Jeanne sprang immediately into action, “I’m going with you, Gansagonas. Limp and Nicolas will stay here.”
Unfortunately Mathurin could no longer undertake long expeditions; otherwise he would have already been on his way.
Gansagonas raised her hand. “My brother also told me those people detest palefaces because of a quarrel over hunting grounds. You’ll be running a big risk by going to see them.”
“If I don’t go to see them, Gansagonas, I’ll never be able to sleep in peace again.”
This reasoning was enough to convince Gansagonas. The two women made their preparations for the journey immediately, and soon they had disappeared into the forest. Jeanne carried her musket, more out of habit than conviction. What good was one gun against a hostile tribe? She knew about the peace treaties the Algonquins had signed with the whites. But up to what point was a wandering band, obviously outside the law, restrained by the commitments made by its chiefs? They could very well do away with her, an intruder, then disappear themselves into the depths of the forest.
Sometimes the renegades would not hesitate to take trusting allies prisoner, only to trade them to the Iroquois for weapons or supplies. None of these considerations slowed Jeanne’s determined pace. If there was one chance in a thousand of finding Isabelle, she had to take it.
The next day, after a few hours of rest taken in the pitch-black night, the two women reached the top of a hill. From there they overlooked a clearly temporary village of bark tents.
Despite her knowledge of the woods, Gansagonas had lost much time getting her bearings, since the Algonquins had changed their campsite.
No sentinel raised the alarm. Was the camp poorly guarded, or were visitors expected and already announced?
Gansagonas studied the Indians’ comings and goings at length. Not one of the five women who had visited the Rouvilles was to be seen. Neither was there a little blonde girl in sight. Suddenly an Indian woman emerged from a shelter.
Gansagonas pointed at her. “That one came.”
That was all the proof Jeanne needed.
Surrounded by four of his men, a chief was sitting in front of the biggest tent. With her guide Gansagonas, Jeanne had coolly discussed the best way to proceed as they walked through the forest. Her plan of action was set. Gansagonas silently withdrew and disappeared into the forest.
Jeanne leaned her useless musket against a tree and reached into her game sack. She took out the Spanish shawl, her most splendid ornament, and put it around her shoulders over the grey dress that had been mended at least a hundred times. Resolutely, she untied her long hair and let it spread over her back like a provocation. Then, with a firm step, she started down the hill, singing Simon’s favourite tune in a strong, clear voice:
À la claire fontaine
M’en allant promener...
She walked between the rough tents without seeing them; they were but dancing images before her eyes. In the silence pulsating with sunlight, only her song rang out, like a challenge. Was that a muffled cry she had heard coming from one of the shelters?
Her head high, Jeanne de Rouville stopped in front of the chief, crossed her arms over her chest and waited calmly in silence.
Piercing eyes, their expression impenetrable, stared out at her coldly. With an imperceptible nod of his head, the Algonquin indicated she could speak.
Jeanne raised her hand as she had seen Simon do when he began a dialogue with the Indians. At the same time a quick prayer ran through her mind: “Grandfather, Mother Berthelet, François, ask God to give me inspiration.”
First she questioned, “Does the great chief of the Algonquins speak my language?”
A sound that could have been interpreted in a thousand different ways was her answer. She boldly chose to believe it was an assent.
She went on, “A woman of your tribe had no daughter. A woman of your tribe chose mine and tore her from my arms. Since then, that woman is happy, but my daughter and I have felt our hearts break. Could you in your wisdom allow a branch to be torn from a tree, then let both the tree and the branch die from it? I made my nest at the edge of the river. There I nurtured my young. One of them has been taken from me, and now the sun shines for me no more.”
The words flowed, abundant and flowery, from her lips. She surprised herself with her own eloquence. Yet her listeners’ impassive expressions filled her with doubt. Perhaps they did not understand a word she was saying. All her rhetoric might have been spent to absolutely no end. But what did it matter? Her firm voice and lively gestures kept them in suspense. If loquacity was needed to save Isabelle, then nothing would stop the flow of words from her mother. The storyteller plumbed her repertory for all the legends, all the situations in which parents have a joyful reunion with their lost children. No analogy with nature escaped her.
“Daughterly feelings, flesh of my flesh, comfort of my old age, star of my nights, fire that warms me—” she used them all. In one part of her mind the irrepressible Jeanne believed she could see her three protectors in Heaven engaged in quick consultations, spelling each other off to furnish her with ideas. She sprinkled her speech with songs, sayings and bit of poetry.
The sun was setting, and the chill of the evening made her shiver. Her lips were dry and her throat tight. Fires had been lit, but she did not dare turn her head to inspect the camp. Her eyes did not leave those of the Algonquin chief. Vaguely she felt a circle of spectators form around her. For five hours her voice did not falter and her trembling legs miraculously supported her. She recited a poem she had learned in the orphanage that had surfaced from deep in her unconscious:
There is nothing sweeter, nothing sweeter
than a mother,
But for, but for her child.
Abruptly Jeanne fell silent, unable to say another word. With her flair for drama, she took the colourful shawl from her shoulders. Stretching out her arms, she let it fall at the chief’s feet, where it lay in a shimmering pile like an offering of light.
Dressed in grey, her head bare, her hands open before her, she waited. She had given all the courage and love she possessed; she had no more left.
A lengthy silence held sway over the gathering. You would have to know the Indians’ soul to understand the extraordinary effect of the spectacle they had just witnessed. Even those who did not understand French had followed the drama.
The chief raised his hand and gave an order, looking over Jeanne’s shoulder. As she turned around slowly, the circle of Algonquins opened to make room for a skinny woman who was leading Isabelle by the hand.
Without a word, the mother and the daughter reached out and held each other in an embrace only death could break.
The woman who had stolen the child stood motionless. At a signal from the chief, she seized the beautiful shawl meant for an unknown fiancée. François from on high could hardly blame his benefactress.
Clutching the trembling child to her breast, the “little Rouville lady” walked through the village, looking neither to the right nor to the left. In a joyful voice she sang her war song:
Sur la plus haute branche
Le rossignol chantait...
She squeezed Isabelle in her arms, and the child added her frail little out-of-tune voice to her mother’s. The entire village watched silently as they slowly climbed the hill. Soon the sound of the French song faded into the night.
No one followed them. Gansagonas loomed like a shadow from the trees. She was carrying the musket and the game sack, and preceded them through the dark forest.
Jeanne moved like a sleepwalker, suffocating the little girl in an embrace worthy of Simon. Tears of tension and fatigue rolled down her cheeks.
“Why are you crying, Mama? Aren’t you happy to see me?” Isabelle asked timidly.
Jeanne kissed her blonde head fervently. With a gentle laugh she
explained, “I’m crying out of happiness. Later on you’ll discover that crying is the greatest sign of happiness.”
30
A FAMILIAR whistle pierced the silence. Jeanne put down the basket of beans she was picking and ran towards the river. Her heart was pounding and, as in the past, she pressed both hands to her chest.
A canoe was approaching, and a friendly arm waved a paddle. A stentorian voice set the echoes rolling.
“Hey, Rouville, I’ve got some news!”
In one agile movement, the voyageur stopped his canoe near the river bank. He had a magnificent reddish-brown beard. Jeanne recognized Charron the trapper, her old paddling teacher.
“Bonjour, monsieur. My husband isn’t here. He’s spending the summer at Katarakoui. But you’re welcome anyway.”
“Greetings, little lady. Rouville isn’t here? That’s unfortunate. He’s running the risk of having what he’d call ‘misunderstandings’ if he doesn’t go to Ville-Marie as soon as possible.”
While his hostess served him a meal of cold meat and strawberry pie, Charron explained the situation.
Frontenac had just issued an edict requiring all trappers to obtain permits to trade in furs. The governor was afraid of smuggling and illegal dealings. He was attempting to protect his interests and those of France, if not those of the settlers.
“Perrot, the governor of Montreal, has to send the list of applications to Quebec by the end of the month. If Rouville doesn’t sign up, he’ll lose all his rights. And since Perrot and he often have...‘misunderstandings’ about the governor’s fraudulent little dealings with the Indians...well! He’ll have a good opportunity to settle a grudge.”
Jeanne was shattered. She knew that despite his resolutions to cultivate the land, Simon was above all a man of the woods. Besides, after his forced absence during the summer, only another winter of taking furs would enable him to build up his pocketbook again.
For an hour she questioned her talkative visitor. His belly full, flattered by the attention she gave his every word, the good trapper provided her with all the information she needed.
Towards the end of the afternoon, he left with the Indian who was escorting him. He said he would be paddling up to Lake Champlain, and would come back via the Rouvilles’ when he returned in six days.
“I’m supposed to go up to Ville-Marie with a group of fellows who are applying for permits. I’m making the rounds to let them know, since the decision was so sudden. The governor is going to catch a lot of them by surprise.”
François-Marie Perrot, disliked by the coureurs de bois because of his arrogance and dishonesty, was going to take advantage of the edict to get his revenge on some of them.
“Don’t forget to stop for a meal on the way back,” urged Jeanne, in keeping with the rules of hospitality.
“Simon’s damned lucky,” muttered the trapper as he waved goodbye to her.
Six days later, faithful to their meeting, Charron paddled swiftly towards the shore. Unceremoniously, he had invited his friends to share in the invitation. Seven canoes containing ten hunters and four Hurons advanced upon the little beach.
No smoke came from the chimney. The precious window was boarded up and the door closed. Immediately on the alert, the voyageurs grabbed their guns.
A clear voice hailed them from the forest and a boy appeared, musket in hand, a sack over his shoulder.
“Hey, Charron! The Rouvilles have gone to visit the Bibeaus who are marrying off their daughter. My sister asked me to apologize for her.”
“Your sister?” asked Charron, looking over the slender boy from head to foot. As he was, the boy was dressed in a fringed suit, and his short brown hair was sticking out from under an enormous fur cap. His grey eyes stared right back at the trapper as he inspected him.
“You do resemble her...but you’re not as pretty.”
Briskly, the young man continued, “I’m Jean Chatel. And I’d like to go down to Ville-Marie with you.”
Curious, the voyageurs came closer. Some of them dug into their pockets and pulled out some pemmican, since the invitation to dinner was no longer forthcoming.
Charron spit, scratched his reddish-brown beard and asked, “What do you want to do in Ville-Marie?”
“Sign a trading contract, of course,” came the insolent voice.
A general outburst of laughter greeted this statement. Gibes were heard from all sides.
“If babies start at it, there’s going to be a shortage of game.”
“You have to have a beard to get a permit. It’s one of Frontenac’s rules.”
“How old are you, Junior?” Charron asked the disappointed young Chatel.
The boy stood up straight again. “Thirteen. Soon I’ll be fourteen. I can paddle and set traps. I won’t get in your way.”
“Good, then get in. And to prove your usefulness, you’re the one who’s going to soak your moccasins pushing the canoes into the water.”
Amid laughter and rough jokes, poor Jean, sweating and red in the face, braced himself with all his might to launch the bark boats one by one into the water. The soft sand at that spot in the river allowed the voyageurs to beach the canoes without any danger of staving in the bottoms.
Sitting in the centre of the canoe paddled by Charron and a Huron, the boy, soaked to his thighs, caught his breath and watched the Rouville house disappear around the bend in the river.
If Simon could see me now, thought Jeanne, taking off the fur cap she’d borrowed from Nicolas. Despite the heat, every man wore one, almost as a symbol of his profession. She shook out her short hair and felt the bite of the sun and the mosquitoes on her bare neck.
After all, perhaps it was better if her husband did not see her. That way he would retain a few illusions about the femininity of the king’s daughter he had fallen heir to.
For the first time in her life, Jeanne felt as if she were on holiday. The children were safe at the Bibeaus’ house with Limp and Gansagonas. She had told everyone she had to miss the wedding to help deliver a baby. Returning home alone, she had proceeded with her transformation. Her beautiful brown hair, sacrificed for a good cause, was hidden in her trousseau chest.
The suit Gansagonas had made her was very comfortable; the tight binding squeezing her proud bosom was much less so. By taking off the belt she wore low on her hips, she could spare herself the torture, since the shirt hung loosely around her.
By the time I get to Ville-Marie I’ll be bent over for good, especially if I have to keep my shoulders hunched even when I’m paddling.
Meanwhile, the river sparkled like a pathway of diamonds, and the echo of that joyful song rang out:
À la claire fontaine
M’en allant promener...
Suddenly she felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair. The couplet that the paddlers were noisily singing was much naughtier and racier than any she had heard before.
Jeanne chuckled to herself. That was only the first of the problems her escapade would present. Charron would have certainly agreed to take Madame de Rouville along, but the presence of a woman would have embarrassed the other coureurs de bois, most of them misogynists. All the same, she felt that Carrot-Top and Limp accepted her. All at once, the truth came to her.
A wife accompanied by her husband was not a real person, but just a pale reflection, a creature without substance who existed only because someone had given her his name. For these rough men, a woman anywhere else but in her house was a burden, an unnecessary risk, an inevitable responsibility.
Her eyes full of fire, the little Rouville lady swore that very instant never again to play that self-effacing role. Too bad for Simon and his restrictive illusions, and the devil with the timid, submissive and sweetly transparent wife. Jeanne Chatel would be recognized for what she was or sent back, bag and baggage, to the
king.
In the meantime, the audacious Jean Chatel, the boy who was accompanying the coureurs de bois, quickly discovered that strength alone made the laws in this primitive society.
“Jean, go find some wood.”
“Junior, bring some water.”
“Hey, Junior! Bring some more water, you shirker.”
Very much in demand from all sides, Junior, dead tired and furious, became everybody’s servant. They made him pay dearly for the favour of travelling with the men. It was the whole story of the overly submissive Carrot-Top all over again.
Jeanne was quite determined not to give these hard men any reason to justify their opinions about weak women. At every stop she went right to work. She was spared some tasks, thanks to tricks inspired by her indignation.
The first evening, after forcing her to gather the makings, they gave her the responsibility of building the fire. Unaccustomed to that type of chore, she smoked up the entire camp by burning green branches on purpose. She was then relieved of that responsibility. Charron gave her an old hunting knife and handed her the partridges to clean and pluck. Then he put her in charge of watching the pot in which the fowl she had prepared were simmering. All this time, the lazy men were lounging around, shouting instructions at her.
They take me for a slave, she thought spitefully.
She let the supper burn and got off with eating pemmican and spending an hour cleaning the charred disaster off the bottom of the pot. They never gave her that job again.
Later that evening, on the pretext that she needed a lot of sleep, she slipped under Charron’s canoe and went to sleep, rolled up in an old blanket that Simon had abandoned. That way she avoided the coarse campfire jokes that had Junior as their butt.
Curious in spite of it all, she lent an ear to the tales of the coureurs de bois. She found that these rough men respected Simon for his experience, authority and great bravery.
Charron, the indiscreet gossip, had guessed that Monsieur de Rouville’s first wife had been more of an ordeal than a consolation, always afraid, tearful and dissatisfied.
The King's Daughter Page 14