The King's Daughter

by Suzanne Martel

  The Indians, the voyageurs and the two Sulpician fathers have been paddling for two days, bent under the rain, following the river bank. After Cap Rouge, not a single settlement, except for two isolated farms and the blackened ruins of a third.

  They call me Mademoiselle du Voyer and I answer as if it had always been my name. What will Monsieur Simon de Rouville say when he discovers the hoax? If ever you read these words, it will be because everything has worked out. You will find happiness with your Jean and Monsieur de Rouville will either have accepted or rejected me. I came here as a king’s daughter to marry a settler in New France, and in my heart, deep down in my heart, I knew my beautiful dreams of a proud military man, of a gallant lord or a rich farmer were just that—dreams.

  At least if your own dream becomes reality, then one of us will have succeeded. Here’s my lovely notebook all wet and limp, and the writing almost illegible. It doesn’t matter. I’m not writing to be read, but to feel less alone.

  At another campfire...

  The journey continues between two deserted shores. This river is so wide we often lose sight of the other side. Constantly I think of how disappointed Monsieur de Rouville will be when, instead of the pretty cousin he’s been waiting for, he sees an orphan with her hair pulled back in braids, a pale face and colourless eyes. Even as a governess, am I what he would wish for? And suddenly I realize his choice will involve my whole life, and I’m very afraid, much more than of the Iroquois. Tomorrow we arrive. If the rain stops, perhaps my hair will dry.

  10

  VILLE-MARIE, September 7, 1672

  Dear Marie,

  Your fiancé saw me and I don’t know yet how to interpret his reaction. Here’s what happened. The trip lasted five days, which is very fast, so they told me with great satisfaction.

  The canoe travelled past an island called Sault Normand, then turned abruptly and headed towards the shore. Near the mouth of a little river, I spotted the stockade of a fort. On the left, among the scruffy trees, a few cultivated fields surrounded a chapel and a couple of stone buildings that looked like barns to me; a Sulpician father proudly pointed them out as Mademoiselle Mance’s hospital and Sister Bourgeoys’s Bon-Secours School. Here and there were a few houses, and in the distance was the silhouette of a rounded mountain with a cross on top: Mount Royal.

  When the canoe was about a hundred feet from the bank, all the voyageurs let out loud shouts and waved their paddles. When they heard the noise, the soldiers fired their muskets into the air, the chapel bells began to ring and people—men, women and children—came out of the houses and the woods and rushed down the gentle slope to meet us.

  The voyageurs and Indians beached the canoes and jumped into the water, some of them up to their waists, in spite of the cold. I was ordered to remain seated, and they all lifted the heavy boat and placed it high and dry on the sand. I really did feel like the king’s daughter. One of the voyageurs shouted, “Rouville, here’s your fiancée!”

  From among the villagers waiting on the side, I searched out the pot-bellied old man who would correspond to the image I had of your future husband, ever since I first read his letter.

  A tall slim man came forward, dressed in a coureur de bois fringed shirt. He leaned on his long rifle and gave me a long, silent look. The setting sun kept me from seeing his face but it illuminated mine, which must have already been blushing. He didn’t seem like a very gallant fiancé to me. Perhaps he was disappointed. I had just had time to plunk a cap—probably the wrong way round—on my tousled hair. Camp life doesn’t lend itself to stylishness.

  Nevertheless, a friendly phrase or a word of welcome never costs you anything. Monsieur de Rouville said brusquely, “I will see you this evening at Bon-Secours.” And he turned on his heels and went off to talk to one of Hurons who accompanied us. He spoke with authority, and the others seemed to fear him.

  Fortunately the women made a big fuss over me, questioning me, wanting news of Quebec and France. They inquired after people in the colony and the prices in Europe. Since I was poorly informed about both, I mustn’t have made much of an impression. They took me and my trunk to the school which, as I had guessed, was an old barn. They left me in the hands of a Mademoiselle Catherine Crolo and other assistants of Sister Bourgeoys.

  After a supper that seemed like a banquet, since it featured vegetables and fresh fruit after the rations of the canoe trip and the crossing, I decked myself out in my best finery. Despite all my efforts, the only mirror I found in the school still showed me the same pale face, the same rings around my grey eyes. Fatigue made me look ashen, and I was exhausted and nervous. Tenderly I thought of you and Jean, and your happiness gave me courage.

  When Monsieur de Rouville appeared soon after the meal, he still had his precious firearm. From up close, I found his tanned face rather pleasing. He has regular features, pale, piercing eyes and black hair that he wears short. He seemed very ill at ease and I can’t blame him, since Mademoiselle Crolo took her role as chaperon seriously and didn’t leave us alone for a minute. We sat side by side on the same bench, avoiding looking at each other.

  As his first words, “our” fiancé announced, “If it’s convenient for you, Mademoiselle du Voyer, since we have to leave for my estate before winter, Father Lefebvre, father superior of the seminary, will solemnize our marriage on Friday.” Estate? What estate?

  I felt as though I had to stop a runaway horse. I didn’t know where to begin my protests and explanations. I started with the most urgent.

  “I am not Mademoiselle du Voyer.”

  And in one fell swoop, I explained your story as clearly as I could. His reaction was unexpected.

  “But just the same you’re a king’s daughter, aren’t you? You’re ready to get married on Friday? I must go right away and inform Father Lefebvre of the change of name.”

  He executed a quick bow and, without another word, he fled as if a dragon were chasing him.

  I was wavering between anger and tears when he burst into the room again. “I didn’t hear your real name. What is it?”

  I flung it at him and added spitefully, “You should also know I’m older than you think.”

  He frowned. He was expecting a child of fifteen. In his harsh voice he asked, “Oh? And how old are you then, mademoiselle?”

  I faced him with dignity. “I am eighteen, nearly nineteen.”

  He smiled ironically and said in a mocking voice, “That’s a respectable age indeed. Almost an old maid.”

  Mademoiselle Crolo coughed discreetly. I was furious. Didn’t he see how distressing and false my situation was, and couldn’t he help me instead of mocking me in front of our chaperon? I’m sure that faced with your beauty and gentleness, he would have reacted quite differently.

  And that’s how it is that on Friday I will marry a perfect stranger and go and live in an unknown land with the approval of the father superior and the blessing of the whole colony. I hope you will be happy, Marie. I have the feeling I’m paying for your happiness with mine.

  11

  VILLE-MARIE, September 7, 1672

  Dear Marie,

  I’m finishing this notebook with the pitiable account of my wedding. I will leave it in the hands of Mademoiselle Crolo, and in a year, when we return to Ville-Marie to sell the furs my husband will have trapped during the winter, I will add an epilogue to it. If it is a happy ending, you will receive this notebook by messenger; if it is unhappy, I will burn it and you will think your friend has disappeared into the savage wilderness. You will mourn her a little as you cradle your blond children in your arms.

  For a wedding present my fiancé solemnly handed me...a musket. He made me swear never to part with it. All the men admired it and I was wondering what Mother de Chablais and our companions in the congregation would say about such a present.

  The marriage ceremony was simple and q
uick, as everything is in New France. The groom and the guests left their weapons at the chapel door and picked them up again as they left. They fear the Iroquois even in the town. The groom wore a wool suit and seemed very uncomfortable in his hard shoes.

  At the last minute a substitution had to be made because, so they said, the man who was to act as my husband’s witness hadn’t returned on time from an expedition to Huronia. Instead of Captain de Preux, Simon de Rouville’s school friend and comrade-in-arms, a lieutenant whose name I forget stood up with the groom. Since I knew neither of the two officers in question, I wasn’t the least concerned.

  I held the wildflowers a woman had slipped into my hands in place of a bridal bouquet; I thought I was living a dream.

  After Father Lefebvre asked me the traditional question twice, and my lord gave me an imperious poke with his elbow to call me to order, I murmured yes in a tiny voice. He wasn’t so hesitant. His yes resounded through the church and made me cold all over. It seemed to say, “Obviously I want to marry her; that’s why I’m here. Let’s get all this nonsense over with and let’s get going. I have more urgent things to attend to.”

  It was done. We were husband and wife and I didn’t even know his age or just what colour his eyes were.

  Everybody took my change of name very naturally. From du Voyer, there I was Chatel and the next moment Madame de Rouville. People here don’t care about details. Life is too short and too intense.

  On the chapel steps, as I was being congratulated, three people told me how much I resembled Aimée, Monsieur de Rouville’s first wife. Now I understand why he accepted me so quickly. This resemblance gives him the illusion of taking up his life at the point where it was broken. He was on a hunting trip when the Iroquois burned down his house and killed his wife and son. The Huron servant fled into the forest with the two other children. He blamed himself for not having defended his wife well enough, but by a miracle she has been returned to him thanks to an unfortunate resemblance. Monsieur de Rouville is going to have the extraordinary opportunity to literally reconstruct his life.

  That explains the gift of the musket and also your friend’s discouragement. It wasn’t good enough being a second-hand fiancée; now here I am a replacement wife. We are leaving immediately by canoe for the southern part of the region where my husband has a house, a field and his hunting grounds. On the way we will pick up his two children who are being kept by a family. An old Huron woman who was his first wife’s servant will accompany us. And we will spend the winter (that they say is long and cold) in some far-off part of the forest.

  That all happened this morning. And here I am now back with the congregation nuns, spending the afternoon while my husband makes the final preparations for our departure at dawn tomorrow. Everyone seems to have dispersed immediately after the ceremony, since no one can afford to lose a day’s work, even to attend a wedding supper.

  I found myself back at Bon-Secours with orders to pack up my trunk and keep only what would be useful on the journey tomorrow. At the last minute my lord and master said over his shoulder, “You may also keep some finery, since there will be a dance in our honour tonight. I’ll come get you at eight o’clock.”

  Isn’t that gallant? Am I not spoiled?

  I’m letting myself be carried along by events, indifferent to everything, too much out of my element to have any reactions, too uninformed to nourish hope. What will this winter be like, my first one in New France, with this silent lord, this taciturn Huron woman and the children of Aimée whose place I’m taking? You will know the answer in a year’s time. Adieu, Marie. May God keep us.

  12

  “THERE WILL be a dance in our honour.” Jeanne had a great number of questions about that subject, but Mademoiselle Crolo lived withdrawn from society, and she was unable to enlighten her.

  Jeanne bent over her trunk and searched in vain for some “finery.” All her dresses were grey, and Mother de Chablais’s idea of stylishness was a white coif and matching starched collar.

  Jeanne Chatel had never been one to rack her brains over an unsolvable problem. She took the Spanish shawl and draped it over her shoulders, abandoning the white scarf that was proper attire for any modest woman. She made sure her white cap hid her hair completely. Then she sat down by the hearth to wait for her husband.

  We’re finishing at the beginning, she thought bitterly. He’s taking me to the ball after he married me, and he married me before he knew me.

  Dismayed, the nun objected to the king’s daughter’s style of dress. “A modest girl doesn’t wear garish colours like that.”

  “Mother Crolo, isn’t it my duty to please my husband?”

  “You will please him with your virtues.”

  Jeanne laughed sarcastically. “Then he’ll have to be content with very little.”

  Just then a military officer presented himself at the school door and greeted her courteously.

  “Madame, I am Lieutenant Pierre de Touron. I acted as witness to your marriage. Monsieur de Rouville asked me to escort you to the dance, for he has been delayed by urgent business. He will join us later at the governor’s house. It’s a great honour for me.”

  “What!” Jeanne exclaimed, horrified. “Is the ball taking place at the governor’s house? That’s terrible. I have neither the clothes nor the manners for such a fête. I can’t go.”

  “On the contrary, madame,” protested the gallant soldier, looking approvingly at her well-made figure. The shawl she had wrapped herself in lent some colour to her pale face. “You will be the queen of the ball—and not only because you’ll be the heroine.”

  Never had an orphan heard such a beautiful speech. Tongue-tied for once, she let the young man help her on with her big grey cape, the coat worn by novices and king’s daughters alike. Putting her hand on her escort’s arm—as if she had been used to doing that all her life—Madame de Rouville, head high, stepped out with the handsome officer. That’s the sort of husband she needed: eager, eloquent and obviously overflowing with admiration. They went briskly down the road that led to the fort, and Jeanne noticed two armed soldiers escorting them. In Ville-Marie, you couldn’t even go to a ball without running the risk of meeting danger.

  As Marguerite Bourgeoys’s ward walked along in her uncomfortably new leather shoes, she soon had much more down-to-earth worries. She did not know how to dance and had never in her life attended a social gathering. A good ten times she was tempted to reverse her steps and run back to the refuge offered by the Bon-Secours School, but pride prevented her. She was going to show that Monsieur de Rouville, who was too overworked to pay any attention to his wife on their wedding day! She’d show him that Jeanne Chatel could manage very well by herself!

  The sentinels saluted the couples as they came into the fort enclosure one after another. Pine torches and lanterns lit up the warm night. Near the wall, Monsieur François-Marie Perrot, the governor, haughty and cantankerous, and his scarcely more likeable wife were welcoming their guests. The lieutenant and Jeanne traded deep bows with them.

  Already couples were gaily dancing under the stars in the centre of the regiment’s parade ground. An orchestra composed of three musicians was playing lively melodies. Under a tree, large pots of spruce beer awaited the thirsty guests. Farther along, brandy was served.

  Jeanne was relieved. She had feared a big court ball with all the pomp and traditional ceremony. This boisterous gaiety reassured her a little.

  “Here comes the bride!” shouted the guests, breaking off the saraband. Joyful exclamations greeted this announcement.

  “The bride will open the ball,” proclaimed a noisy, strapping fellow.

  A circle immediately formed around the new arrivals. The musicians tackled a wild rhythm, and the lieutenant, throwing Jeanne’s cape onto a wooden bench, held out his hands to her.

  “I don’t know how to dance,” Jea
nne admitted, embarrassed.

  “Just follow me,” Pierre de Touron reassured her. “Do what I do and nobody will notice a thing. They’re far too busy admiring and envying you.”

  The lieutenant took hold of his partner and led her, in step, across the grounds. Then, grasping her firmly around the waist with both hands, he turned her faster and faster. Jeanne was supple and agile and had a good sense of rhythm. She fell into step almost before she knew it.

  Little by little, other couples began dancing. Light on her feet, a little out of breath, the new bride fairly flew in her partner’s strong arms. Her unusual timidness gave way to the pure joy of life; her bursts of laughter were infectious. She changed partners every other minute and jauntily went from arm to arm. Lieutenant de Touron returned for more than his share, and his saucy compliments made the colour rise in the king’s daughter’s cheeks.

  Her grey eyes sparkled with pleasure. She threw back her head and her brown locks escaped from the modest white cap; recovering their natural shape, they curled into wild ringlets. Her grey skirt swirled, revealing fine ankles wrapped in white trousseau stockings. Jeanne never suspected it, since everyone had always tried to make a modest girl of her, but she could be very pretty when she was full of life—as she was tonight.

  That is what the amazed Monsieur de Rouville realized when he arrived at the party, stern and frowning, his gun slung over his shoulder.

  That gaudy shawl, that wild hair, that abandon on the dance floor—was all this quite fitting for the wife of a worthy and respected lord? And all those sweaty noisy men fighting for the honour of spinning his wife in their arms! The stormy look on his face fell like a cold shower on the gathering.

  The musicians fell silent, the dancers came to rest. But nothing discouraged the sociable fellow who exclaimed, “Here comes the groom. And it’s none too soon. Simon, you must dance with your wife!”