Hocquart had heard terrible things about Jews all his life, things too terrible to imagine, involving human sacrifice and satanic rituals. Although these were only folk superstitions, their taint attached to anyone suspected of being Jewish, including converts and the children of converts. Furthermore, the Code Noir explicitly prohibited Jewish emigration to New France. Hocquart had asked Esther if she were a Huguenot but it had not occurred to him even once that she might be a Jew. He felt foolish, realizing how many signs he had overlooked: her food aversions; her obsession with reading; her disinclination to attend Mass and, when dragged there on occasion by Marie-Thérèse, her refusal to make her confession; her odd accent; the sense he had that she was hiding a terrible secret. The stress etched prematurely on her face from maintaining a constant vigilance.
He gazed at that familiar olive-skinned face appraisingly. There were no signs of corruption in her dark eyes, nothing more than fear. By contrast, the upward curl of those full lips hinted at a refusal to take anything seriously, even her current predicament. The girl might be odd and unfeminine, she might be a manipulative liar, but he knew in his heart that she was not evil; on the contrary, Esther was, in some peculiar way, his friend.
Hocquart felt an unaccustomed surge of tenderness. His life had been fuller, if more complicated, when Esther Brandeau had lived in his house. Inspired by her tales of distant lands, he had toyed with the idea of applying for another posting himself: the Indies, East and West; Africa; the Pacific Islands. He was still young enough to travel; why should he stay here his whole life, bickering with Beauharnois? Esther had reminded him how vast the globe was and how little of it he had seen so far. And even after he’d forbidden himself the enchantment of her storytelling, he had continued to relish her presence in his library, seeing her lost in thought or reading a book, her legs childishly drawn up under her skirt, her face rapt with pleasure. Sometimes he would pick up a volume she had abandoned when he came in later in the evening, searching the pages for whatever it was that had absorbed her. And it was her voice, soft and thrilling, that he heard in his head as he read the strange words inside. It was her voice that made the world seem so welcoming, so full of possibilities.
Whatever she had run away from must have been truly terrible; knowing that she was Jewish only made him more certain of that. He still had an instinct to protect her, despite everything. He decided that he would insist that she stay here until they were able to determine the truth about this David Brandeau. Surely there must be more than one family with the name “Brandeau” in all of France. It didn’t sound like a Jewish name. Was it? There were perfectly valid reasons for a responsible official to question this new report, and he intended to invoke each one of them.
But it was impossible. Varin loved to gossip. If he had not spread the word already, which was unlikely, he would tell the world soon enough that Esther Brandeau, the girl who had come to New France dressed as a boy, was also a filthy Jew. Hocquart’s reputation would be in jeopardy throughout the colony, which would mean a victory for Beauharnois. He glanced at the younger man’s shining chestnut mane, worn long and tied in back with a black velvet ribbon, and wondered briefly what he did to keep it so healthy. His own hair was already sparse and grey under his itchy white wig. He had never been handsome, never rich. And now that he was old, all he had was his position. Hocquart began to speak, hoping the right words would come to him in time.
“How reliable is this report?”
“It is signed and witnessed.”
“And what of the man himself? Does he have a good reputation?”
“I know nothing of him, I admit, Monsieur Hocquart. But why would anyone lie about losing a daughter?”
“I can think of many reasons. He could have done away with his real daughter and be covering up a murder. He might want an unpaid servant in his home.”
“Clearly you have developed an imagination to rival the girl’s,” Varin sneered.
“I am only eager to see justice done, Monsieur Varin. You would do well to remember that. There are some unsavoury rumours making their way around town about your own shady dealings.”
Varin was taken aback. He had always considered Hocquart a dull administrator, someone to tolerate but never to fear. True, he had come over with the man on the ill-fated Eléphant, and had been repeatedly promoted under his patronage; yet whenever sides had needed to be taken he’d sided with the Marquis de La Boische, who seemed more impressive as an ally and more formidable as an enemy. It had never occurred to him that his flattery of the Governor General might alienate the Intendant, nor that the latter could have any real capacity to do him harm.
“I am only concerned for the reputation of your government, Monsieur Hocquart.”
“As are we all, Monsieur Varin,” Hocquart replied. “So we will take a little longer to investigate these new claims. There will still be plenty of time to send Esther back to Bayonne, if that is indeed where she comes from, before the port freezes over again.”
“But what do you propose to do with her in the meantime?”
Hocquart had no answer to this. Despite his duties as a magistrate and the number of criminals he had condemned to jail for offences less grave than Esther Brandeau’s, he had never felt as responsible for another human being’s fate as he did for hers. And then the solution came to him. It was so obvious that he felt foolish for not having seen it before.
“She shall go to the Ursuline nuns,” he replied, with relief and conviction. “After all, it is their mission to bring converts into the church.”
Esther had stood silently with her head bowed during this exchange, having nothing to say in her own defence: Jews were not allowed in New France, and she no longer had the heart to deny that she was one. For whatever reason, Monsieur Hocquart was prepared to give her another chance to stay. She would take it.
But she was filled with terror at the ordeal that awaited her. All her life she had been threatened with the Inquisition, and here it was at last. There really was no way to avoid Fate; fleeing was another way of running towards it. Wasn’t that what Sophocles had written about King Oedipus? She remembered listening to a heated discussion between her older brothers about the conflict between the will of man and that of the gods in the philosophy of the ancient Greeks. Well, no philosophy would save her now. And no fantastic story she could dream up would change official policy. She could only remain silent, and hope for the best.
***
WHEN ESTHER HAD FIRST seen Marie-Charlotte de Ramezay dite de Saint-Claude de la Croix skating with nonchalant skill on the frozen river, she had been thrilled. It seemed wonderful that, in this country, a woman could rise to a position of such authority and respect. Her reading of the life of Marie de l’Incarnation had only confirmed her gratitude that she had picked New France as the place to start her new life; if other women could be strong and independent here, surely she could too. She had begun to overcome her childhood dread of nuns and started to see them as potential role models: intellectual Amazons travelling places other women were forbidden to go, doing things other women were prevented from doing.
But as she spooned up watery pea soup in the convent dining hall, any fantasy about life among a fearless tribe of scholar-warriors quickly evaporated. Worse than the scanty meals themselves was the fact that they were held in complete silence, broken only by the reading of a chapter of sacred text by an elderly nun who compensated for her deafness by shouting in a hoarse monotone. Listening to her was an ordeal, but no one was permitted to leave the room until the reading was complete, including those nuns who had duties to perform.
Esther herself had no occupation. For four long days she waited for someone to tell her where to go and what to do. She was unsure whether she was even permitted to wander about the building, although she peeked into as many rooms as she could. The convent was vast, a three-storey structure of solid stone with balconies encircling it and many outbuildings, a miniature village of women. As far as she could t
ell, the top floor consisted entirely of cells like hers; even the long-term residents were given no greater material comfort than new arrivals. Above the top floor was a low attic full of drying laundry. The middle floor, by contrast, comprised large rooms bustling with activity. In one of these rooms, a group of nuns were busy embroidering surplices and other decorative cloths for the church with exquisite flowers and gold and silver thread; in another, a class of novices took religious instruction; in yet another, a few very old women were cared for tenderly by their younger and healthier sisters. The lower level held bakeries and kitchens and storehouses of all kinds, and in it another community, this one made up of female servants, was hard at work.
Esther was happiest in the dining hall, not because the food was good — it wasn’t — but because it was properly heated, unlike her room. Though she kept her door open, hoping to receive some warmth from the woodstove burning in the corridor, the cell to which she had been assigned remained frigid. So she spent most of her time in bed, curled up under the covers for warmth. Besides the bed itself, which was fitted with good quality linens and a thick blanket, her other furniture consisted of a plain pine desk and two hard chairs. The room’s only ornament was a wooden crucifix nailed to the wall and the only entertainment it offered was a small volume of the Lives of the Saints, illustrated with woodcuts depicting many ingenious varieties of martyrdom in stark black and white detail. Since she had first learned to read, Esther had taken refuge in literature; denied other books, she resorted to this one.
She first looked up Saint Ursula, wanting to know something about Madame Duplessis’s favourite martyr, the one to whom the convent was dedicated. Esther found to her surprise that, like her, Ursula had preferred literature and travel to more typically feminine pursuits. Despite these similarities, however, Ursula’s example was not encouraging. She had been tortured to death for rejecting marriage and refusing to denounce her faith.
Esther flipped through the book looking for someone whose fate was less dire but found only page after page of horror. Surely the nuns were taunting her? For here was the stuff of her childhood nightmares: the rat-infested dungeons, the burnings with hot coals, the tearing of flesh with pincers, the strappado, the rack, the bonfires of writhing bodies. Image after image depicted the same scenarios that had driven her own people from Spain and Portugal and scattered them across the globe. Clearly the Inquisition had turned to the ancient Romans for guidance on how to torture people. What had been inflicted on Christians then they now, in their turn, inflicted upon Jews.
And she had delivered herself right into their hands.
She would have been better off had she stayed at home. She might have been wretched, but at least she would have been safe. The Jews of Bayonne had Lettres Patents from King Louis himself; they were allowed to live in peace, despised but tolerated, taxed unfairly but unbroken in body or spirit. It was a lively enough place with a varied community of shopkeepers and tradesmen and chocolatiers; the weather was pleasant and the food was consistently good, with more variety of fruits and vegetables than was attainable in Quebec with its short growing season. Remembering her relative comfort back in France, Esther gave in to despair. Her sleep was disrupted by lurid dreams and the daylight hours suffused with longsuppressed loneliness.
If only she had one other book, whether a serious account of a voyage, a romance full of magic and adventure, or even a volume of love poems, she could have lost herself in someone else’s story and shut out the terrible voices that filled her head. Voices reminding her of all the things she was not permitted to do; voices insisting that she was worthless and unwanted; a chorus of voices sneering that it didn’t matter that nobody knew where she was since not one person in the world cared what happened to her. She thought she was about to go mad when a tiny novice no more than sixteen years old, her fair complexion spoiled by acne, arrived to take her to Mother Claude’s office. The girl, trembling with nervousness at such unaccustomed responsibility, whispered to Esther to be polite and only speak when she was spoken to.
“But you have spoken to me, haven’t you?” Esther replied.
The novice was so startled at being addressed that she blushed redder than her pimples and scurried away, leaving Esther to wait alone outside the great lady’s door for another thirty minutes. She presumed this delay was intended to arouse her fear; if so, it had succeeded. Esther paced back and forth, back and forth, trying her best to pray, wishing she believed that prayer would work. But even in this convent, surrounded by the genuinely devout, she doubted that any deity powerful enough to have created the world was interested in the fate of individual creatures. God hadn’t saved those early Christian martyrs, nor those of her own people whose fate had been modelled on theirs. Why, then, would he be inspired to rescue someone as insignificant as Esther Brandeau?
All she could see ahead of her was a life of imprisonment or a painful death. Saint Ursula had been shot with an arrow while her eleven thousand virgin companions were beheaded; Saint Lawrence, after whom the great river of this land was named, had been broiled alive on a griddle. Esther was still debating which of the options awaiting her would be preferable when the door opened with a portentous wailing of hinges, and she was summoned into the mother superior’s presence.
“You are to address me as Mother Claude,” the nun said, the extreme plainness of her face given unfortunate emphasis by the starched white guimpe and bandeau circling it. But under the broad forehead her hazel eyes sparkled with intelligence, and there was no sign of hatred in them. Esther felt relief flood through her. Perhaps martyrdom was not to be her destiny after all. Still, she was determined to hold herself aloof in case the woman’s pleasant smile hid sharp jaws waiting to snap down on her.
“It seems odd that nuns call themselves ‘mothers’ when they have vowed not to have any children.”
“I have heard reports of your insolence,” the nun replied sharply.
“I didn’t mean to be insolent, Mother Claude. Usually when people think I am being rude, I am only making a factual observation.”
“Do not assume you that you understand the meaning of what you see, Esther.”
“Indeed, I understand very little of what I see in this world,” Esther replied wearily.
Mother Claude, thinking the girl looked frightened despite her mask of bravado, decided not to confront her further until she had settled into her new routine. She had many years of experience taming recalcitrant savages; how much more difficult could a French girl be, even a Jewish one? It was true that she had never met a Jew before this, but despite her unfortunate lineage this child was undoubtedly more rational than a Native, and therefore more amenable to true doctrine. Besides, Madame Duplessis had spoken of her fondly and she was no fool.
She sent Esther on her way with a couple of texts to study, and told her that they would meet in one week’s time to discuss what she must do to prove herself worthy of being accepted into the Church.
***
DEPRIVED OF THE SOLACE of literature, conversation, and affection, all of which she had grown accustomed to at Madame Duplessis’s house, Esther sank into melancholy. There was little of interest or variety in convent life. The nuns rose early to pray, ate simply, and then went about their business of civilizing the Natives and proselytizing to the old and sick, leaving her alone to study in her cell when not called to Mass. Despite spending many hours in collective worship, she felt more isolated in a houseful of girls her own age — most of whom were afraid of her, scornful of her, or both — than she had been on the Saint Michel with a crew of rough, adventurous men.
For these reasons, she looked forward to her weekly study sessions with Mother Claude; at least when she was with the mother superior she could participate in an actual dialogue. It was a great relief to be talked to as an intelligent person and not simply condemned as a sinner; to be allowed to ask questions rather than being told to repent. The tough old nun was quite different from anyone else Esther had met in Que
bec. She was not threatened by anything Esther represented because she herself had rejected the customary female roles of subordination and maternity. In her own way, she had achieved as much responsibility as Hocquart and as much influence as Beauharnois, without having to suffer the humiliations of the one or the physical dangers of the other. And not even Varin was so foolish as to try to seduce her or put her in her place.
Varin was wiser in that regard than Esther, who challenged the nun’s religious convictions with stories of distant lands and alternative deities. However, for someone so steeped in myth and symbol, Mother Claude was strangely impervious to the charms of narrative. And despite her intellectual keenness, she was not very curious about the world beyond New France. She claimed to have more than enough to keep her occupied at home, and felt that daydreaming about life elsewhere was a waste of time; almost a sin.
Mother Claude challenged equally Esther’s recalcitrance. She had her memorize the Apostle’s Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Hail Mary, so that Esther could meditate upon the Joyful Mysteries, the Sorrowful Mysteries, and the Glorious Mysteries while telling her rosary. Already familiar with these prayers from her residence with Madame Duplessis, Esther recited them by rote with no expression in her voice, as though reciting a list of items to pick up at the market rather than the central tenets of a religion.
I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
the Creator of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:
Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
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