The King's Daughter (10 page)

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.

“Your people can eat and sleep in our common room and Gansagonas will find her compatriots in the kitchen. Come, my dear. I'm going to show you my castle.”

Jeanne had nothing to worry about. Even if she had known all the scandals of the court, her hostess babbled on so much that she would not have been able to tell about a single one. The house was modest, though larger and more comfortable than any Jeanne had seen since she arrived.

“My father is very rich,” Thérèse confided, with no pretense of humility. “He spoils me.”

“You have beautiful furniture,” her visitor was able to get in admiringly.

“Yes, it's true. It took us four years to have everything brought over from France. No doubt they'll feed the next fire the Iroquois set. In the meantime I like to see them here.”

This fatalistic reminder of the constant danger hanging over the isolated forts did not seem to depress the irrepressible Thérèse.

She led her guest into a large, well-lit room dominated by a huge bed. Thanks to her hostess's organizational talent, the king's daughter's trunk had already been taken there. Jeanne gratefully accepted the offer of a hot bath.

Two Indian women brought the water from the kitchen.

An hour later she came downstairs, her hair still damp, curling around her tanned face. A white collar and leather shoes supplemented her outfit.

The meal was sumptuous and gay, more abundant than any she had ever experienced before. The silver plates and crystal glasses made her forget the wilderness outside. The impeccable service provided by the Huron women added an incongruous note to the feast.

Jeanne sat opposite her husband, carefully noting which utensils he used, and picking up the same one in return. Simon, very much at ease, had obviously lived in such luxury before. The conversation revealed new aspects of the Builder's character.

When he realized Jeanne knew nothing about her husband, Hubert decided to enlighten her, despite Simon's meaningful glances.

Simon de Rouville was the eldest son of a rich and important family. Like many adolescents his age, he had joined King Louis XIV's army when he was very young. The impetuous young man had provoked a duel with a relative of the king; unfortunately, he was adroit enough to wound him.

“Immediately afterwards, the young charmer who had caused all the drama showed a deplorable lack of logic and married a third person. Your husband was left brokenhearted, disinherited and exiled. France's loss was the colony's gain.”

When the meal was over, Thérèse took Jeanne to kiss Isabelle and Nicolas goodnight. Glowing with happiness, the children insisted on taking the puppies to bed with them.

Thérèse left the men to enjoy their brandy, and she went to sit at the foot of her guest's bed. It was the time for advice and confidences.

“I would gladly have looked after the children, but I was in France the year of the tragedy. When I returned I was very sick, even if I don't look it now. Since then I've been travelling a great deal with Hubert.”

Obviously quite pleased with the situation, the chatterbox added, “My husband takes me everywhere with him. Of course he's no backwoodsman like Simon...”

“I hope you'll have better luck keeping your husband at home than that poor Aimée did. If he stopped travelling about the country so much, he could be prosperous. You know, you remind me a lot of Aimée.”

Without noticing the pained expression that came over Jeanne's face whenever that hated comparison was made, the thoughtless woman rattled on, “Yes, there really is something of Aimée about you. But you're more alive.”

I should hope so, Jeanne thought, amused in spite of herself at Thérèse's involuntary macabre joke. Her sense of humour made her appreciate all the subtlety of Thérèse's slip of the tongue, but at the same time she was inwardly revolted by it.

Must she always be the pale reflection of another women? Would anyone ever recognize eager, spirited Jeanne behind Aimée's borrowed face?

Finally Thérèse noticed Jeanne stifling a yawn, and left her for the night.

Jeanne was happy to find herself in civilization again. She put on her vast nightdress and, delighted, slipped between the cool sheets. Never before had she slept on a feather mattress. She got up again, climbed onto the foot of her bed and, arms spread, she let herself fall. It was like sinking into a cloud. The candle on the night table cast dancing shadows on the walls.

Forgetting her age and the dignity of her position, like a school girl on vacation, she repeated her little trick. All alone, laughing, drunk with freedom, she got up and let herself sink down. Never again could anyone tell her to be reasonable.

A slight noise made her turn around. Leaning against the closed door, Simon was contemplating her with a surprised look. Jeanne pulled herself up, her cheeks on fire. This big devil of a man had walked in as noiselessly as an Indian and caught her right in the middle of acting childish.

Furious, Jeanne tried to regain a semblance of dignity. “What are you doing here, monsieur?” she asked haughtily.

Simon gave a quiet laugh. “It seems I have come to watch Madame de Rouville frolicking about.”

“Monsieur, I am afraid you may be disappointed with the wife the king sent you.”

With one eyebrow raised sarcastically, he retorted, “I didn't expect anything good from the king. I must say I misjudged him.”

Simon went to the mirror and took off his shirt, the famous leather shirt mended with one long black hair. Again she thought of the French beauty who had been the cause of a duel, his pretty cousin Marie du Voyer whom she'd replaced, and Aimée whose place she was taking. Bitterness filled her.

Why love life so much, why long for love so much, when you're living out someone else's life? She blew out the candle, buried her face in the pillow and burst into tears.

When she sensed Simon's silent presence by the bed, Jeanne burst out between two sobs, “Go away. I hate you. I'm not Aimée and I never will be!”

A few seconds later she heard the door close quietly. Then her tears flowed harder still.

17

THE STOPOVER
in Fort Chambly lasted three days. The first morning Simon appeared before his wife, holding their two muskets.

“Come,” he commanded. “You must learn how to use this weapon.”

He took her behind the fortifications, placed some apples on stakes for targets and began the lesson. As her husband's strong arms held her to direct her fire, Jeanne thought, How he must wish I was Aimée.

She made rapid progress, which seemed to surprise her teacher a great deal. He wasn't expecting very much, she said to herself spitefully.

As they were returning to the fort, Jeanne leading the way, they met the same inquisitive woman who had asked whom the children belonged to that first evening. Deciding, no doubt, that she was entitled to one question a day, she stopped in front of Jeanne.

“Tell me, my dear, what is your name?”

“I am Jeanne Chatel, madame.”

“Jeanne de Rouville,” corrected a mocking voice behind her. She quickly turned around and met her husband's cold eyes.

Very spritely, her words heavy with hidden meaning, she replied, “You're right. I am Jeanne de Rouville. Sometimes I forget.”

The gossip hadn't dared hope for so much. To her great joy, Simon turned on his heels and walked away, whistling to himself.

Sarcasm, thought Jeanne. Two can play that game. It seemed to her that many of their conversations ended with one of them stalking off.

At Jeanne's request, Thérèse introduced her to old Hippolyte, who was known throughout the region for his healing talents. The white-bearded old man reminded Jeanne very much of her extraordinary grandfather—the same inquisitive mind, the same realistic philosophy. There was an immediate understanding between these two very different people. For hours, Jeanne added to her brand-new knowledge of medicine, scribbling precious notes in Sister Bourgeoys's little book.

The healer examined the contents of her sack. He added numerous other plants and roots, and advised her how to find and use them.

“Spruce gum is the best antiseptic and should be gathered during the full moon. Gall from a male bear cures bronchitis in women; only gall from the female can cure men.”

Jeanne was taking the mission entrusted her by Marguerite Bourgeoys very seriously.

That same evening, the last one of their “vacation” in Fort Chambly, the hosts gave a dinner in honour of the newlyweds. If anyone noticed a coldness in their marital relations, they didn't let on.

Thérèse came and knocked on her guest's door.

“Jeanne, you seem to have only dour, dark-coloured dresses. Let me give you one of my sister Nicole's outfits; she's the same size as you. It's time your husband discovered the pretty woman under that nun's frock.”

Blushing but grateful, Jeanne accepted the kind offer. Madame de Bretonville was excited about her own idea and proceeded with the transformation.

Jeanne wondered what role she would play this time as she went down the stairs to greet the guests. Her hair was styled in the latest fashion—at least it had been the fashion two years before in France—very prettily swept up on her head. The blue silk dress, lighter than any material the orphan had ever seen, emphasized her generous bosom and her fine waist. The gold medal gleamed from among the soft folds of a chiffon scarf. She took a step forward, tottering a little on the high heels Thérèse had insisted she wear with the dress. Very proud of her work, Madame de Bretonville followed her guest.

Simon was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He had put on his wedding suit, which lent him a civilized air, despite his dark complexion and overly short hair.

He was talking to Hubert and two officers in uniform when he absent-mindedly looked up. There was the new Jeanne descending the stairs.

Monsieur de Rouville stopped in the middle of a sentence; his mouth fell open. Very pleased with her entrance, Jeanne raised her chin and tried on a coquettish smile for the first time in her life.

I'm one of the ladies of Versailles, she thought, very satisfied with herself. All I need now is to provoke a duel between my impetuous husband and an officer and I'll have my patent letter of nobility. What would my father, the king, have to say about that?

Alas! even coquettes have to watch where they put their elegant little high heels. With a loud scream, Jeanne toppled forward in a spectacular tumble. Her last hour had come. She closed her eyes and thrust her hands out.

Simon leapt forward with unbelievable speed, as swift as a beast of the forest, pushing aside Hubert and his guests. He caught his wife in his outstretched arms, though she was tumbling head first, and managed to break her fall. With trills of sympathy, the startled ladies surrounded the victim, thinking she had fainted.

Pressed against her husband's chest by imprisoning arms, her head buried in his sturdy shoulder, Jeanne trembled uncontrollably. Simon bent over her, concern written on his face. Torn between worry and relief, and impatient, too, at these feminine indispositions, he gave her a little shake.

“Come now, madame, you've been saved. There's no need to panic.”

Unable to speak, Jeanne threw back her head and clung to his wedding suit. Abashed, Simon discovered his wife wasn't crying. Far from it. She was laughing so hard she could scarcely catch her breath.

“My father...the king...my father...the king,” she finally hiccupped.

“She has lost her reason,” the ladies concluded.

Jeanne shook her head, still laughing. Her entrance into high society had been a great success. She met Simon's puzzled green eyes and burst out laughing once more.

Seeing that, her lord and master set her on her feet none too gently, but kept his arm around her waist just for caution's sake. The proud Builder didn't like to be ridiculed, and his sombre expression made that very clear.

Thérèse, the perfect hostess, appeared with a glass of Spanish wine.

“Drink this, Jeanne. There's nothing like it for restoring the equilibrium.”

Madame de Bretonville definitely had the knack of making puns in spite of herself. Whipping the whole agitated group into shape, as was her wont, she went on, “Come, ladies, follow me. Hubert, it's time to go to table. Simon and Jeanne will join us. Drink up, Jeanne, drink up.”

Urged on by this barrage of instructions, the group broke up, leaving the king's daughter and her husband alone. He was still holding her close and, doing as she had been told, Jeanne swallowed the soothing wine in one gulp.

She did not dare raise her eyes to the man who was waiting stiffly at her side. What must Monsieur de Rouville think of that ridiculous scene? If only she had had the presence of mind to feign a swoon. A defenseless woman is forgiven everything.

Simon shook her again, none too gently. She had given him a fright and he held that against her.

He whispered angrily, “You silly fool. Don't you even know how to walk down a flight of stairs?”