The King's Daughter (17 page)

His very limited patience was exhausted; he had had enough of being a stranger in his own house.

“The oven!” cried Jeanne, her practical nature coming to the fore. “Don't let it cool down. These loaves are ready to go in, and I'll finish off the rest.”

She put the baking sheet with the two rounds of dough into Simon's hands and pushed him towards the door. He shot his friend an irritated glance and went out, grumbling, “I might as well be outside for all I'm contributing to the conversation.”

They heard the oven door slam and his axe furiously attacking the poor innocent logs.

Jeanne kneaded her dough energetically as she chatted with Thierry. Without their realizing it, the years spent thinking of each other had brought them closer together than the few hours they had actually shared.

The evening meal found the Rouvilles together around the table. Good humour reigned once more, thanks to the children's exuberant friendliness. Offering their guest a slice of bread that was still warm, the amateur baker remarked, “I'm returning the crust you gave me long ago.”

They recounted the story of their youthful meetings to Simon. With her usual honesty, Jeanne told the fantastic tale she had spun. Her description of Thierry, as handsome as the statue of Saint Michael, still applied. The modest hero blushed, while his pitiless best friend roared with laughter.

The desperate courage of the orphan who had fought for her freedom had sustained Thierry through many of his ventures. The medal he had retrieved and given to her with so much delicacy of feeling glimmered softly, the symbol of their bond.

Simon watched the young, lively pair joking like childhood friends. He felt old, stern and taciturn. He was convinced that if de Preux had appeared at the church as planned the morning of their wedding, Jeanne would not have said “I do.” Besides, had she not balked at pronouncing the fateful syllable, even in the absence of her handsome knight?

Monsieur de Rouville put on a preoccupied face to hide his distress. The preparations for his departure for Katarakoui demanded all his time. Too often he was forced to leave them alone together, two characters in a love story in which he had no part.

On the third morning after Thierry's arrival, the flotilla of canoes that belonged to the Fort Katarakoui builders stopped in front of the Rouville property.

The Builder was cheered and teased. Everyone greeted Captain de Preux in a friendly way; obviously he was a well-known and respected figure. This intrepid explorer, companion to Cavalier de la Salle, was planning new expeditions that would take him away again for several years.

He confided his ambitions to Jeanne. She shook her head.

“It's your way of finding the sailing ship of your youth. You're going off in search of your dreams.”

“And you, Jeanne, you've found your chateau in the forest of New France. I couldn't wish for a more suitable companion for Simon. Until now he's known more pain than joy in his life.”

“So I understand,” said Jeanne, her face clouding over.

Aimée's pale ghost still floated between the couple. As for Simon, he was adding the more substantial one of Thierry on a white horse.

But when the time for leaving came, that did not keep Monsieur de Rouville from clinging to his wife like a drowning man grasping a floating plank.

The imprint of sadness was on Jeanne's face. Taciturn, Simon was sure that the seductive captain's departure was leaving her inconsolable, despite the happy farewells the two of them had exchanged.

At the cold expression in his pale eyes, Jeanne said to herself, He still hasn't forgiven me for not being his Aimée. Time doesn't heal anything. Quite the opposite. He'll never love me.

Rouville raised his paddle and gave the signal to depart. Long after the last canoe had disappeared, snatches of the voyageurs' song still hung in the air.

Tu as le coeur à rire,

Moi je l'ai-t-à pleurer.

Lui y a longtemps que je t'aime,

Jamais je ne t'oublierai.

“Come, children, we're going to get the ground ready to grow a garden. Nicolas will plant beans and Isabelle corn. We'll have to build a fence to stop Miraud from trampling the plants.”

Life went on. From the very moment Simon left, Jeanne's period of waiting began, and she wanted to fill the time with a thousand different projects.

29

THE FIRST TENDER
shoots broke through the ground in the garden. Jeanne and the children, smeared with bear grease to keep off the blackflies, were waging war against the weeds. The cat and Zeanne, side by side, were sharing the cradle set in the sun.

Sitting at the foot of a tree, Gansagonas was fashioning a shirt and leggings for her mistress like those the coureurs de bois wore. Simon had brought back several deerskins, and Jeanne had requested this outfit to facilitate her comings and goings in the forest, on foot or on snowshoes. Having more than once travelled ten miles weighed down by a soaked skirt was enough to make her prefer comfort to convention.

Suddenly Miraud, hackles raised, burst into fierce barking.

“He smells a stranger,” Nicolas announced.

Jeanne seized her musket leaning against the garden fence and ordered the children to run to the house. Regretting that Mathurin and Anonkade had gone off hunting, she was preparing to barricade herself inside when a call drowned out the dog's furious barking.

A long speech proclaimed in a female voice calmed Gansagonas, who was gathering up her work in haste. She announced, “Algonquins. They come see us.”

These visits sometimes brought wandering bands into the little clearing. The Algonquins were freshly converted Christians who were often starving or ill. Charity dictated that a friendly welcome be given them. Besides, the one great principle of the colony had to be honoured. “You don't refuse very much in New France.”

This time, five emaciated women dressed in rags came towards the cabin. Gansagonas went to meet them and act as interpreter.

Jeanne's heart ached to see such misery. She went into the house and returned with biscuits, raisins and the remains of some smoked eel.

The children came out of hiding, fascinated as always by the novelty of visitors. Nicolas, his wooden gun over his shoulder, put his hand on Miraud's head. The dog's constant growling made his body vibrate as if he were purring.

Isabelle, her long blonde hair cascading to her shoulders, was holding onto Jeanne's skirt and fiercely sucking her thumb. An Algonquin woman smiled broadly. She took hold of one of Isabelle's golden curls, then let go of it again.

In what could have been an expression of thanks, the emaciated women murmured a few soft words and went off into the forest, disappearing with the ease of people of their race. That night they would rejoin their nomadic band, and the next day they would continue their wanderings.

Two days later Nicolas received permission to accompany Mathurin when he went to set his traps. These two good friends—the cripple and the little boy—took Miraud with them; soon he would be made into an excellent hunting dog. Anonkade was visiting his tribe for the summer. Gansagonas, her sack over her shoulder, went in search of ash tree bark from which she made poultices to treat Limp's rheumatism.

Jeanne took advantage of this welcome solitude to try an experiment that had been tempting her since the first warm days. She wanted to bathe and swim in the river. The current wasn't strong in front of the house, and the pure water presented an irresistible attraction.

Dressed in their white cotton shirts, Isabelle and the king's daughter slipped into the cool water, squealing with delight. A strong friendship bound them; for the little girl, this first dip in the river was a lovely sensation. Her adoptive mother washed her beautiful honey-coloured hair. Then, wrapping her snugly in the grey cape, she set her on the river bank where the sun would warm her. Zeanne was sleeping like a good doll in her gentle arms.

Jeanne took her turn diving into the water, remembering the strokes she had practised in the pond in Troyes. In long, lazy movements, she slid away from the bank. She floated on her back, rinsing her loose hair, cradled by the song of the birds and the murmur of the current. She admired the purity of the sky and felt happy despite the memory of that phantom woman. After all, she was strong, vibrant and passionate.

She turned towards the river bank and got her footing. The cape was spread out like a grey cloud, and Zeanne, abandoned, was lying on the sand. Isabelle had disappeared.

Intrigued at first, then displeased, Jeanne called and looked for her, growing more and more frantic. After an hour's search, Jeanne fired three shots, the distress signal that brought Gansagonas and the hunters hurrying back.

Miraud growled, prowling around the cape. After inspecting the area, Mathurin concluded, “Someone has kidnapped the little one.”

Nicolas burst into sobs. Neither the old hunter nor the Huron woman could find any clear tracks.

Discouraged, Jeanne said, “It must be the Algonquin women we fed. One of them was admiring Isabelle. Where can we find them now?”

Gansagonas, still showing no emotion despite the disappearance of the child she adored, spoke in her language. By now Jeanne could understand her very well.

“Anonkade told me a group of nomads camps every summer east of here, near Sault aux Brochets. Perhaps those women are part of that group. I can go parley with them.”

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.