The King's Daughter

by Suzanne Martel

  Lui y a longtemps que je t’aime,

  Jamais je ne t’oublierai.

  How far it was from the convent to Ville-Marie!

  15

  ON THE FIRST two evenings, the voyageurs put ashore near the charred ruins of small log forts. The canoes were beached and covers stretched over two of the canoes to make a shelter for Jeanne. Some of the men gathered wood and lit a fire. Others went off with their muskets and returned an hour later with game or a small deer.

  It’s hunting heaven, thought Jeanne. Grandfather should have built his paradise here.

  Without a word, her husband disappeared with quick, silent steps, accompanied by a companion and one or two Indians. If he did not judge her worthy of his trust, she would certainly not bother him with any questions, Jeanne decided bitterly.

  Fortunately, thanks to her usual warmth, she did not take long to overcome her travelling companions’ shyness. They were paralyzed with respect for Monsieur de Rouville’s wife. When they saw how lively, how curious she was about everything, ready to laugh at herself and others, these men of few words began to change. Campfire comradeship brought them together.

  They answered her questions in great detail, interrupting each other, offering their knowledge of nature to this simple, natural young French woman.

  A boy of her age, aptly named Carrot-Top, who came from Amiens, seemed to have devoted boundless admiration to Monsieur de Rouville. Jeanne learned some fascinating things from him.

  “I came over on the same boat as the Builder. He was an officer and I was ship’s boy.”

  “Who’s the Builder?”

  “Monsieur de Rouville—I mean your husband. He helped build nearly all the forts in the region. It’s his specialty.”

  In strictest confidence, the boy added, “He was hoping to have this winter in peace at least. But Frontenac, the new governor, gave Cavalier de la Salle the job of building a fort on Lake Ontario for next summer. And as you might expect, de la Salle asked Monsieur de Rouville to get everything ready. The message arrived a week ago, and he was furious. He didn’t cool down for two days. He was expecting you and that obviously wasn’t what he had in mind. It’s a bad set of circumstances.”

  “Couldn’t he refuse?”

  “Well, you see, madame, here in New France you don’t refuse very much. Everybody has to do his share.”

  “And my husband’s share is building forts?”

  “That and chasing the Iroquois. They’re scared to death of Ongue Hegahrahoiotie.”

  Intrigued, Jeanne tried to repeat the strange sounds.

  “That means ‘the man with the piercing eyes.’ The Onondagas gave him that nickname.”

  For an instant Jeanne sympathized with the Iroquois.

  “And you, Carrot-Top, what’s your real name?”

  He blushed and bent his fiery red head, digging his fingers into the pine needles. “Well, I don’t really know. I’m a foundling, like they say. My father...I didn’t have...at least, they don’t know.”

  His voice broke during this incriminating admission. Now the pretty lady wouldn’t look at him anymore, or she’d make fun of him like everybody else did, except for Monsieur de Rouville.

  But Jeanne had inherited her grandfather’s open mind. She repeated the same words her grandfather had used to silence his contemporaries’ ill-natured remarks about illegitimacy: “Carrot-Top, the important thing is that you’re here.”

  A confused expression spread over his freckled face. The boy’s lips moved, repeating her words to himself. Then his face lit up, he raised his head and seemed to shrug a weight from his shoulders.

  “That really is true. The important thing is that I’m here. That really is true.”

  Two minutes later, Mathurin, leaning against a tree trunk, ordered him, “Hey, Carrot-Top, go get another armful of wood.”

  “Go get it yourself, lazy bones,” he answered, standing up to someone for the first time in his life.

  His fists were clenched and his eyes were shining. Since he was strong and seemed determined, Mathurin gave up and went away with a shrug of his shoulders. Carrot-Top shot a triumphant glance at Jeanne; she was smiling. Never again would he be ashamed of his origins. No one would ever use that weapon to take advantage of him again.

  In the evening, Jeanne would slip into her solitary shelter and roll herself up in her cape. She watched the dancing flames and listened to the whispering of the forest where her husband wandered as others would stroll in their garden. There he met friendly Indians, trappers and hunters, and set meetings with them for the spring.

  The campers stood guard around her, sheltering her in the magic circle of their protection.

  The voyageurs must have returned very late, because in spite of her vigilance, she never heard them arrive. At dawn, when she looked towards the glowing embers, she saw her husband and his companions stretched out on the ground. One day, perhaps, would the Builder take time to build his own home?

  Finally the canoes turned around and went upriver. Still close-mouthed, Simon played the role of guide. With his powerful arm he pointed to a cluster of cabins on the shore and announced, “Longueuil!”

  They stopped there for a night. Farther on was the domain of the Percee Islands that had been granted to Pierre Boucher, the author of Jeanne’s bedside book. Unfortunately this busy man was away, and she did not have the pleasure of meeting him to congratulate him on his very interesting work. At noon, accompanied by a fine, stubborn drizzle, the canoes arrived at last at Fort Sorel, at the mouth of the Richelieu.

  The night before, Carrot-Top had proudly explained to Jeanne, “It’s one of the first forts the Builder and I constructed. That was in 1665. The old fort had been burned and Monsieur de Saurel asked your husband to help him. Monsieur de Rouville was still young, but he was already a commander. All the men obeyed him. He was a captain in the militia back then.”

  “But you must have been a child!”

  Carrot-Top was very proud of himself. “I was already twelve years old. I’d been following Monsieur everywhere for two years. He took me off a boat where they were mistreating me. I was strong already and I could do my share. So when he said to me, ‘Come on, Carrot-Top, we’re going to build a fort for Monsieur de Saurel,’ I went. I’d follow him to the ends of the earth and so would everybody who knows him.”

  Not so fast, Jeanne thought, though she kept it to herself. There’s someone here who’d be a little more reluctant. Yet she had to admit bitterly to herself, What do you think you’re doing right now, poor little fool, if you’re not following that man to the ends of the earth?

  The garrison at Fort Sorel gave Monsieur de Rouville and his companions a joyous welcome.

  Standing beside her husband, Jeanne watched him searching for something while he answered the local dignitaries’ questions.

  He finally managed to get away and whisked her off to a little log house nestled against the wall. He walked quickly, and once again Jeanne had to trot along behind him. He stopped at the threshold and rapped sharply on the door. His frown and his black look did not augur well for those who were slow to answer.

  The door opened timidly. Then a fat woman wrapped in a dirty apron appeared, blocking the doorway.

  “Where are they?” Simon asked roughly.

  “I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” mumbled the matron.

  “So I see. Where are they?”

  Reluctantly, the woman stepped aside and pointed to the dirty interior of her miserable cabin.

  “Go in. They’re there. I took good care of them as you...”

  Without bothering to listen to the rest, Simon bent his head and stepped through the low doorway. Jeanne hesitated, then followed him. Two frightened children were waiting, standing by the window. The boy put a protective arm around the little girl. They
were dirty, thin and dressed in rags.

  Without a word, Simon knelt down and examined them. With his finger, he stroked the little girl’s chin and the boy’s tousled hair.

  From the door, an overly sweet voice ordered, “Children, bow to your father.”

  They bowed obediently, without changing their expression. Jeanne, who had lived among orphans, felt her heart fill with pain to see the fear and passivity written on their unhappy faces.

  Simon, still kneeling, turned his anguished face towards her. She read so much distress in his pale eyes that, for the first time, she felt compassion for that proud, hard man.

  In a low voice, he tried to explain, “You see why...you understand why I had to...”

  What she saw and understood was the need to find a new wife for Monsieur de Rouville. A devoted person, anyone at all, to get the children out of that situation as quickly as possible.

  Simon stood up and said suddenly, “Nicolas, Isabelle, this is your new mother.”

  “Hello, ma’am,” murmured the boy. His distrustful green eyes looked up at Jeanne from under a fringe of black hair. He was five years old, but he seemed much younger.

  Isabelle, two years his junior, held out a timid hand to Jeanne. In an unsteady voice, she murmured, “Mama?” as if she were learning a forgotten word all over again.

  Unable to speak, Jeanne dropped to her knees and opened her arms. Compassion melted her reserve, as it had in the past with Sister Berthelet. The children snuggled against her and spontaneously, Jeanne pressed the thin little bodies to her breast. Though they could not have said why, they knew they would never be alone again.

  Simon contemplated the scene a moment and his eyes filled with tears. Then his anger took the upper hand. Enraged, he turned on the terrified shrew.

  “I’m taking them away. Pack their things!”

  “I didn’t have enough food, sir...I had to—”

  “You sold everything? But I paid you more than enough. Never mind. Come, madame. Follow me, Nicolas and Isabelle. We’re leaving.”

  Two little hands held on tightly to the king’s daughter’s fingers. She went out, head high, the two children right on her heels. Monsieur de Rouville brought up the rear, musket in hand. In his eyes all the problems had been solved. He had reunited his family and life was returning to normal.

  His responsibilities as the Builder took over immediately. He was very much in demand. Almost embarrassed, he handed Jeanne a few silver coins.

  “Perhaps you can find them some clothing with this. I have to leave you for the day...I’ll come back at nightfall.”

  Faced with this typically masculine attitude, the young wife shrugged her shoulders. Obviously she would do what was necessary, but a father got off easily.

  All afternoon, she made use of her reserves of energy and her storehouse of persuasion to wash the children, comb their tangled hair and get warm, clean clothes for them. In a country where everything had to be hand-sewn, and where nothing was thrown out that might be saved and made into something else, buying anything new was out of the question. A pair of pants here, a shirt there, stockings somewhere else—little by little she gathered together outfits that were comfortable, even if they did not fit very well.

  The children, dazzled by their new elegance, hardly dared to stir. Isabelle’s blonde curls peeked out from under a pretty blue bonnet, and Nicolas’s straight black hair disappeared under a magnificent fur cap similar to his father’s. In the course of her comings and goings, Jeanne did not neglect to consult the fort’s official “healer.” She was a fine old woman, only too happy to entrust Jeanne with her secrets and give her curative herbs that would add to the medicines provided by Sister Bourgeoys. This slip of a woman could do a world of good with her beautiful smile and her remedies.

  When evening came, Simon found all three of them sitting around a campfire, devouring the rabbits, killed and prepared by the Limp, as if they had been starving to death. The old trapper had known the children since they were in the cradle, and he was touched to see them again. “It was a shame to watch them wasting away with that witch,” he said to Jeanne. “But she was the only woman who would agree to look after them. People here have enough to do with their own brood. Monsieur was worried to death, and he was looking forward to your coming.”

  Unwittingly rubbing salt on the wound, Mathurin added, “It won’t be long before they accept you as their mother. You look enough like her to be her sister. Fate has her ways sometimes, doesn’t she? The very night you arrived, Simon said to me, ‘Limp, it’s as if Aimée came back.’ He’s mighty lucky to have found two like that in one lifetime. Mighty lucky.”

  Monsieur de Rouville took one look at his transformed children and exclaimed, “I hardly recognize them. Madame, you have worked a miracle.”

  Jeanne smiled modestly, holding back all the acid remarks on the tip of her tongue.

  Simon stayed just long enough to get his family settled for the night in the attic of the blacksmith’s house. Then he was off again, leaving Jeanne to sleep with, literally, an armful of children.

  16

  IF THIS YOUNG, inexperienced mother had feared for her children on the canoe trip, her fears were quickly dispelled. Nicolas and Isabelle were true settlers who knew that staying perfectly still was the rule when on the water.

  The little girl stretched out at Jeanne’s feet. For hours she watched the sky without moving, and the rest of the time she slept.

  In a different canoe, Nicolas was also quiet and calm. They were so good they worried Jeanne; at that age she would not have had the same capacity to remain quiet.

  An Indian woman with a pack on her back was standing motionless at the intersection of a little river. At a signal from Simon, Carrot-Top paddled the canoe to the shore, and the woman got in without word. Nicolas gave a shout and raised himself onto his elbows.

  “Gansagonas!”

  “Quiet,” his father immediately ordered. Passively, the child lay down again and fell silent.

  “Who is she?” whispered Jeanne, too intrigued to wait any longer.

  Without turning around, Simon hastily answered under his breath, “The Huron woman who brought them up. They haven’t seen her for a year.”

  The cruelty of this separation and her husband’s callousness made Jeanne indignant. After all, he was depriving the children of the joy of a reunion. Again she had to remind herself that this cruel and threatening world spared only those who respected the laws of silence and prudence. The sooner the children learned these harsh lessons, the greater would be their chances of survival.

  The sun had disappeared behind the tops of the pines when someone called to the voyageurs from the shore.

  “Hey, Rouville! Welcome! We’ve been waiting for you.”

  A new log wall held court in the midst of a clearing: Fort Chambly, erected in 1665 by the same crew that had built the one in Sorel. The Builder, known everywhere, awaited at every stopover, was welcomed with open arms. This time, his good friend Captain Hubert de Bretonville was the official host.

  Simon jumped onto the crude dock and shook the captain’s hand. Then he turned and helped Jeanne, who was always stiff by the end of the day.

  With a proprietary air, Monsieur de Rouville introduced her: “This is my wife, Jeanne. Captain de Bretonville was in the same regiment with me in Europe.”

  “My very best to you, madame. I’ll be pleased to tell you anything you’d like to know about your husband’s wild youth.”

  The captain burst out laughing at the sight of Simon’s sombre face. “Look at him seething, madame. I’ve got him at my mercy and I’m going to take advantage of that to extract all kinds of favours from him. The first one is to have the honour of your presence in my house.”

  “But the children, monsieur,” Jeanne objected, quite at sea.

 
“Of course, the children. Believe me, it’s high time they had a home again. My wife is waiting for all of you at our house.”

  De Bretonville took Jeanne familiarly by the arm and led her through the humble cabins of Chambly. Nicolas and Isabelle ran alongside and clung firmly to her skirt. They had found security, and they weren’t about to let it escape. Though they had kissed Gansagonas, the Huron woman who was following right behind them, even she didn’t make them forget their new mother.

  A few ladies were enjoying the cool of the evening on the steps in front of their open doorways. “Oh, what beautiful children!” exclaimed one of them, full of friendly curiosity. “Are they yours?”

  “Yes, they’re mine,” answered Jeanne instinctively.

  She turned to look at Simon; he had a contented smile on his face.

  Poor Aimée, thought the king’s daughter. How quickly she has been forgotten and replaced. Jeanne held the children’s hands tightly; full of remorse, she felt as if she were robbing a dead woman.

  The arrival at the captain’s house was straight out of Homer. Tiny, plump Thérèse de Bretonville twirled around in a flood of welcoming words. She disposed of everyone in short order.

  “Simon, dear, go into the living room with Hubert. Smoke your awful pipes and have a drink together. You can relive your mad youth. Madame, I’m keeping you here with me. It’s been too long since I’ve talked to a real French woman. This is my sister, Nicole. She’ll look after the children. Come, my darlings, Nicole will give you some dinner and show you our little puppies. They’re adorable, really adorable.”

  Her head spinning, Jeanne didn’t quite know if it was puppies or children under discussion. She was afraid of disappointing this charming lady who obviously thought Madame de Rouville was a woman of the world, full of the latest gossip.

  Thérèse flung one last order over her shoulder to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anyone.