The King's Daughter

by Suzanne Martel

  “Your people can eat and sleep in our common room and Gansagonas will find her compatriots in the kitchen. Come, my dear. I’m going to show you my castle.”

  Jeanne had nothing to worry about. Even if she had known all the scandals of the court, her hostess babbled on so much that she would not have been able to tell about a single one. The house was modest, though larger and more comfortable than any Jeanne had seen since she arrived.

  “My father is very rich,” Thérèse confided, with no pretense of humility. “He spoils me.”

  “You have beautiful furniture,” her visitor was able to get in admiringly.

  “Yes, it’s true. It took us four years to have everything brought over from France. No doubt they’ll feed the next fire the Iroquois set. In the meantime I like to see them here.”

  This fatalistic reminder of the constant danger hanging over the isolated forts did not seem to depress the irrepressible Thérèse.

  She led her guest into a large, well-lit room dominated by a huge bed. Thanks to her hostess’s organizational talent, the king’s daughter’s trunk had already been taken there. Jeanne gratefully accepted the offer of a hot bath.

  Two Indian women brought the water from the kitchen.

  An hour later she came downstairs, her hair still damp, curling around her tanned face. A white collar and leather shoes supplemented her outfit.

  The meal was sumptuous and gay, more abundant than any she had ever experienced before. The silver plates and crystal glasses made her forget the wilderness outside. The impeccable service provided by the Huron women added an incongruous note to the feast.

  Jeanne sat opposite her husband, carefully noting which utensils he used, and picking up the same one in return. Simon, very much at ease, had obviously lived in such luxury before. The conversation revealed new aspects of the Builder’s character.

  When he realized Jeanne knew nothing about her husband, Hubert decided to enlighten her, despite Simon’s meaningful glances.

  Simon de Rouville was the eldest son of a rich and important family. Like many adolescents his age, he had joined King Louis XIV’s army when he was very young. The impetuous young man had provoked a duel with a relative of the king; unfortunately, he was adroit enough to wound him.

  “Immediately afterwards, the young charmer who had caused all the drama showed a deplorable lack of logic and married a third person. Your husband was left brokenhearted, disinherited and exiled. France’s loss was the colony’s gain.”

  When the meal was over, Thérèse took Jeanne to kiss Isabelle and Nicolas goodnight. Glowing with happiness, the children insisted on taking the puppies to bed with them.

  Thérèse left the men to enjoy their brandy, and she went to sit at the foot of her guest’s bed. It was the time for advice and confidences.

  “I would gladly have looked after the children, but I was in France the year of the tragedy. When I returned I was very sick, even if I don’t look it now. Since then I’ve been travelling a great deal with Hubert.”

  Obviously quite pleased with the situation, the chatterbox added, “My husband takes me everywhere with him. Of course he’s no backwoodsman like Simon...”

  “I hope you’ll have better luck keeping your husband at home than that poor Aimée did. If he stopped travelling about the country so much, he could be prosperous. You know, you remind me a lot of Aimée.”

  Without noticing the pained expression that came over Jeanne’s face whenever that hated comparison was made, the thoughtless woman rattled on, “Yes, there really is something of Aimée about you. But you’re more alive.”

  I should hope so, Jeanne thought, amused in spite of herself at Thérèse’s involuntary macabre joke. Her sense of humour made her appreciate all the subtlety of Thérèse’s slip of the tongue, but at the same time she was inwardly revolted by it.

  Must she always be the pale reflection of another women? Would anyone ever recognize eager, spirited Jeanne behind Aimée’s borrowed face?

  Finally Thérèse noticed Jeanne stifling a yawn, and left her for the night.

  Jeanne was happy to find herself in civilization again. She put on her vast nightdress and, delighted, slipped between the cool sheets. Never before had she slept on a feather mattress. She got up again, climbed onto the foot of her bed and, arms spread, she let herself fall. It was like sinking into a cloud. The candle on the night table cast dancing shadows on the walls.

  Forgetting her age and the dignity of her position, like a school girl on vacation, she repeated her little trick. All alone, laughing, drunk with freedom, she got up and let herself sink down. Never again could anyone tell her to be reasonable.

  A slight noise made her turn around. Leaning against the closed door, Simon was contemplating her with a surprised look. Jeanne pulled herself up, her cheeks on fire. This big devil of a man had walked in as noiselessly as an Indian and caught her right in the middle of acting childish.

  Furious, Jeanne tried to regain a semblance of dignity. “What are you doing here, monsieur?” she asked haughtily.

  Simon gave a quiet laugh. “It seems I have come to watch Madame de Rouville frolicking about.”

  “Monsieur, I am afraid you may be disappointed with the wife the king sent you.”

  With one eyebrow raised sarcastically, he retorted, “I didn’t expect anything good from the king. I must say I misjudged him.”

  Simon went to the mirror and took off his shirt, the famous leather shirt mended with one long black hair. Again she thought of the French beauty who had been the cause of a duel, his pretty cousin Marie du Voyer whom she’d replaced, and Aimée whose place she was taking. Bitterness filled her.

  Why love life so much, why long for love so much, when you’re living out someone else’s life? She blew out the candle, buried her face in the pillow and burst into tears.

  When she sensed Simon’s silent presence by the bed, Jeanne burst out between two sobs, “Go away. I hate you. I’m not Aimée and I never will be!”

  A few seconds later she heard the door close quietly. Then her tears flowed harder still.

  17

  THE STOPOVER in Fort Chambly lasted three days. The first morning Simon appeared before his wife, holding their two muskets.

  “Come,” he commanded. “You must learn how to use this weapon.”

  He took her behind the fortifications, placed some apples on stakes for targets and began the lesson. As her husband’s strong arms held her to direct her fire, Jeanne thought, How he must wish I was Aimée.

  She made rapid progress, which seemed to surprise her teacher a great deal. He wasn’t expecting very much, she said to herself spitefully.

  As they were returning to the fort, Jeanne leading the way, they met the same inquisitive woman who had asked whom the children belonged to that first evening. Deciding, no doubt, that she was entitled to one question a day, she stopped in front of Jeanne.

  “Tell me, my dear, what is your name?”

  “I am Jeanne Chatel, madame.”

  “Jeanne de Rouville,” corrected a mocking voice behind her. She quickly turned around and met her husband’s cold eyes.

  Very spritely, her words heavy with hidden meaning, she replied, “You’re right. I am Jeanne de Rouville. Sometimes I forget.”

  The gossip hadn’t dared hope for so much. To her great joy, Simon turned on his heels and walked away, whistling to himself.

  Sarcasm, thought Jeanne. Two can play that game. It seemed to her that many of their conversations ended with one of them stalking off.

  At Jeanne’s request, Thérèse introduced her to old Hippolyte, who was known throughout the region for his healing talents. The white-bearded old man reminded Jeanne very much of her extraordinary grandfather—the same inquisitive mind, the same realistic philosophy. There was an immediate understanding b
etween these two very different people. For hours, Jeanne added to her brand-new knowledge of medicine, scribbling precious notes in Sister Bourgeoys’s little book.

  The healer examined the contents of her sack. He added numerous other plants and roots, and advised her how to find and use them.

  “Spruce gum is the best antiseptic and should be gathered during the full moon. Gall from a male bear cures bronchitis in women; only gall from the female can cure men.”

  Jeanne was taking the mission entrusted her by Marguerite Bourgeoys very seriously.

  That same evening, the last one of their “vacation” in Fort Chambly, the hosts gave a dinner in honour of the newlyweds. If anyone noticed a coldness in their marital relations, they didn’t let on.

  Thérèse came and knocked on her guest’s door.

  “Jeanne, you seem to have only dour, dark-coloured dresses. Let me give you one of my sister Nicole’s outfits; she’s the same size as you. It’s time your husband discovered the pretty woman under that nun’s frock.”

  Blushing but grateful, Jeanne accepted the kind offer. Madame de Bretonville was excited about her own idea and proceeded with the transformation.

  Jeanne wondered what role she would play this time as she went down the stairs to greet the guests. Her hair was styled in the latest fashion—at least it had been the fashion two years before in France—very prettily swept up on her head. The blue silk dress, lighter than any material the orphan had ever seen, emphasized her generous bosom and her fine waist. The gold medal gleamed from among the soft folds of a chiffon scarf. She took a step forward, tottering a little on the high heels Thérèse had insisted she wear with the dress. Very proud of her work, Madame de Bretonville followed her guest.

  Simon was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He had put on his wedding suit, which lent him a civilized air, despite his dark complexion and overly short hair.

  He was talking to Hubert and two officers in uniform when he absent-mindedly looked up. There was the new Jeanne descending the stairs.

  Monsieur de Rouville stopped in the middle of a sentence; his mouth fell open. Very pleased with her entrance, Jeanne raised her chin and tried on a coquettish smile for the first time in her life.

  I’m one of the ladies of Versailles, she thought, very satisfied with herself. All I need now is to provoke a duel between my impetuous husband and an officer and I’ll have my patent letter of nobility. What would my father, the king, have to say about that?

  Alas! even coquettes have to watch where they put their elegant little high heels. With a loud scream, Jeanne toppled forward in a spectacular tumble. Her last hour had come. She closed her eyes and thrust her hands out.

  Simon leapt forward with unbelievable speed, as swift as a beast of the forest, pushing aside Hubert and his guests. He caught his wife in his outstretched arms, though she was tumbling head first, and managed to break her fall. With trills of sympathy, the startled ladies surrounded the victim, thinking she had fainted.

  Pressed against her husband’s chest by imprisoning arms, her head buried in his sturdy shoulder, Jeanne trembled uncontrollably. Simon bent over her, concern written on his face. Torn between worry and relief, and impatient, too, at these feminine indispositions, he gave her a little shake.

  “Come now, madame, you’ve been saved. There’s no need to panic.”

  Unable to speak, Jeanne threw back her head and clung to his wedding suit. Abashed, Simon discovered his wife wasn’t crying. Far from it. She was laughing so hard she could scarcely catch her breath.

  “My father...the king...my father...the king,” she finally hiccupped.

  “She has lost her reason,” the ladies concluded.

  Jeanne shook her head, still laughing. Her entrance into high society had been a great success. She met Simon’s puzzled green eyes and burst out laughing once more.

  Seeing that, her lord and master set her on her feet none too gently, but kept his arm around her waist just for caution’s sake. The proud Builder didn’t like to be ridiculed, and his sombre expression made that very clear.

  Thérèse, the perfect hostess, appeared with a glass of Spanish wine.

  “Drink this, Jeanne. There’s nothing like it for restoring the equilibrium.”

  Madame de Bretonville definitely had the knack of making puns in spite of herself. Whipping the whole agitated group into shape, as was her wont, she went on, “Come, ladies, follow me. Hubert, it’s time to go to table. Simon and Jeanne will join us. Drink up, Jeanne, drink up.”

  Urged on by this barrage of instructions, the group broke up, leaving the king’s daughter and her husband alone. He was still holding her close and, doing as she had been told, Jeanne swallowed the soothing wine in one gulp.

  She did not dare raise her eyes to the man who was waiting stiffly at her side. What must Monsieur de Rouville think of that ridiculous scene? If only she had had the presence of mind to feign a swoon. A defenseless woman is forgiven everything.

  Simon shook her again, none too gently. She had given him a fright and he held that against her.

  He whispered angrily, “You silly fool. Don’t you even know how to walk down a flight of stairs?”

  “I’m not a lady,” Jeanne protested, lowering her head.

  An authoritative hand lifted her chin and domineering lips claimed her mouth. True to form, Simon kissed as impetuously as he mounted an offensive.

  Without giving her time to collect herself, he turned her around, took her by the arm and propelled her towards the dining room. There the guests greeted them with the jokes that suited the occasion.

  Intoxicated by the wine—and perhaps by the kiss—Jeanne enjoyed herself. Her joyful laughter rewarded those fellow diners who paid her clever compliments.

  Questioned about her journey across the Atlantic, the storyteller from the orphanage came back into her own. She amused everyone with her picturesque descriptions and anecdotes. Forgetting the discretion, reserve and self-effacement preached by the nuns, the old Jeanne Chatel reappeared, exuberant and full of fun.

  Her liveliness fell on fertile ground. Here was a gathering of optimistic people who faced death and lived intensely. They had no time for affectation; her freshness cheered them up. The conversations were animated, the atmosphere relaxed.

  Thérèse, very proud of her protégée’s success, smiled maternally. Hubert stole a glance at Simon. Perhaps this time his friend had finally found a suitable wife. But he didn’t seem too convinced of it yet.

  Monsieur de Rouville was sitting at the other end of the table, thoughtfully observing the surprising wife the king had sent him. And several times Jeanne felt his green eyes upon her.

  Unfortunately, everything comes to an end. The guests left, and Hubert went out on the doorstep to see them off. Thérèse disappeared for a final inspection of the kitchens.

  Simon was in the hallway, bending over a table topped by a decorated mirror, checking a long list he had taken from his pocket. He seemed preoccupied. There were so many essential things he had to think about before he disappeared into the depths of the countryside for the long winter.

  Jeanne, still excited by this unforgettable evening, carefully picked up her skirts to climb the stairs. Her lord’s commanding voice stopped her on the second step. Without turning around, he issued his orders.

  “Madame, we’re leaving at dawn. Don’t forget. Make all your preparations and be ready.”

  Already he was buried in his papers again.

  Jeanne made a mocking pretense at a curtsey and murmured, “Very well, my lord.” Then, like an incorrigible child, she stuck out her tongue at the broad back before her.

  Suddenly she froze. Above her husband’s shoulder, she met a pale, icy stare in the mirror. He had seen her.

  He set his papers on the table, turned around and in two steps he was be
side her. She waited, holding her breath.

  “Madame, you are an impudent girl.”

  He picked her up in his arms as if she were Isabelle, bounded up the stairs and, with his shoulder, pushed open the door of the room with the big feather bed. He closed it behind him with his foot. His eyes were shining like emeralds in his tanned face.

  Carried away in a whirlwind, Jeanne thought that nothing and no one could resist him. Simon set her down on her feet by the bed—gently this time. He held her curly head firmly in his two big hands. Never would she have believed those pale eyes could express so much tenderness and gentleness. Once again she trembled under his unending kiss.

  18

  THE CANOE glided through the autumnal forest. New France was putting on its most beautiful finery. A radiant sun lit up the trees, whose magnificent colours enchanted the king’s daughter. This was the season the settlers had baptized “Indian summer.”

  Silent, as were all men of the woods, Monsieur de Rouville enjoyed Jeanne’s enthusiasm. He was proud of his adopted country’s beauty and possessive of every tree, every changing aspect of the river they were ascending. At times Jeanne felt he had invented the entire landscape just to present to her as an offering.

  They travelled in short stages, interrupted in the evening by the forays Simon and his men made into the forest. Now, however, Simon would return sooner and slip quietly into the shelter the Limp faithfully constructed for Jeanne. She slept in her husband’s powerful arms or stretched out beside his slender, muscled body, as safe as in her garret in Troyes.

  The muskets were always within reach and the knife was stuck into the ground near their bed of branches. But it wasn’t the weapons that reassured Jeanne. In her husband she felt a strength and a will that left no place for fear. Now she understood Carrot-Top’s declaration: “I’d follow him to the ends of the earth and so would everyone who knows him.”

  The children slept with Gansagonas, who cared for them with silent devotion. The young dog that the Bretonvilles had given Nicolas complicated things in camp.