Shouts of approval rang out. The groom had to agree. He carefully leaned his musket against a tree and approached Jeanne, standing motionless, still out of breath, next to her last and most persistent partner, Lieutenant de Touron.
With cutting irony, Rouville said to his friend, “I’m relieving you of your duties. They don’t seem to have been too demanding.”
“You have given me more difficult missions in the past,” countered the soldier without losing face.
He turned to Jeanne and said gravely, “Madame, it is with much regret that I return you to your husband. Don’t forget that from this evening onward, I am your devoted servant for life.”
Jeanne, unaccustomed to these extravagant phrases, and very embarrassed at such boldness in front of her stern husband, did not know how to reply. Pierre bowed with the ease of a nobleman at the court of Versailles and kissed his partner’s hand, which had suddenly grown icy. Dazzled, Jeanne stared at her hand in amazement; she had forgotten to put it down again. It was like a storybook. Jeanne Chatel, the orphan from the congregation nuns, the outlawed poacher’s little girl, had just had her hand kissed by a handsome young gentleman.
A bantering voice drew her from her momentary paralysis.
“May I tear you away from your dreams, and would you permit me to take this consecrated hand and dance with me? Our friends desire it.”
And indeed, the applause and shouts urged them into action. Monsieur de Rouville seemed to be well liked despite his cloudy countenance. The voices rang out, loud and bawdy.
“Come on, Simon. Show us the Iroquois step.”
“Your wife dances well, Rouville. You’re the only one who doesn’t know it yet.”
“Dance, old boy. You won’t dance much this winter.”
As the affectionate gibes fell like hail, the groom’s face relaxed, and a smile revealed his dazzling white teeth.
So he knows how to smile, Jeanne thought bitterly. But only for other people.
Bending his tall frame, Simon asked gently, “Madame, do you have enough strength left to accompany me?”
Taken aback, she nodded without a word.
The music began again. Jeanne felt herself being carried off in an iron grip. Simon was holding her much too tightly; it was difficult to be light-footed in those conditions. Stiff and awkward now, she missed a step and stumbled. Inwardly she was fuming; this mocking, melancholy man was always catching her off guard.
The quadrille seemed endless to the poor girl. Simon made all the figures effortlessly, but he seemed preoccupied and it was obvious he was thinking about something else.
As soon as the music stopped, he pulled her along in his wake without asking her opinion. He threw the grey cape over her shoulders, picked up his musket and, after waving to the group, made his way to the door.
The governor made the appearance protocol demanded of him, then fled from those miserable settlers he despised to take refuge in his quarters. The dance became much more rollicking as a result of his departure.
Simon moved along with giant steps, forcing Jeanne to run to keep up with him. Did he think she was going to let herself be dragged along like a docile little dog on a leash? But that was what was happening, as she grumbled under her breath. Impatient, he executed a half turn in her direction and slowed his pace.
As soon as they were outside the wall of the fort and had gone past the sentries who saluted them, Simon gave a low whistle. Two figures immediately came from the shadows and followed in their footsteps. Did the brave Monsieur de Rouville himself feel the need for protection in the heart of Ville-Marie? What would he need on his isolated estate, then? An army ready to wage war?
An owl hooted in the distance, and another answered close by. Jeanne’s poacher’s heart skipped a beat. Maybe those owls had feathers, but they didn’t have wings—that was for sure.
Simon stopped near a clump of trees. Carried by her momentum, Jeanne bumped into his large back that blocked the way.
The two men who had been following them suddenly seemed to vanish into the night. Branches parted noiselessly on either side of them. They were surrounded.
Jeanne’s heart beat wildly. “Give me a knife,” she whispered to Simon in a voice that brooked no refusal.
At least she might have a chance to defend herself. She cursed the coquetry that had prevented her from taking her new musket to the ball, forgetting that she didn’t yet know how to use it.
If he had heard her, Monsieur de Rouville did not let on. He did not raise his gun; instead, he in turn let out the night bird’s sorrowful cry.
Two Indians loomed up before them. Her husband held her tightly by the arm. Was that to prevent her from crying out? He had nothing to fear. She wasn’t the sort of girl to give in to hysteria. She was gathering all her strength and rage for one final combat.
Just then the clouds parted, and the moon cast its light on the scene, revealing the Indians’ sharp features, the feathers in their hair and Monsieur de Rouville’s calm face. He released his hold on her arm and raised his hand.
Speaking in a language she could not understand, the three men launched into a long conversation. Simon seemed to be giving instructions. He pointed towards the river, and the others responded by asking him questions. The discussion wore on, and Jeanne, drained of her energy by the sudden alarm and the day’s emotions, was staggering with fatigue.
Without missing a syllable of his conversation, her all-seeing husband put a strong arm around her and held her against his hard body. She thought it was a gesture of tenderness and it moved her. But he gave her a little shake, as if he were bringing her back to her senses, then dropped her again. He didn’t want to be dishonoured in front of his native friends by a weak woman. Jeanne stiffened. In the future she’d die rather than betray a single weakness.
After a final word, the Indians seemed to sink back into the night. She blinked her eyes and cocked her ears. She and her husband were alone again.
The iron fingers closed on her arm again and she was propelled forward in her lord’s wake. A far cry from Lieutenant de Touron’s respectful courtesy.
An instinct made Jeanne turn around. Once the danger was past, their two protectors had taken up their posts again. One was an Indian, the other walked with a limp. That was all she could determine.
A yellowish light in the window of the Bon-Secours School bore witness to Mademoiselle Crolo’s zeal. The good lady sat by the hearth, saying her rosary, as she waited for her boarder. The new Madame de Rouville would sleep in the convent again that night.
Visibly preoccupied, Simon deigned to give her a brief explanation. “I have to finish my preparations. One of my men will come for you at dawn. Your trunk is down at the dock. Be ready. We’ll be leaving very early.”
“I’ll be ready,” she answered with dignity. A notion to rebel stirred under her calm appearance.
“Have you any more orders for me?” she asked impudently.
“Uh...no, madame,” a surprised voice answered in the darkness.
“Then good night, husband. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With dignity, the king’s daughter closed the door in her hateful husband’s face. For once she’d had the last word.
Jeanne curtsied to the sleepy nun. Then, without seeing one of its steps, she climbed the steep stairway. It was little more than a ladder leading to the attic of the stable they called a school—Sister Bourgeoys’s pride and joy.
She held back her tears, firmly resolved not to let herself be overcome by her emotions. Fortunately, Marie du Voyer, so sensitive and vulnerable, had been spared this ordeal. Jeanne Chatel was strong. Nothing would get her down. Stifling a sob, she pulled the blanket over her head and closed her eyes, determined to go to sleep. She would need all her energy to face the days ahead.
13
APPARENTLY
the meaning of the word dawn varies from one continent to another. That was the conclusion Jeanne reached, snugly wrapped in her cape. It was pitch black. The now familiar whistle sounded under the window; she was ready. To be on the safe side, she had slept in her clothes. Her guide was a little grey-haired man whose toothless, wrinkled face was crowned by an enormous fur cap. His fringed shirt was black with the soot of countless campfires. He spoke little and had gathered all his courage to announce brusquely, “I am Mathurin the Limp. Monsieur de Rouville sent me to fetch you.”
She blindly followed her limping guide. One of his ankles was twisted at an abnormal angle, which explained his nickname. Sometimes, when the path was rough, he used his long gun as a crutch, but his infirmity did not slow his pace. Jeanne puffed along behind him, thrown off balance by the heavy sack of medicines bumping against her side. Pierre Boucher had written in his book that “the Indian wife walked behind her man and carried the possessions.” Jeanne was beginning to think this custom had spread to the whites, too. Fortunately she did not have much luggage.
The shawl, the white stockings, the shiny shoes and the starched coif had disappeared into her huge pockets. Like a seasoned traveller, she had slipped on the thick woollen stockings, her old, indestructible shoes and covered her hair with a black scarf. In the shadowy light of the freezing dawn she felt pale and unattractive.
Fortunately, in the confusion surrounding the departure, her husband, gallant as usual, had no time to cast a look in her direction. However, he did not miss the opportunity to give out orders. He pointed to a large canoe already loaded with sacks and her trunk.
“Sit there on those blankets, madame, and don’t move. We’re crossing the river and any movement is dangerous.”
I know that! Jeanne felt like shouting. Can you imagine, dear master, that I travelled by canoe for five days from Quebec to Ville-Marie without making it capsize?
Her revolt did not cross her lips. Coureurs de bois and Indians took their places in the eight canoes. She was the only woman, the only dead weight on the expedition, apart from the baggage that they nevertheless valued highly.
A tentative light rose in the east. The air was sharp and smelled of pine. Short, foam-crested waves stirred the river. Suddenly, an officer burst into sight on the road that led from the fort. He was running and waving his arms. It was Pierre de Touron coming to say goodbye, calling to them from afar.
Simon was sitting in the front of the canoe with Jeanne. He took the trouble to put on a friendly face, but he obviously couldn’t resist a mocking joke.
“What heroism for a soldier of the king to rise so early in our honour!”
“I didn’t do it for you,” the officer assured him. He turned to Jeanne. “I’m coming to present my good wishes to madame. You can get along very well without my blessing.”
Suddenly growing serious, Monsieur de Rouville ordered him, “Tell de Preux that I...that we regret his absence at our wedding. As soon as he arrives, tell him I’ll be waiting for him.”
“I will,” promised the lieutenant, who obviously was not insulted by Simon’s commanding tone of voice. Why did Simon always have to address everyone as if they were his underlings, and why did no one—except for Jeanne—seem to take offense?
“We’re heading out,” announced the leader of the expedition, raising his paddle over his head.
Pierre bowed to the young woman. “Goodbye, madame. Bon voyage and bon courage.”
“Thank you,” Jeanne murmured, very moved.
She wanted to leap onto the dock, throw herself into the young soldier’s arms and cry, “Keep me here with you. Don’t let me go into the wilderness with all these silent men who don’t even notice me!”
She tried to imagine the look on her lord and master’s face if she were to make such a disastrous exhibit of herself. The thought made her lips curl into a spiteful expression. That was the image the admiring lieutenant was left with: a courageous woman going off to confront her destiny, a smile on her lips.
Without thinking, Jeanne waved farewell to him. Immediately from the front came a disapproving grumble.
“Don’t move. I told you that before.”
Jeanne looked at her husband’s broad back blotting out the horizon and rebelliously stuck out her tongue at him, the noble Monsieur de Rouville.
14
NO ONE HAD bothered to inform Jeanne of the itinerary. Later she was to learn that this expedition the men were so eager to undertake was also a business trip, involving many detours and numerous stopovers.
Instead of heading towards Sorel and the mouth of the Iroquois River, the flotilla crossed the St. Lawrence at an angle and went down in the opposite direction. Jeanne stretched out and leaned comfortably against the bundles of furs and blankets. Her initial curiosity passed and she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
The burning midday sun awakened her. They were travelling along the deserted south shore of the river. She stretched as modestly as possible and turned to look back. The canoes were following as if they were being towed.
Mathurin gave her a wide toothless smile that made her laugh. At least he didn’t ration his kindness.
In front of her, Simon was still paddling with the same regular motion, apparently tireless. She had the impression he could go on like that for days without feeling any fatigue. For a long time she examined what she could see of this stranger who was her husband. His well-muscled shoulders were held straight over narrow hips, and his long legs did not seem to suffer from their uncomfortable position. He was sitting on the edge of his bench, with one knee on the floor of the canoe and the other bent in front of him, as if he were genuflecting. The musket he never parted with was lying beside his foot. Next to it was his wide leather belt with a dagger in its sheath, a well-sharpened hatchet and a curved horn containing his powder.
He was dressed in a soft leather suit, as he had been the day Jeanne arrived in Ville-Marie. His pants had long fringes along the sides of the legs, and his shirt was decorated the same way, down the sleeves and on the sides. Later Jeanne would learn that these fringes were not simply for style. When it rained they allowed the water to drip more rapidly from the leather.
Simon wore his straight black hair too short for the fashion of the time. He probably doesn’t know what a wig is, Jeanne thought. Despite the heat, he was wearing the inevitable long-haired fur cap that completed the uniform of every coureur de bois. On his feet were high moccasins that came up to his knees. The handle of a second knife was sticking out of the right shoe. You would have to wait a long time to catch that man without his weapons. He must be very familiar with danger.
Jeanne looked thoughtfully at the back of his shirt. The buckskin was still beige in colour. Was that because it was new, or simply cleaner than Mathurin’s? Who had made that shirt and who had repaired the many tears in it?
A long cut with darkened edges zigzagged across her husband’s right shoulder. Was that blood? The cut had been meticulously mended with thick black thread and small, even stitches. Discouraged, Jeanne once again realized she knew nothing about this stranger whose name she bore.
Just then, Simon, without throwing the canoe off balance, turned around in one lithe motion and looked her over. She was in for a shock. The eyes staring at her from that tanned face with its arrogant nose were green, a pale, limpid shade such as she had never seen before. Was it that contrast that gave his glance that icy, enigmatic appearance?
But his voice was cordial enough when he questioned, “You’re not too tired, are you?”
Jeanne could not help laughing. “Tired? I’m the only one who isn’t working.”
Her logic caught him off guard. He said, “If you’re hungry, open that sack on your right. You can drink the river water, but avoid sudden movements.”
The noonday sun beat down on their heads. Jeanne carefully took off her cape
and scarf and put her hand into the sack he had indicated. She took out a piece of bread and some venison that she devoured with gusto. Then she scooped up some water in the palm of her hand.
“Would you like anything?” she asked Mathurin. He shook his head and showed her something that looked like leather. He was chewing it, not at all handicapped by his lack of teeth.
“Pemmican,” he explained, his mouth full. Jeanne recognized the food the Sulpicians had given to her on the way up from Quebec.
Simon put down his paddle and took off his fur cap. He pulled his shirt over his head and there he was, bare chested in front of his startled wife. Was this man completely uncivilized? Did he forget there was a lady present? Apparently so, since he plunged his paddle back into the water and broke into a stirring song in his strong voice.
À la claire fontaine
M’en allant promener,
J’ai trouvé eau si belle
Que je m’y suis baigné.
Mathurin picked up the tune in falsetto, and from the other canoes, the voyageurs joined in the choir. Jeanne had never heard anything as beautiful as this French song rhythmically sung by these rugged men as the canoes flew over the sparkling waters.
Timidly at first, then with greater assurance, she added her voice to the others. She sang well but too loudly, the nuns had always reminded her. Here the wind carried away her words. Absorbed by her pleasure, eyes lifted to the cloudless sky, she did not notice the questioning glance her husband shot in her direction.
Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qui as le coeur gai.
Lui y a longtemps que je t’aime,
Jamais je ne t’oublierai.
The sun struck the tanned back before her. The muscles rippled under his brown skin. On his right shoulder, a long scar traced the line of the tear in his shirt. Who had mended that tear? The same one who had sewn the clothing?
Cautiously, Jeanne bent down and picked up the leather jacket that had fallen at his feet. She examined the mending in the back and was not quite sure what to think. The seamstress had drawn the two sides of the tear together and sewn them with long, coarse black hair.
The King's Daughter Page 6
