Bride of New France

by Suzanne Desrochers

  “Well, you really don’t have very much here. But whatever belongings you have, we will bring them to our place when you come with the baby.” Madame Tardif is peering into each of the dark corners of the room, searching for anything of value. She runs her hand over the gun on the shelf and kneels before a pile of mangy pelts.

  But when she goes to raise the lid on the chest from the Salpêtrière, Laure cries out with such force that Madame Tardif withdraws her hand as if burned. For inside the wooden box is all that Laure has preserved of herself. These things she will offer her daughter. The chest contains the physical reminders of Laure’s life that will take the place of her mothering arms: Madeleine’s prayer book, Mireille’s yellow dress, and the letters Laure wrote to the ghost of her friend. Of course there may not be anyone among the Algonquins to teach the child to read, and the dress might be cut and refashioned into Savage garments, the letters used to start a fire, but these things are all that Laure can think to give.

  “That belongs to me, from before I met Mathurin.”

  Madame Tardif raises an eyebrow. “We will bring this with the other things to my place tomorrow.”

  When Laure finds her voice it is lower, a growl. For has she not already become a beast, a demon? What is there in this life to make her human? She curses the home of the cruel, insipid woman standing before her. “I would rather be put in prison than to live with you.”

  Madame Tardif crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, but she takes a step back, away from Laure and the baby. “You will feel differently tomorrow.”

  But Laure knows that once she has given away her baby, she will have no use for this woman.

  As promised, Madame Rouillard returns to see Laure two days later. It is night. Laure just about throws herself into the midwife’s arms when she enters the cabin.

  “What is the matter?” she asks. “Is the baby thriving?”

  “Yes, we are both fine, but Madame Tardif is trying to get us to move to her place.”

  Madame Rouillard nods. “Yes, I figured that would happen. I am sorry that I couldn’t stay with you to keep her away, but it seems that every pregnant woman west of the sea has decided to have her baby this week. That is the way it is at certain times.”

  Madame Rouillard sometimes speaks of the particular beliefs and skills of her trade when she is with Laure. She was trained at the Hôtel-Dieu in Paris, the very place where Mireille died, under the tutelage of the famous midwife Louise Bourgeoys. There they studied drawings of the internal anatomy of a pregnant woman’s body and learned the ways to quicken labour, to slow it, to deliver breech babies, to remove babies from their mother’s wombs without severing limbs or causing hemorrhaging.

  But today Madame Rouillard tells Laure how she also learned from priests how to administer the sacrament of baptism. That is what she has come to do today. Midwives are the only women Laure knows who are capable of officiating at a Catholic sacrament. Of course a midwife is only to baptize a child if it is expected to die. Laure’s baby is not about to die. She is large, hungry, and has bright, alert eyes. When she entered the world, her cry travelled beyond the walls of the tiny cabin. Still, Madame Rouillard wants to perform the ceremony.

  “A soul is an important thing to save. I have even on occasion baptized babies whose bodies were dead, impossible to save.”

  Although only living babies are meant to be baptized, it is known that parents and priests implore the saints and especially the Virgin Mary to return life to a dead child for a brief moment so that the sacrament can be administered. For many believe that an unbaptized child is a wandering ghost caught between the golden gates of heaven and the eternal fires of hell. Laure is relieved that Madame Rouillard wishes to administer the sacrament on her child.

  First the midwife covers the table in a white cloth that looks like it belongs on a church altar. Then she removes from her bag a candle, which she lights, a wooden cross, and two vials, one which contains holy water, which she says comes from Venice, and the other oil. Madame Rouillard then fills a pewter bowl with some of the water she obtained from Madame Tardif on the night of the birth. She sprinkles a few drops of the holy water into the bowl as well.

  Laure wraps the baby in white linen. She is relieved to be able to do this one thing for the child whose future is so uncertain. She will be raised in the forest by Savages. Who will teach her to be a Christian, to pray to Jesus and Mary and the angels and saints? Perhaps this one ritual, the blessing of the women who brought her into the world safe and healthy and strong, will be enough to make up for a lifetime of absence. Perhaps because of this one brief ceremony, the Holy Spirit, who is said to enter the souls of babies on their baptism day, will protect her daughter for the rest of her days. The unfortunate creature has no godparents to protect her on earth.

  “What name have you chosen for her?” Madame Rouillard, who is so many things, has now taken on the voice of a priest.

  “I would like to call her Luce.” The name came to Laure as she lay last night between sleep and wakefulness in the darkness of the cabin. The name is Latin for light. The darkness that had threatened to envelop Laure so many times had been somewhat brightened when she held the tiny child against her chest these past nights. The soft form of her baby gave off a glow as strong and constant as the presence of the moon or the stars in the night sky. Besides, Madeleine had loved Sainte Luce. She had been a girl tortured to death in Syracuse during Roman times for refusing to give up her vow of perpetual virginity in the face of an eager suitor. It is fitting that on the feast day of Sainte Luce in December, the winter days begin to grow light again.

  Madame Rouillard nods at the choice of her name. She anoints the baby in oil and asks Laure to lower her head into the bowl of water. “There are no godparents, as such, so we will implore Sainte Luce and Mary to watch over this child when we take her to her new life tomorrow.” Laure also invokes the spirit of Madeleine to watch over her daughter. Already she is being cared for by ghosts.

  When the ceremony is ended, Madame Rouillard puts away the contents of her makeshift altar. When she sees that Laure is frightened, she says to her, “You know, Luce’s life among the Savages may be filled with happiness. I have baptized her more as an added blessing than anything else. In Alsace, where I am from, there are those who believe that there is a special heaven for children and no such thing as children being thrown into hell.” Laure is grateful for Madame Rouillard’s words. For why should her daughter be punished for sins committed by her mother?

  Madame Rouillard is already gathering Laure’s coat and the bag of keepsakes for the baby and placing moccasins on the floor in front of her. They must leave now if they are to make it back by morning.

  By the time the sun rises in Pointe-aux-Trembles, Laure’s baby will be dead. At least that is what they will tell Madame Tardif and the others. Madame Rouillard has promised to take Laure with her to her inn in Ville-Marie. There she will help run the tavern, or assist Madame Rouillard with nearby births while she waits to be married again. Mathurin’s cabin will be left, to be used up by the snow and rain, to be torn down for material, or to be inhabited by another young couple who will try their fortune in the settlement.

  Laure dresses Luce in layers of clothing, taking care to be delicate with her tiny limbs. Then she takes the linen from the baptism and asks Madame Rouillard to use it to tie the baby to her chest. Laure implores any spirit who might be watching over this cabin tonight to forgive her for what she is about to do.

  23

  Madame Rouillard is practical and quick. She is placing the things Madame Tardif had deemed valuable from the cabin, the half-rotted pelts, the gun, a cooking pot, a few utensils, and Laure’s chest, all together in a hasty pile in a corner of the room. She says they can return for these things once the baby is gone. “Best if we get going,” she says, in a voice that is both gentle and firm.

  When Laure holds the baby she once again recalls the tenderness she felt as a
child for her father, who sang gentle songs to her in the Paris nights, the adoration she had for her kind old mistress Madame d’Aulnay, the ties of friendship she had with her friend Madeleine. But all of these feelings are as diluted as the Salpêtrière broth compared to how Laure feels for this new being. Even the summer nights she spent with Deskaheh seem sullied and violent in comparison to this new tenderness. The baby Luce is pure, still untouched by any of life’s dirty stories.

  Laure knows she cannot keep her baby. Madame Rouillard has told her so. It is the only way to save them both. But how can a mother hold her child for the last time? How can Laure tell her breasts to stop their libations? How can she dam up a body that has become liquid? What she is about to do has opened up all the wounds she has ever known. There is a deep and baffling emptiness within her gut.

  When Laure was a child she saw a mother cat in the front of Madame d’Aulnay’s apartment searching every crevice in plaintive tones for her kittens, all drowned. She wishes she could make that sound now.

  It is a late-spring night. The earth is damp, even wet in parts. It is cold. The nights are always cold in this country, even in the summer when the days blaze hot. Laure would never dream of walking outside, along the trails beside the river in the dark. But Madame Rouillard is there up ahead, guiding the way with her torch and her sure feet. This was her idea, after all. Laure owes her life to this woman, but it is hard to muster any gratitude for the gift.

  Laure sings to the baby tied tightly to her chest as they set out into the forest. She is desperate to give Luce the love she felt as a child from her father when he swung her high above his head while they hid from the police in the dirty alleys of Paris. But there is no artefact of her father’s existence that Laure can pass on to her daughter. She has only fragments of the words of his songs, made indelible on her eight-year-old mind, filtered through the years that have passed since then. The words disperse through the chilly air, as insignificant in the forest expanse as the Te Deum she heard when she first arrived in Ville-Marie. Madame Rouillard places her hand on Laure’s arm, calling for silence.

  They enter the forest and the settlement is behind them. By morning Laure will be a childless widow in Pointe-aux-Trembles. The endless trees of Canada are swallowing all traces of her life.

  After several hours of walking, the women reach the spot where they are to meet Deskaheh. It is a clearing on the forest path, a break in the trees. Traders frequently stop here to light a fire, to eat, to rest on their westward journeys to Ville-Marie and beyond.

  Deskaheh is already there, sitting on one of the rocks beside the river. He has brought with him an Algonquin woman. Laure is grateful that it is not the pregnant Savage girl she saw last summer, but a slightly older woman with an unyielding, intelligent face. Madame Rouillard lowers her head and frowns as she appraises this woman. Deskaheh does not look at Laure and the baby, but greets Madame Rouillard in a subdued tone.

  There isn’t much to say in the way of small talk. Only Deskaheh knows how to speak both languages, but he remains quiet. It is important that they act quickly. French children have been kidnapped by Savages before. A few have even grown up among them and can no longer be fully trusted because of it. But Laure has never heard of a woman giving away her baby in this manner. Surely the Governor, and the King and his advisors, would rather she drowned Luce in the river than hand her, strong and healthy, to these people, even if they are allies and some have even learned to pray to the Christian God in their own way.

  The Algonquin woman is the first to break the silence and begins to ask Deskaheh some questions about Laure, which he answers in a whisper. Seeming unimpressed by what the young man has to say, she walks over to Laure and circles around her. She rubs Laure’s neck-length mess of hair between her fingers, looking disgusted all the while. But she seems satisfied with the width of Laure’s shoulders and her straight spine. Laure’s face she examines by placing her hands on each cheek. She pushes Laure’s lip up to see her teeth. Laure holds the baby to her chest while the woman examines her.

  When she has finished, she turns back to Deskaheh and says something to him in their language. Laure imagines the woman is telling him that he has created a child with a beast, a filthy and ugly creature. The Savage women mock the French women who are prisoners in their homes, giving birth to a dozen babies, isolated from the other settlers. The French authorities cannot understand why the Savage men must first confer with the women of their villages before they fight a battle, trade furs, or discuss the Christian religion.

  Of course Laure doesn’t even know what Deskaheh has recounted to this woman about the origins of the child. Perhaps he has said nothing to her about being the father. Maybe he doesn’t even believe it himself. It is Madame Rouillard who has sought out Deskaheh through her contacts in Ville-Marie, who somehow persuaded him to come and get the child and to raise it among his people. “Don’t worry,” the midwife says now. “Luce will fit among the others. Babies are valued more than gold by the Savages. They tell me often that they love all children, not only those they give birth to.”

  Laure emits a sound between a snarl and a whimper when the woman indicates that she wants to take Luce from her arms. She has known that this moment was coming. Still, she could not be prepared. Laure’s agony is sharper than any she has known. Not losing her father, not even Madeleine’s death, could prepare her for this. Only a Jesuit priest about to have his heart ripped from his chest could understand how she feels.

  Madame Rouillard unties the knot at Laure’s back. The tie loosens and Laure takes the freed baby in her arms. Madame Rouillard steadies her as Laure extends the child to the woman, who waits with greedy curiosity. The Algonquin woman first looks at the baby, strips the blanket from her, holds her up to the moonlight, and gestures for Madame Rouillard to bring the torch closer. The Savage woman is dealing with the acquisition of the baby the way she would trade for beads or pots with the French. What kind of life will Luce have with these people?

  It takes all of Laure’s strength to keep from rushing over and covering the baby in the blanket. But she is powerless to protect the child from the cold or from any other unpleasant feelings the future holds. The infant wails and Laure’s chest contracts. Deskaheh’s eyes are tender when he looks at Laure, and even though he is powerless to prevent this older woman from poking and prodding at the child, he tries gently to get her to stop by walking over and touching the baby himself. He looks at Laure with the same eyes he did at Madeleine’s funeral. She wraps her arms around her chest. There is no prayer, not even an animal scream, worth uttering. If God cannot stop this from happening, then who will emerge from the forest to help her?

  The baby is crying loudly, which seems to please the woman, who nods her head at them, shifting her eyes over to Madame Rouillard, whom she obviously takes to be in charge of this exchange. She looks into the bag they have brought, taking out the book and the scrolls of paper. Then she tosses the objects back inside, hands the bag to Deskaheh, and returns to checking the baby. When the strange woman opens her jacket and places Luce on her breast, the baby stops crying. It is her first taste of the milk of her new family. Laure turns away.

  Deskaheh says, “She wonders what you want in return. For the baby.”

  Laure has not expected this question. He is asking them what price they should pay for her daughter. She cannot say a word, such is her grief.

  Madame Rouillard, who has told Laure that she is accustomed to babies entering and leaving the world in far worse situations than this one, is willing to bargain. She has seen the protective eyes of the father and assures Laure once again that this option is the only one they have. She tells Deskaheh that they want two pelts, one of fox, the other mink, and some tobacco as well, just as they agreed. Madame Rouillard tells Laure that she will give Laure these items when they leave. They will be the beginning of her new life.

  New life? The words seem impossible.

  Will Laure add this exchange, giving away
her daughter, to her collection of losses and carry on?

  Madame Rouillard nods. Yes, it will be possible. Tomorrow will dull even this agony.

  Laure is a stone goddess carved by saltwater tears. She is a woman who has managed to cross the ocean without drowning. She has risen from the depths, intact, on new shores. When so many have not, when she has not even really wanted to, she has somehow survived. A living artefact of the absurd dreams of royal men who tear starving girls from their hospital beds and drop them in the frozen woods. Laure’s body is the scroll upon which they write their plans: ten thousand people by 1680 and thousands more after that. The King is offering rewards to the husbands of women who give birth to ten, twelve children and more. More babies will be born here than anywhere else on earth. The villages will grow like cornstalks along the riverbank. The Savages, even the Iroquois, will kneel at the altar of the dozens of churches they will erect in this new world. The ships back to France will be filled with furs and tales of a prosperous new country. So much becomes possible now that French children are being born and raised in a country that for centuries did nothing but starve and mutilate the priests and traders that came down the river.

  Except that Laure’s daughter, the one being held up to the light of the moon, is not the one they want. She is worth less than a wolf skin. This baby brands Laure as a transgressor, a woman who spits in the face of the King’s dreams. She is the one the sailors fear. The one they burn as a witch for fornicating with a Savage enemy, for killing her husband, for giving away her own flesh. Still, who can destroy her, when she is the one who guides the ships, when her gentle waves or foaming wrath decide who makes it to the other side? Whether the precious colony lives or dies.

  Laure remains as long as she can, watching Deskaheh and the woman’s swift retreat down the path. They walk close together, huddling over the baby between them. Finally, once the two are far up ahead, Laure and Madame Rouillard set out. They will go to Ville-Marie first. Madame Rouillard wants Laure to forget her life in Pointe-aux-Trembles. “You are still young,” she says. “You still have time to settle.”