Bride of New France

by Suzanne Desrochers

  The Savage speaks in his strange language with some French words mixed in. He indicates the ceremony going on in front of them and begins counting something out on his fingers. Laure thinks he is lamenting how many people from his nation have died. He nods his chin toward the women from the Notre-Dame congregation, as if to suggest that Laure belongs with them and should be standing closer to them. She shakes her head. She wants him to go away, to leave her alone with her grief.

  He tells her that his name is Deskaheh. He says that it is an Iroquois name but that he is an Algonquin. He waits for her to introduce herself. Instead, Laure points at the body and says, “Madeleine.” Deskaheh does the same for the man painted in red. Laure doesn’t understand what he utters as the old man’s name.

  She wants to tell this Savage that there was also Mireille, a girl in France who had died, that although she hadn’t really liked her, she hadn’t wanted her to die. Laure also feels like saying that she is still grieving for an old wealthy Madame who had been kind and taught her many things. And if she were to look even further down into her well of grief, she could tell him about her father and mother, who might both be dead by now as well. She could say that she still hears her father singing a song meant for a little girl and that it is a cruel trick of the mind to remember this melody after all this time. But she imagines this Savage could keep going with this game too. Laure doubts that this is his first funeral. She imagines that the scars on his face are just the beginning of his story.

  Mathurin notices the Savage talking to Laure. He makes his way over to them, swaggering as he walks. Laure doesn’t know which of these men disgusts her more. They both smell terrible, in different ways, and speak to her when they have no business doing so.

  “She wasn’t sent all the way here to spend her time talking with Savages,” Mathurin says when he reaches them.

  Judging by the puzzled look on Deskaheh’s face, he doesn’t understand all of Mathurin’s words, but the tone is clear enough.

  “Malade!” he exclaims, justifying why he has come over to Laure’s side.

  But Mathurin takes Deskaheh’s word as an insult. His full cheeks fill with blood and he raises his shoulders, taking a step toward Deskaheh, who backs up.

  Laure moves between the two. She doesn’t want to attract the attention of the others at the funeral. But Mathurin has already raised his fist and is swinging it at Deskaheh in the direction of Laure’s head.

  Deskaheh pushes Laure hard to the side, and she falls onto her hands in the dirt, her dress spreading around her like a wave. The cry she makes on hitting the ground interrupts the funeral. She sees that the Algonquins look surprised to see that Deskaheh has thrown a French woman to the ground. Mathurin takes the opportunity to once again swing his fist at Deskaheh. This time his knuckles connect with Deskaheh’s nose. Blood spurts from it. Laure scrambles back, away from the fighting men, but not before several bright spatters of Deskaheh’s blood land on her skirt.

  The nurse from the Hôtel-Dieu rushes away from the quieted priest and his followers. Laure wants to say something as the soldiers yank the two men to their feet, to explain what really happened. But before she can open her mouth, the nurse has given her a new dose of laudanum.

  That evening, when Laure awakens back in the alcove of the Congrégation Notre-Dame, she asks for a candle and a paper and ink. It seems there is nothing these women won’t do to protect her, with their kind words, the medicine and arms they extend to her. One of the sisters brings the requested items to Laure. The same woman also returns Laure’s dress, saying they got most of the bloodstains out. Laure holds the skirt over the candlelight. The spatters are faded and brown.

  “It’s a lovely dress,” the nun says. “You can hardly see that the stains are there. Nobody will look that closely.”

  That is a lie. Laure can see nothing but the traces of blood when she looks at the skirt. She runs her fingers over them.

  There is a small desk in the room. The young sister who brought Laure the ink and paper says she cannot write herself. She asks if she can stay and watch while Laure composes the letter. Laure is at least glad that she has permission to write here. She doesn’t have to hide, like she did at the Salpêtrière, waiting for a few minutes at the end of the sewing day to copy down the sentence she had been rehearsing for hours in her mind.

  From what Laure has seen so far, Ville-Marie is a desperate enterprise of constant war against the Iroquois Savages, of soldiers being allocated pieces of the forest, of trading animal pelts for survival. The men’s greedy fantasies of becoming wealthy are quickly replaced by an endless routine of chopping wood and fighting off insects. Most of the men give up and return to France. Only the crazed or truly desperate stay on. Laure hates it already and wants to leave. But for now she is glad that although she is only an orphan from the Hôpital Général de Paris, she has been given a candle and space on a desk to write.

  Laure dips the pen in ink. She is still thinking of the funeral, of the Savage man who told her his name. She doesn’t have anyone she can send a letter to, so she writes to Madeleine, who is dead but still Laure’s best and only friend. Besides, Laure has learned that it is probably better not to write a letter to a living person. In her experience words on paper are best kept secret.

  July 1669

  Dear Madeleine,

  It is the day of your funeral. I have been given my own room. I suppose I am the Queen of the New World now. From the window I can see my dominion, a garden below and endless countryside beyond. Only my subjects are wild beasts, such as the raccoon, the beaver, the fox, the marten, and a countless number of forest birds. My prince is a soldier who looks like a pig. He defended my honour and saved me from a Savage who is Iroquois and Algonquin, both a friend and an enemy.

  As it turns out, we were sent here for nothing. Most of the men want nothing to do with the women from the Salpêtrière. They are being forced into marriages when they are perfectly content to run through the forests in search of furs and Savage girls. They don’t really want to settle down here and build homes and villages, towns in the forest. Most of them just want to leave, to return to Old France.

  There is nothing I want more than to be able to blow out this candle and be back in the Sainte-Claire dormitory. To hear the morning bell, to see you kneeling at your cot, to eat what little there is. To know that nothing comes of complaining. To feel like you do, that a nourished body is nothing compared to a nourished soul. To be happy to wait. I am sorry for all that I have ruined. I am not worthy of your forgiveness.

  Your friend,

  Laure Beauséjour

  Part Three

  Ces filles de France purent s’apprivoiser au cheval et au canot; apprendre à préparer le pot-au-feu du pays, à faire la lessive à la rivière, à coudre ou à raccommoder, à filer et à tisser laine et lin, à tenir un ménage, à élever des enfants; surtout, s’habituer à vivre avec la peur des Indiens et à surmonter cette peur.

  [These daughters of France became accustomed to the horse and the canoe; they learned to prepare stews with whatever meat was available, to do their laundry at the river, to sew and mend, to spin and weave wool and flax, to manage a household, to raise children; but mostly, they learned to live with the fear of the Indians and to overcome that fear.]

  —MARIE-LOUISE BEAUDOIN,

  LES PREMIÈRES ET LES FILLES DU ROI À VILLE-MARIE

  15

  Laure sits in the congregation’s garden. She likes to spend her time here, away from the others. Ever since the funeral, she has been given permission to stay alone in the alcove, away from the dormitory where the other girls sleep. There is no denying the kindness of the Mère Bourgeoys and her two novices, Marie Raisin and Anne Hiou. Even Madame Crolo, who is called the “donkey of the house” because she works incessantly like the most brutish servant woman, is gentle enough. Although the congregation women are dedicated to housing the women from France and preparing them for husbands, their main occupation is teaching the Savage
and French girls of the colony. Some of these young girls, orphaned perhaps, are boarding at the congregation. In addition, the building is used for signing marriage contracts, for teaching religion to old women on Sundays, and for laying out the bodies of the dead on the night before the funeral.

  Laure meets the wealthy praying girl, Jeanne Le Ber, at the congregation. She is seven years old and already knows that she wants a life of prayer and mortification of the flesh. Although her dowry is valued at fifty thousand écus and she has suitors from Ville-Marie all the way down the river to Québec and across the sea to Old France, the little girl vows she will remain a virgin. Laure recognizes the stubborn set of Jeanne Le Ber’s lips and knows that she will never marry, even though others tell her she is only a child and she has her whole life ahead and a fortune to manage.

  Sometimes Jeanne sits with Laure and confesses the troubles in her heart. Some children are born into old age, is what Marguerite Bourgeoys says. The little girl tells Laure that she has only baby brothers and no sisters. She says that her parents do not like her spending so much time at Marguerite Bourgeoys’ congregation and at the Hôtel-Dieu chapel, but these are the places she enjoys. Her father says that a young girl can’t possibly spend the whole day praying like an old woman, but Jeanne says that she is content to do so. Her father plans to send her away to the Ursulines in Québec, where she will get away from these strange rituals and learn what is expected of her.

  Besides her prayers, Jeanne enjoys learning needlework. Laure recognizes in the child the quick fingers, long and lean, of an expert seamstress. She stitches religious scenes onto fabric and gives her work to Marguerite Bourgeoys or to the Hospitalières at the Hôtel-Dieu. Laure cannot help but think that such talent and a fortune besides are wasted on this melancholic creature. Jeanne refuses to put on the dresses of fine material from France that her mother lays out for her each morning. Instead she wears a plain linen dress like the Salpêtrière uniform that Laure was so eager to shed.

  Some days Jeanne’s mother can be heard sobbing in the company of Marguerite Bourgeoys. “Ma petite fille, she whips her perfect white flesh until ugly welts appear. She refuses to eat and grows so thin. How can I watch my only daughter, the child I caressed and rubbed with ointment, that I handled with such careful hands, inflict wounds upon herself ?”

  Marguerite Bourgeoys is a practical woman who says that the best devotion comes through hard work and serving others, that scrubbing floors sends prayers straight to heaven. She doesn’t know what to tell the family of Jeanne Le Ber. She can only do for this wealthy child what she does for all the girls under her care. She encourages Jeanne to grow humble through hard work, to carry pails of water, to light fires and to keep wood burning, to prepare the meats and vegetables for the daily meals. In this way eventually the little girl will be ready to marry someone and to manage a household. But Jeanne wants only to stare at walls, to kneel before the altar, to read her prayer book, and to stitch religious motifs. She is not interested in hard work.

  Of course Jeanne is not like the other girls of the congregation, as she has with her at all times an attendant, her cousin Anna Barroy. This woman is boisterous and plump and concerned with practical affairs. She is the one who encourages Jeanne to eat and who coaxes her up from her knees when too many hours have passed.

  The filles à marier think that Jeanne Le Ber is a foolish girl and they ignore her presence. It is only Laure who sees something familiar in her. For this little child has in her the piousness of Madeleine Fabrecque, the wealth and status of Mireille Langlois, and the same stubborn heart that beats in Laure’s chest. She will become a saint, devoting her entire life to worship, just as she says, and nobody, not her parents, not even Marguerite Bourgeoys, will convince her otherwise.

  Unlike most religious orders, the Filles de la Congrégation, as they are called, are free to travel about the countryside. Laure wonders how these women could have left behind prosperous lives in Old France to come to this colony. Marie Raisin confessed to her that she misses the literature and music, as if Laure knew of these things at the Salpêtrière. She doesn’t bother to tell Marie that she has eaten her first meat in several years here at the congregation.

  So far Laure’s circumstances have been more comfortable in the colony. It is the first time she has had her own room. How strange it feels to wake up alone in a bed and to look up at the sloping attic ceiling and out the tiny window streaming in light meant only for her eyes. During the day, Laure has also been excused from joining the other filles à marier in their lessons in the congregation’s workshop. They are learning to do things Laure already knows, like how to knit wool socks and sew cotton shirts for their future husbands. Laure would rather be outside in the heat than inside listening to the congregation women go on about what great wives the peasant girls will make. The other girls don’t really mind that Laure has special permission to be in the garden, as most of them spent their time in Old France outside in the fields and are happy now to be able to keep their skin away from the sun. They would prefer to learn to sew, as many of them were accustomed only to brute outdoor work. To excuse her absence, the nuns tell the others that Laure will soon be well enough to join them. She doesn’t feel sick at all.

  This is the first garden Laure has been in. In Paris, only wealthy women like the Superior at the Salpêtrière had gardens. Even Madame d’Aulnay didn’t have her own garden. Laure sits on the soil between the rows of vegetables and herbs and lifts her face to the sun, imagining that she is back in France and that this plot of land is her very own. After a moment, she shakes herself out of her reverie and sets about her routine of looking after the crops the way Mère Bourgeoys instructed her.

  She stands up to check the height of the cornstalks, then she walks through the rows of tomatoes and beans, making sure there is no evidence of an animal having slid under the fence in the night. Using both hands, Laure yanks the tough weeds from the soil between the plants and tosses them to the side. She crouches down at the strawberries and picks a few to eat.

  When she looks up, Laure is surprised to see that Deskaheh is kneeling behind the fence with one of the other Savages from the funeral. She wonders how long they’ve been there watching her. They laugh when she notices them. Deskaheh’s nose is bruised and swollen, which makes him look even uglier than before. But his grin is youthful and relaxed. He sticks his hand through the fence, and Laure jumps back. Both of the boys laugh.

  The girls have been told not to give food directly to the Savages who beg outside the congregation. Donations first have to receive the approval of the Mère Bourgeoys. Laure knows that Deskaheh and his companion would be chased away by one of the nuns. They are troublemakers and not true beggars, who wear baggy white shirts like the French fur traders.

  But Laure feels she needs to repay this Deskaheh who was kind to her at the funeral. After all, he was only concerned about her health. Mathurin should not have punched him. Laure picks two tomatoes from a stalk and hands one to each of them. Deskaheh looks at the fruit in his hand and exchanges a few words with his companion. They drop the tomatoes into their sacks. Deskaheh sticks his hand through the fence again. Laure walks down the rows of the garden, filling her hands first with strawberries, then with beans. Each time her arms are full, she brings what she has picked to the fence. She is careful not to touch the hands of the Savages when she passes the food to them. She even brings them a pile of lettuce leaves. Deskaheh’s companion shakes his head at the offering and throws the leaves on the ground.

  Laure makes a round of the entire garden, filling both their bags. When she has finished, Deskaheh sticks his hand through the fence once again. He is assessing her with the same look she received from the Duke and the Tailleur Brissault. He is still grinning. His friend pushes at the fence and motions for Laure to follow them. Together they speak in a Savage language, probably Algonquin, that Laure doesn’t understand, even though she knows that Deskaheh can say some French words. They examine the differ
ent parts of her body and then discuss this among themselves. She takes a step back.

  Laure sees that they both have knives at their waists, and although Deskaheh is taller, they are both as big as grown men even though they are probably only her age. The fence that separates her from them could easily be scaled. Laure turns away from Deskaheh and his companion and runs toward the house. She trips over her skirt and falls on her knees in the dirt of the garden. The sound of their laughter follows her into the cool entrance of the congregation.

  Laure doesn’t tell anyone about the two Savages she saw outside. The other girls would think her mad for getting close to them. She is angry with herself for letting those boys see her fear. She should have been brave like when she left behind the hospital and walked to Paris to see Mireille. Like when the hospital director visited the workshop and said her dress was unholy, and she held her breath waiting for him to leave, pretending she was a wealthy young woman getting her gown adjusted by the poor residents of the hospital. What can she possibly have to fear in this colony?

  Deskaheh returns to the garden the next day and again on the one after. He comes back with different boys. But none of these boys ever come back without Deskaheh. Each time, Laure fills their bags with corn, tomatoes, beans, raspberries, whatever is ready to be harvested. There is so much food growing in the garden that nobody notices the absence of what she gives them. Deskaheh continues to laugh at her, telling his friends about her in the Algonquin language, but she is no longer afraid.