.

  To which I replied, “Dear sir, it is impossible that I could have forgotten your face, which means we have not met, and it is hardly fair that you know my name and I have not yet learned yours.”

  He paused and looked deeply into my eyes. “But we have met, Mademoiselle. I was a guest of Mademoiselle Jeanne-Françoise Quinault, at a masquerade ball at your father’s estate last winter…”

  Is that not ridiculous, father? As if there has been a person in our own home in my sixteen years whom I don’t remember! The very idea is absurd. I can hardly explain it, but it was as if he was trying to will me into believing we had met before. I laughed, and the man appeared confused. I could tell he was becoming frustrated, so I pretended to play along.

  “You will have to forgive me, sir, and tell me your name a second time.”

  He quickly composed himself, as if he realized he would have to deploy a different tactic to get what he desired. “Jean-Antoine Cartier, enchanté.”

  When he kissed my right hand, my left instinctively curled at my side.

  There wasn’t a part of me that believed for one second his name was actually Jean-Antoine Cartier. It’s not that he seemed insincere. Au contraire, he had an extremely calm and inviting aur
a, but there was something about him that fired up all of my senses. He was a man who knew exactly what he was doing. In the spirit of the game, I asked him where he was from.

  “Now, that is a very long story,” he told me.

  I warn you, Papa, you are not going to like the next part of this tale, but you are not exactly in the position to reprimand me, so I will speak openly about it, as we always do in the flesh. Despite our distance, it will comfort you to know that as I put these words on paper, I can feel you chastising me for my actions.

  He said to me, “I realize it is forward of me to ask, with your father abroad, but would you care to accompany me this evening to the salon at the home of Mademoiselle Quinault?”

  I had wanted to go to that very gathering, but had given up on the idea without you to chaperone, Father. His eyes were just as inviting as his words, but it was only when he said this that I really had to concentrate on keeping my brow straight: “I’ve been to New France three times already. Twice to the great city of Montreal, and once to the site of La Nouvelle-Orléans.”

  He did not seem at all surprised that this information made my ears perk, and I didn’t care why that was. This tease solidified my decision – his offer was the perfect invitation for mischief on my last night in Paris. Not that I needed more reason other than to simply quell my boredom, but a mysterious, handsome man, knowing the exact way to capture my attention, piqued my curiosity. I promise that I was not looking for a scandal, Papa, but really, how could I say no to someone who might satisfy my need for information on the land I would be traveling to in just one day’s time? A land which not even you have yet been to. So, that evening, Monsieur Cartier’s carriage picked me up.

  When we arrived at the salon together, the look of surprise on the other guests’ faces was alone worth the trip. Many of the women looked at me with contempt because I was on the arm of such a handsome man, but mostly they were all just desperately curious as to why the daughter of le Comte de Saint-Germain would be traveling to New France.

  Do not worry, I did not tell them you were forcing me to go or that the reason was mysterious even to me – nor did I mention that doing so had seemed to cause you duress. I simply told them I was bored with Paris and that, if I couldn’t explore the Orient because I was a woman, then I supposed I had to settle for New France. Of course, they drew their own conclusions. I overheard their little comments as we walked by.

  “I heard the count is shipping her off to Louisianne…”

  “Well, I heard he is locking her up in an insane asylum in London.”

  “Non, non, you both have it wrong. He is shipping her off to a Catholic nunnery in La Nouvelle-Orléans because she is so unwieldy.”

  “Oh, what I wouldn’t pay to know who her mother is…”

  “Either way, the count should have married. What else could he possibly have expected to happen? Raising a daughter on his own, letting her run completely wild?”

  “I’ve heard that the count doesn’t like women—”

  “Well, I’ve heard that he just doesn’t like sex—”

  “I heard that he just didn’t like you…”

  As they laughed, I smiled and pretended to be so smitten by Monsieur Cartier’s words that I couldn’t possibly hear anything they were saying, as you taught me, so many years ago, to do in such situations.

  When we made it through the parlor room of leeches, the lady of the house whisked me away from Jean-Antoine’s arm and whispered in my ear, “Child, I am so glad you made it.”

  I greeted her with affection and apologized for not sending.

  “Leave it to Mademoiselle Saint-Germain to show up with the most beautiful man in Paris when she couldn’t show up with the craziest man in France.”

  Blood invaded my cheeks. “My holiday to New France was supposed to be a secret, but it appears all of Paris knows…”

  “Well, my dear, you know secrets travel fast in Paris. It is not gossip that you must worry about, only the days when you are not worth gossiping about.”

  Her words made me smile, as did the boisterous call from one of your favorite, and rather drunk, budding playwrights.

  “Adeline Saint-Germain! If I send a manuscript with you, can you make sure it is the first comedy performed in La Nouvelle-Orléans?”

  To which I replied, “Of course, and perhaps I can convince François-Marie, I mean, Voltaire, to leave England and continue his exile in La Nouvelle-Orléans?”

  Everyone laughed. I smiled, and before I could finish scanning the room, Monsieur Cartier was gently guiding me by the elbow through the crowd to a settee in a far corner.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said and offered me a glass of bubbling wine (it’s becoming all the rage), which I gladly accepted after successfully navigating that female blockade of Parisian aristocracy.

  He began telling me about his adventures, and not long after, I found myself clinging to his every word. This surprised me, since I have been witnessing men telling their tales, shouting their dramas, or drunkenly sobbing their poems since the day of my birth, thanks to your constant need to entertain, Father. I tried not to fiddle with the medallion strung around my neck, but I couldn’t keep my hands still and didn’t want to have an unfortunate accident with an airborne utensil.

  Time flew by, and the sparkling wine never stopped. He confirmed all the other stories I had heard: “The air is always wet, as if the clouds are about to burst.” He spoke of the beautiful homes that the planters are building, and how La Louisianne is not like any of the puritan British regions of the New Colonies.

  There was no arrogance to his tone, typical of Parisian intelligentsia, nor the abhorrent self-loathing of the artists they surround themselves with. He clearly knew I had been raised in the parlor rooms of some of the greatest salons in Paris, yet he was not intimidated in the slightest, and he seemed to take no notice of the other women in the room, who were all plotting their next moves to speak with him. He paid such close attention to my face that at times I couldn’t help but feel like a caged canary and he a cat.

  I had been utterly bored and lonely from the moment you left, and he was so charming – I soaked up his company. It all just felt too romantic, too perfect. His descriptions of the foreign land made it sound beautiful and exotic, and he confirmed that there are endless opportunities in New France for the right kind of people – people who are resourceful.

  “And you, Mademoiselle,” he said, “strike me as an extremely resourceful woman. You will love it there.”

  As the night went on, the more we drank and the more I prodded him for information, until the stories moved in a darker direction. He told me of serpents, and of rats the size of my arm, and of flying bugs that pinch all over your skin in the night. He warned that the streets were dangerous, and told me strange tales about the native people, and cannibals, and young virgins being kidnapped! He spoke of enslaved Africans casting curses on their owners. I was enthralled by his experiences, and jealous of his ability to live life as he so desired. His stories drew me closer and closer to him. At times I had to refrain from curling up into his lap.

  He never once made me fight for his attention, nor did he stare at my bosom like most men, which made me question his intentions. Usually, the intentions of men are quite clear. I began to wonder if my corset was tight enough! I spent the entire night trying to figure out what he wanted. The more elusive one of us became, the deeper the other dug.

  In a way that I found quite coy, he said, “You will find me to be a very patient man, Mademoiselle Saint-Germain.”

  “A quality not usually found in a man so young, Monsieur Cartier.”

  “I must confess that, despite my age, I feel I have lived many lives. I have had so many trips, so many adventures – and fortunately, because of my age, have so many yet to come.” His eyes moved directly to mine, and I thought I might actually faint. This is the most peculiar part of the story, Papa, and I know I already confessed to drinking perhaps too deeply of the wine, but I ca
n assure you I tell this next account exactly as it happened.

  We left the salon in his carriage, and I asked him to tell me the darkest encounter he had ever witnessed in La Nouvelle-Orléans. Suddenly, he grabbed both of my arms with great excitement and begged me not to go. His reaction left me completely confounded.

  “You don’t understand,” he insisted. “It is dangerous. It is not safe for someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Someone… so beautiful. Someone so pure.”

  “Dear Monsieur Cartier, I believe you have me mixed up with some other ingénue. I am certainly not as innocent as I look.” I laughed.

  “You mock me…”

  “Of course I mock you. You are speaking nonsense!”

  “I could travel with you – there will be pirates on the water, looking to plunder and pillage. You might not even make it across the ocean! It might sound like nonsense, but I am absolutely serious, I assure you.”

  “Serious? The ship sets sail tomorrow! How would you even get a ticket?”

  “I don’t need a ticket. You could sneak me onboard in your luggage.” I stopped laughing when he grabbed my hands and held them tight. “I won’t let anything happen to you; I give you my word.”

  His persona had seemed so demur all night – this behavior rendered me speechless. Now, I could feel his strength through his grip. His power surprised me, and his cool touch excited me. I thought he might attempt to break the silence by kissing me; instead, he looked intently into my eyes and said, “You will invite me to come with you, and you will allow me to stay inside your trunk, and you will tell no one we are traveling together.”

  Flabbergasted, I stared blankly at him with bated breath.