The King's Daughter
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6
ONE DAY, the look-out sighted land at last. The travellers were a little disappointed to spot only a thin dark line on the horizon, but soon the ship sailed past the high rocky cliffs of Newfoundland. Then the coast of Nova Scotia paraded before their eyes.
The St. Lawrence narrowed but still appeared gigantic compared to the watercourses of France. Sometimes they rounded a green island set like an emerald in the steel-grey ribbon of the river. The wind brought them the invigorating scent of the pines that bordered the shores and came down right to the banks.
One morning as the passengers on deck were admiring the rocks jutting over the Saguenay River, Sister Bourgeoys took Jeanne to the narrow cabin she shared with five of the novices. With a laugh, the seasoned traveller told her companions that the dark little cubby-hole represented a luxury for her. Indeed, she had already made the crossing on deck, sleeping in the open on the ropes, in the days when she had been too poor to afford a bed on board.
“Jeanne,” said Sister Bourgeoys, “I’ve prepared this bag for you. It will help you help others. I can see in you a great need for devotion; that will be your greatest asset in your new life.”
She handed Jeanne a heavy, square leather sack, fitted with a strap so it could be carried over the shoulder.
“I’ve filled this bag with medicines and curative herbs. I collected ample supplies before I left France,” the nun went on.
Setting the sack on the narrow bench that served as a bed, she opened it and showed her charge an assortment of smaller sacks, glass bottles and flasks, all carefully labelled. A small book full of notes came along with it.
“Here you will find the description of every remedy, the illnesses they’re used for, doses and the effects to expect. I know you are diligent enough to study it and benefit from it. And you must not neglect the knowledge of the many wise people you will meet.
“Always be on the alert for new curative plants. New France has many that the Indians or settlers will show you. The Indians possess the secrets of some very efficient cures.”
Marguerite Bourgeoys closed the sack and added a little slyly, “And neither should you forget the very positive moral effect of a harmless potion when the true nature of the illness escapes you. I have often cured dizziness with sugared warm water. And mothers sleep better when they have a medicine to give their children at regular intervals. It reassures them and doubles their courage.”
Jeanne listened attentively, her grey eyes intently watching the wrinkled face of her benefactress. She considered herself a soldier being entrusted with a mission.
“You will not have put your confidence in me in vain, sister,” the orphan passionately declared. “I’ve already learned much during this crossing, and before we set foot in Quebec, I will know this notebook by heart.”
Jeanne’s zeal confirmed Marguerite Bourgeoys’s opinion. The old nun was a good judge of women of action and she had discovered one of that breed in this difficult student in whom Mother de Chablais couldn’t find one good quality.
Jeanne carried the heavy sack to her cabin, took out the notebook and emptied the medicines onto the straw mattress. She plunged into the study of this new science, and every free moment found her murmuring,
“Marseilles vinegar for the plague.
Melissa cordial for migraine.
Poppy for bronchitis.
Hawthorn for the heart.
Paregoric for relief of pain.”
If it was up to Jeanne Chatel, the colony would be bursting with perpetual health and would soon contain only alert hundred-year-olds and bouncing babies.
7
QUEBEC, August, 1672
On a beautiful evening in the month of August, the sailing ship passed Ile d’Orléans and approached the fortified city of Quebec, perched on the heights of its gigantic cliff.
The royal flag was flapping in the wind above the log fortifications of Chateau Saint-Louis, which towered over the rock. Jeanne looked up proudly at that symbol of the courage and tenacity of her compatriots.
Several wooden houses nestled in the shadow of Cap Diamant. Canoes and small boats of all types were beached on the shore. In the distance, a steep road scaled the cliff, leading to the upper part of the town.
If the departure from Le Havre had seemed picturesque to Jeanne, the arrival in Quebec left her speechless. Besides the governor’s delegation presenting arms with a flourish of trumpets, she saw a crowd of citizens on the wharf attracted by this much anticipated event: the arrival of a ship. The coureurs de bois with their strange fringed shirts and their fur caps never parted with their guns. To her the Indians seemed peaceful, even somewhat dazed, and she couldn’t figure out why people spoke of them with such terror. At the time she did not know those Indians had been transformed by living with the whites; they had nothing in common with their brothers, the fierce kings of the forest.
The passengers, gathered on deck with their trunks and suitcases, silently studied the grand scenery spread before them. The less courageous felt overwhelmed by that immense rock, that gigantic river, those endless forests they had been sailing by for days. How distant were the peaceful contours and gentle colours of the French countryside!
Leaning against the rail between Jeanne and her lieutenant, Marie looked around with frightened eyes.
“Everything seems so big, so threatening,” she shivered.
“No, it’s all magnificent,” contradicted Jeanne enthusiastically. “The air smells of pine. You can see that the country is brand-new.”
With a great uproar of shouting and noise, the gangplank finally linked the ship with solid ground.
Monsieur de Frontenac, the governor who had just taken office, came forward, hat in hand. Sister Bourgeoys was the first to cross the narrow wooden plank. The Quebeckers cheered her, knowing that each of her numerous voyages contributed to the colony’s well-being.
At a signal from the captain, the king’s daughters, led by Jeanne, set foot on the soil of New France. Many of them were disappointed that the rolling and pitching sensation of the ship didn’t disappear, but persisted for several hours.
From a distance, the awed Quebeckers inspected these girls daring enough to land in a wild country with no protection other than that offered by a potential husband. The married men looked at what they had missed, and the bachelors took inventory of the possibilities.
The girls, embarrassed by all those covetous glances, blushed and lowered their eyes. Only Jeanne, filled with wonder and fascination, looked at everything around her and answered the murmured words of welcome with an open smile.
The local women surrounded them, full of questions about the price of food in France and about fashions in Paris. The six novices and the king’s daughters, fresh from the convent, were unable to answer them, and the curious women swooped down on other better-informed passengers.
Sister Bourgeoys reassembled her little troupe and preceded them through the narrow streets of the Lower Town.
Jeanne lingered behind, stopping to examine an Indian woman carrying her baby strapped to her back in a strange leather and wood cocoon.
“How practical,” she marvelled. “That leaves your hands free to work. You have a beautiful baby,” she assured the woman, who stared back at her impassively. But a flash of maternal pride lit her dark eyes.
Jeanne picked up her skirts and dashed off after the dainty group of king’s daughters. Her white-stockinged legs agilely cleaved the air. Marie was absolutely scandalized.
“You’re not thinking, Jeanne, running through the streets like an urchin. What would Mother de Chablais say? A lady doesn’t do that.”
“That’s right,” the thoughtless girl humbly admitted. “I’m not a lady, far from it.”
Nonetheless, she wasn’t about to hang her head. The little town answered the description she h
ad read in Real and Natural History, written in 1663 by Pierre Boucher. Noticing Jeanne’s interest in her future homeland, Marguerite Bourgeoys had given her this book before she left Troyes. Better educated and brighter than her companions, Jeanne Chatel had showered her protectress with countless questions. This modest work written by the governor of Trois-Rivières had only partly satisfied her curiosity. She knew entire passages of it by heart.
“Quebec is situated on the shore of the mighty St. Lawrence River, which at that spot is barely a league wide and flows between two heights. This fortress, the churches and monasteries and finest houses are built on top; other houses and stores are built at the foot of the hill, on the shore of the great river, to service the ships that stop there...”
Sister Bourgeoys took her girls to Widow Myrand’s little house. The widow ran an inn in the Lower Town, and they would be staying there for the few days it took to prepare for the departure to Ville-Marie. They had to reserve the flat-bottomed boats and oarsmen who would row them up the current on the exhausting seven- or eight-day voyage.
Widow Myrand, surly and not at all pleasant, showed her guests to rooms as small and overcrowded as those on the ship they had just left. No one complained. A spirit of self-denial was essential baggage for those who came to colonize the new world.
Robust young men put the eleven girls’ trunks in the common room. They took their leave after sidelong glances and awkward salutations, pressing to their hearts the wool caps they wore even in summer. Jeanne examined them immodestly and mentally rejected them, one after the other. Not one of them met her excessive demands. Unknowingly, the sentimental girl was searching for Thierry de Villebrand in all the suitors’ faces. That was the best way to be disappointed, she knew, but she couldn’t help it.
Despite the late hour, Sister Bourgeoys left her charges after cautioning them to be careful. They were not to go out. The Indians might be on the prowl. She didn’t say so, but the settlers and soldiers presented a much more tangible danger to these young turtle doves who were such a rare commodity in New France.
The nun climbed the steep slope of Côte de la Montagne to pay her respects to the bishop’s delegate. Monseigneur de Laval, her old adversary with whom she had had difficult conflicts in the past, was currently in France. The authoritarian prelate would have been very happy to see this refractory nun subject to the rules of a cloister, like that of the Ursulines. Sister Bourgeoys refused, maintaining that her missionary work had to be done outside the cloister, and that by remaining secular and free to come and go as she pleased, she was better able to help the colony.
The traveller would also visit the Ursulines where she would spend the night. Unfortunately, her good friend, Mother Marie de l’Incarnation, who had always been happy to welcome her, had died the previous April.
Marguerite Bourgeoys’s latest absence had lasted two years. Many things had changed during that time. Intendant Talon and Monsieur de Courcelle, the governor, had been recalled to France. Monsieur de Frontenac, who was said to be energetic and courageous, was now occupying the Chateau Saint-Louis.
The founder of the congregation painstakingly climbed the steep slope. She, too, was happy to be on solid ground once again, and was pleased she had brought back new recruits for this country she loved so much.
8
GRUMBLING, Widow Myrand served a frugal meal that seemed sumptuous after the salted meat, dried biscuits and rancid water that had been the girls’ menu on board ship.
Jeanne, overexcited by the liveliness and noise of the town, still unaccustomed to feeling solid ground beneath her feet, asked for and received permission to sit on the doorstep with Marie. The two of them chatted quietly in the semi-darkness, though Marie dominated the conversation, inexhaustible when it came to her lieutenant’s endless good qualities. The little grey mouse from the dormitory had been transfigured.
“You know, Jeanne, we’re going to get married and Jean is going to settle here in Quebec where his father has a business.”
“And what will your fiancé, Monsieur Simon de Rouville, say?”
Marie was in love. All obstacles were pushed aside. “Oh, he’ll understand and marry another of the king’s daughters. You, for example.”
“Thank you so much. At least leave me the privilege of choosing.”
That old widower in search of a housekeeper wasn’t even worth mentioning.
Footsteps neared the house. “That’s Jean!” exclaimed Marie, who had been watching for him.
The young man stepped forward with a firm tread and bowed to the two friends. Relieved of his duties on board ship for the evening, he had gone to greet his parents in Cap Diamant. Then he had come down as soon as possible to be with his beloved. They had little time to plan and an entire happy life to prepare for.
Jeanne discreetly moved a few steps away, leaving the young couple to speak their hearts’ desire. She felt elderly and protective. All her sisterly love went out to that trusting girl and sincere young man. She wished them happiness.
Leaning against the side of the small house, a few steps from the street that was deserted at that hour, Jeanne listened to the silence. It amazed her after the constant noise that had assailed her ears on board ship. The scent of earth and pine mingled with that of the few tenacious flowers that bordered Madame Myrand’s little garden.
Suddenly an apparition surged out of the night. A grimacing face, crossed by a scar and crowned by two feathers, materialized soundlessly before her, blocking her retreat. Sister Bourgeoys was right. The Indians were as bold as could be. The terrifying stories with which the sailors enjoyed regaling the girls—despite Sister Bourgeoys’s vigilance—came back to Jeanne. In a flash she thought, If I scream, Jean and Marie will come to my aid and be killed. She did not cry out, but slowly began walking, step by step, into the night. She surrendered all hope of rescue, but at least she diverted the danger from those she loved.
Without a word, without a sound, the Indian followed her, looming up between her and the house. He put his hand out. Was he holding a knife? Jeanne dared to venture a look...and was surprised to see that it was a piece of paper. And a closer look showed that his sinister face expressed more perplexity than hatred, and that his grimace was a smile.
Jeanne snatched the note from his outstretched hand and stepped past the Indian. Unable to utter a sound, she hurried towards the inn and brushed unceremoniously past Marie and Jean who had hardly noticed her. She collapsed into the low chair in front of the candle where Widow Myrand was dozing in her rocking chair. Accustomed to the early hours on board ship, Sister Bourgeoys’s charges were saying their prayers or already asleep in the loft.
Jeanne, still quite pale, leaned towards the flickering light and began deciphering Marguerite Bourgeoys’s handwriting. She knew it well from having helped her make up shopping lists in Rouen. The letter was addressed to Widow Myrand. Jeanne gave it to that good woman who, rather than admit she didn’t know how to read, claimed her eyesight was bad and declared she was all ears.
Jeanne read the words swimming there before her eyes, doing her best to conceal the trembling of her voice.
Dear Madame:
This letter is to inform Mademoiselle Marie du Voyer of an urgent situation. Her fiancé, Monsieur de Rouville, needs her in Ville-Marie immediately, due to the lateness of the season. A group of travellers, accompanied by two Sulpician priests and two women, will leave tomorrow at dawn by canoe, and Mademoiselle du Voyer is granted permission to accompany them. In Ville-Marie, she will take up residence at the Bon-Secours School, where all arrangements have been made for her marriage to Monsieur de Rouville. He most definitely wishes to reach his lands before winter sets in. Wishing Mademoiselle du Voyer all possible happiness in her saintly destiny, I place her under the protection of Notre Dame du Bon-Secours.
The usual greetings and the founder’s signature followed.
Jeanne went to the doorway and saw the motionless form of the Indian waiting by the steps. As before when she believed her friends were in danger, just as instinctively, just as rapidly, her resolution took shape. She turned to Widow Myrand who, candle in hand, was hoping that all her excited boarders would finally solve their problems and let her go to bed.
“Madame Myrand, if you can help me pull my trunk over near the door, this Indian will help me take it out. And if you would leave me the candle and give me something to write with, you can go to bed and I won’t wake you when I leave at dawn.”
“Oh?” said the widow, not very interested. “So you’re Mademoiselle du Voyer?”
“Yes, I am,” said Jeanne calmly. “And my fiancé is waiting for me in Ville-Marie.”
9
ON THE BANKS of the St. Lawrence, September, 1672
Dear Marie,
I’m writing flat on my stomach on the soaking wet ground. I’m using the notebook Sister Bourgeoys gave me on board ship for the first time to record my spiritual thoughts. I’m supposed to be dry under a canvas sheet that a Sulpician father and one of the voyageurs gallantly stretched from some poles and baptized a shelter. The rain drips from the leaves and everything I touch, eat or breathe is wet. The Indians have managed to light a fire that is smoking between two rocks, and their skin glistens with a red glow. They gave me some kind of food called pemmican that’s both greasy and hard. The women mentioned in Mademoiselle Bourgeoys’s letter are two Hurons as silent as their men.