The King's Daughter (16 page)

Gansagonas declared confidentially that no one had ever laughed or sung in the Rouville house before. The lord's first wife was always sad and the house silent.

In her bed, Jeanne thought bitterly that that fact had not stopped Simon from loving Aimée forever. If their future happiness depended on her own silence, then it wouldn't last for long.

26

MARCH BROUGHT
milder weather. A few tardy snow showers attempted to bring back winter, but spring was in the air.

One morning the ice of the Richelieu settled with a loud crack. It was the famous “break-up.” The river was always among the first to become navigable because of its boiling current.

Two days later, a long, piercing whistle announced Simon's arrival well before the canoes appeared around the bend in the river.

Miraud, who suspected all strangers, got his hackles up and sounded the alarm. The children jumped up and down on the shore. Limp waved his arms and shouted in his falsetto voice. Choking with emotion, Jeanne bounded towards the riverbank without even thinking of putting on her cape. Carried away by her impulsiveness, she had forgotten all reticence.

The sight of Simon's familiar figure and the resounding call of his strong voice quickened her blood. His pale eyes set in a thinner face sought her out, ignoring all else.

Leaving the heavily laden canoe to the Hurons who were paddling it, he jumped into the icy water and came closer, arms outstretched.

Nicolas and Isabelle did not doubt for a moment this accolade was for them. They rushed to him with squeals of delight. For the first time in his life, Simon was being received with a show of welcome. He knelt and clasped his children to his heart. Above their heads, he looked into his pretty wife's fresh, smiling face; her eyes were full of tenderness.

Immediately the familiar demon whispered in Jeanne's ear: “It's Aimée he's coming back for.” An icy chill filled her and, without her realizing it, spread to her overly expressive face. A shiver travelled through her.

Simon leaped to his feet and encircled her with authoritarian arms. As always, he did not measure his strength and she suffocated in his embrace.

Reclaiming his rights, as if she had been unable to think for herself during his absence, he scolded, “You're not dressed for walking around in the snow. Let's go inside right now.”

He did not want to be too demonstrative while his mocking comrades and the Indians with their politely impassive faces were looking on. He had not realized his impetuosity had already betrayed him.

Monsieur de Rouville left Mathurin and Carrot-Top to organize the unloading of his rare possessions and many bundles of furs, and he went up to the cabin, whose chimney was sending out a brave stream of smoke. A ray of sunlight made their unique and magnificent two-foot square window, the pride of the family, shine in all its glory.

Miraud at their heels, the four Rouvilles went into their house, and the door closed behind them. Two minutes later, it opened again and Simon was seen pushing Nicolas and Isabelle outside; he had just given them a message as urgent as it was useless to pass on to Carrot-Top. Even Miraud and the cat found themselves ignominiously chased outside.

The plank that barricaded the door fell firmly into place. Alone at last, Simon turned to his wife and whirled her around in the narrow room. His exuberance always brought the walls that enclosed him dangerously near. Any house became too small when he walked in, carrying with him the forest and the wide open spaces.

“Jeanne, Jeanne,” he murmured into her hair. She listened, untrusting, awaiting the error that would betray him. And yet how much she wanted to abandon herself and know happiness with no restrictions!

27

FOR TWO WEEKS
a frenzy of activity had the cabin in an uproar. Monsieur de Rouville felled trees and enlarged his estate, aided by Mathurin and Carrot-Top.

Unfortunately, when the month of April rolled around, he would have to leave again for Katarakoui, near Lake Ontario, to help his friend Cavalier de la Salle construct a fort for Governor Frontenac. The Builder's reputation laid some heavy responsibilities on him.

Limp and the Carrot-Top from Amiens were happy to be together again, and all day long they squabbled in a friendly way.

“Our Carrot-Top has changed all of a sudden,” Simon confided to his wife. “He stands up to everyone, gets into more fights than a wolverine and doesn't take orders from anyone but me anymore. He talks about you with an exasperating reverence. Since this winter he's been a new man. I don't know what's got into him.

“In all honesty,” Simon concluded, “it makes life more difficult, but in my heart I'm happy for him. He was a good fellow, but too timid and self-effacing.”

“What” had gotten into the boy was careful not to reveal her part in the emancipation of her husband's protégé. A simple liberating remark had accomplished what ten years of his boss's affectionate joking had not been able to: “The important thing Carrot-Top, is that you are here.”

If only Jeanne could solve her own dilemma with one sentence!

Simon often spoke of his friend who was to come and join him for the voyage to Lake Katarakoui.

“De Preux is returning from a long expedition in the north with La Salle. The three of us have already been on several trips together.”

Jeanne sensed the regret that rang through Simon's voice, despite his attempts to hide it. It is not easy to give up the intoxication of freedom; she knew something about that herself.

Suddenly he raised his head, abandoning the bench he was building. His wife had asked for it to replace the uncomfortable log on the doorstep.

“Now that I think about it, Jeanne, de Preux is one of your compatriots. He told me he comes from Troyes. Perhaps you know him?”

A son of the nobility, Simon seemed unable to conceive of the solitary existence of an outlaw's granddaughter or of an orphan locked away in a cloister. Patiently Jeanne explained her background again and concluded, “I don't know any family by that name. I lived a very sheltered existence. Nobody ever fought a duel over me.”

Simon set to work again with a very busy look. His wife's tongue was dangerously sharp lately.

Limp and his young colleague shared the little hut by the water. Gansagonas returned to her rustic shelter and the children climbed up to their loft every evening. Existence resumed its course, as if the master's brief stays were the real slices of life and all the rest, the long months of absence, were simply interludes of waiting.

Jeanne asked Simon to build her an oven outside, since she had learned to make bread on one of her healing expeditions. Several of her “clients” had given her flour, more precious than gold.

Monsieur de Rouville greeted the tales of Jeanne's cures with a grain of salt. The image of the weak, resourceless woman was hard to shake off; his first marriage had conditioned him to believe in it.

So one night he accompanied Jeanne, “just to protect her,” when she went off with two sinister-looking individuals. Their elderly father had had his leg crushed under a tree he was cutting down. They moved rapidly along the barely visible paths. Rouville, carrying Sister Bourgeoys's sack, could not get over seeing his wife, wearing moccasins, her musket over her shoulder, keeping up that rapid pace mile after mile.

The operation took place amidst a chorus of the victim's yells and his aged wife's wailings. As soon as Simon's strength was no longer needed to hold down the patient, he rushed outside, pale and vomiting. Jeanne remembered her own reaction on board ship when she first tended an injured man; she went outside to offer Simon encouragement and give her verdict.

“The poor old man won't walk straight, but at least he'll live.”

Simon was angry at his own weakness.

“I didn't hesitate when I had to put Limp's bones back in place. But seeing you sewing with your white thread in all that massacre turned my stomach. You're so calm and reassuring. There've been plenty of times when I would have appreciated your care.”

“Like when you got that cut on your back?”

Was her innocent question going to lead him to confess about that beautiful long-haired Indian woman?

Not at all suspicious, Simon nodded. “That time, among others. You would have had a gentler hand than Carrot-Top. He treated me by spreading gunpowder in the wound and burning it.”

“Oh, and who repaired your shirt?”

“Gansagonas did when I returned. Did you notice how she did it? She sews with her hair.”

Now Jeanne was ashamed of her suspicions. After a few hours' rest, the Rouvilles set out for home. Overflowing with gratitude, the injured man's family insisted on giving them a present. To Simon's great amusement, Jeanne asked the eldest boy, a blacksmith, to make her a door for her bread oven.

In the meantime, before he brought her this much-deserved gift, the blacksmith gave her a pair of tongs to add to the rudimentary instruments in her medical bag.

28

THE SNOW STILL
covered the ground, but the warm April sun was melting more of it every day.

“It smells like spring,” said Limp. And with delight Jeanne discovered that short magical season in New France, when the air is light, and winter and summer wage open war before the amazed eyes of those who know how to watch for it.

They tapped the maple trees, and the sap ran into the bark containers. Gansagonas and Jeanne boiled it for a long time on big fires tended by the men. When the liquid had evaporated in a scented steam, maple sugar remained. They would lay in a supply for the year.

The procedures were interrupted from time to time by the children and even the coureurs de bois who begged for the pleasure of tasting the toffee poured onto the snow and rolled on sticks. Gansagonas frowned at the waste of the raw material.

With a wooden spoon, Jeanne stirred the delicious mixture which would boil furiously until one-twentieth of its initial volume remained. Her cheeks were ablaze, her hair curled from the steam and the tip of her tongue stuck out in her concentration.

Simon watched her indulgently, then consulted Nicolas in all seriousness.

“Look at your mother standing over her cauldron. I wonder if she's a witch or a fairy. What do you think?”

Without a moment's hesitation, Nicolas replied, “She's a witch. They're much more fun than fairies. They fly around on brooms like Mama's. They can cast spells.”

“If you're talking about casting spells, you're right. Your mother is a witch.”

With April came the buds and the bustling activity of the birds building their nests. Kneading dough on the table, Jeanne listened nostalgically to the joyful songs.

“They're looking forward to a summer together, and we're preparing for another separation.”

Her hands white with precious flour, she was hoping the bread wouldn't be as heavy this time as it was the first time. After that failure, at the sight of her disappointment and impatience at having gone to so much trouble for nothing, her teasing husband had declared sententiously, “An oven door doesn't necessarily make good bread...and neither does the healer.”

He took his leave diplomatically as she threw him a furious look followed by a vengeful remark. “Maybe your oven is defective.”

That morning Simon was cutting wood as he whistled, heating the famous oven white-hot in readiness for baking. Suddenly jovial shouts and cries of welcome announced a visitor.

“We would have to have a visitor right now,” thought Jeanne, striking the elastic dough with her fist. Two loaves of bread were finishing rising near the hearth.

The door slammed noisily against the wall. Simon declared happily, “Jeanne, we have a guest.”

A tall figure stopped on the threshold. Blue eyes met Jeanne's and she stood stock-still, her breath taken away.

Almost in spite of herself, she murmured, “Thierry. You're Thierry de Villebrand.”

Perplexed, the man stared at her lengthily. In his memory he saw a child's face, then he, too, exclaimed, “It's the foolish little bird from Troyes.”

They examined each other, still incredulous, and warm smiles spread over their faces.

A mocking voice intervened. “Is it necessary to introduce you?”

Jeanne held out her right hand covered in flour, while with her left she instinctively gripped the gold medal hanging around her neck.

De Preux, transfixed, kissed her outstretched hand. He turned to Simon. “You've married my foolish little bird with the mustard.”

“Come now, be polite,” scolded Rouville, frowning. The cavalier attitude of his friend, always so courteous, offended him, and he was ready to defend his wife's honour. Simon had been eager to introduce his new wife to his best friend. Now he had the feeling he was an intruder in this astonishing reunion.

Thierry de Villebrand and Jeanne Chatel, their hands clasped, gazed into each other's eyes without a word.

“Aren't you Count Villebrand?” Jeanne asked, baffled. “And what about your lovely chateau?”

“My oldest brother inherited the title and the estate. Younger sons often go far away to seek their fortunes and drop names that are too cumbersome.”

What would Anne, Geneviève and Marie say about this unexpected twist in their favourite story? Jeanne wondered, laughing. Caught up in the trap of her own legend, she asked, “What happened to your white horse?”

“I replaced it with a bark canoe.”

Very naturally, they sat down facing each other on either side of the table, the dough waiting before them.

Thierry asked a question that left Simon completely flabbergasted. “Do you still keep mustard in your pocket?”

“How are your eyes?” replied Jeanne with a lack of logic that left her husband feeling lost.

“I can't stand anything with mustard in it. Do you still have a chateau in an oak tree?”

Simon, his hands on his hips, exploded, “Enough. I've been listening to you two. You're speaking my language but I can't understand a thing you're saying. Are you going to explain your code to me or should I go back and chop more wood?”