The King's Daughter (2 page)

“You're leaving us? Are you going to those far-off places?”

Anne was crushed and already mourning Jeanne's departure. Geneviève, more practical, consulted the list: “Two lace coifs, six linen caps, a blue wool skirt, a serge skirt, two white linen shirts, two pairs of white stockings, a petersham camisole, a piqué bodice, six cotton handkerchiefs, sheepskin gloves. That's much more than for entering the convent!”

“Obviously.” Jeanne pirouetted, her arms high, her skirt swirling. “I'm crossing the ocean. I'm going to the ends of the earth. Just think. They say that in winter you can't see anything but snow for leagues around. Sister Marguerite Bourgeoys, Mother de Chablais's friend, will come with us to Ville-Marie where she has a school.”

“Whom are you going to marry?” asked Anne anxiously.

“Probably a military man, perhaps a captain.”

“Where will you live?”

“Anywhere but in a convent! In the town or in the garrison fort. Perhaps I am to accompany my husband to the governor's court.”

Geneviève, always the realist, suggested, “And if your husband is a farmer?”

“Then we'll have cows and chickens and all the neighbours will come to visit.”

Nothing could crush Jeanne's optimism.

Timidly Anne asked, “And Lord Villebrand whom you've been waiting for for eight years...what will he say about your departure?”

Jeanne would keep her companions in suspense with impassioned tales of her adventures with the handsome Thierry. He had come alive from one story to the next, so much so that all her confidantes believed in him.

She answered flippantly, “He need only have come before. You can wait for a white horse for eight years. Longer than that is too much.”

“Oh, I thought it was the lord you were waiting for, not the horse,” teased Geneviève. She, too, was going to miss their companion's exciting stories.

A discreet knock at the door interrupted the three friends' conversation. Marie du Voyer, the fourth occupant of the room, stood in the doorway, blonde and blushing, a letter pressed to her heart.

“Jeanne, I'll be leaving with the king's daughters, too, and...” With a trembling hand she held out an envelope to her friend. “I've received an offer of marriage.”

The crumpled yellowed letter, already a year old, had travelled far. It came from Monsieur Simon de Rouville, a distant relative of her father, who had settled in Ville-Marie. His wife and one son had been killed by the Iroquois, and he was left with two young children. He had remembered his cousin's poor orphaned daughter; would she come to New France to be his wife?

“But,” objected Anne, “I thought you wanted to enter the convent...”

“Our Mother Superior thinks, as I do, that my duty is over there,” Marie murmured.

Jeanne put the letter back in the envelope, thinking to herself, Still another whose vocation is a necessity. Poor girl, how unromantic. That Monsieur de Rouville wants a housekeeper and he's making no secret of it.

And in her galloping imagination, she pictured her own very uncertain future: the handsome military man who would command a detachment on the wharf as the boat landed; their eyes would meet...understandingly. Or the gallant lord who would offer her holy water after the service. Their eyes would meet...he would be the one. What difference did it make? Jeanne knew, wanted to know but one thing. Her prison door was opening, the great adventure was beginning.

2

THAT EVENING
as usual, after the prayers were said and the candle blown out, the confabulations began in the attic room. A ray of moonlight silvered the four narrow beds standing side by side.

Jeanne, draped in her voluminous nightdress, went to the window. How she loved the still of the night! In her heart this orphan girl still longed for her almost unfettered youth.

It was on moonlit evenings like this one that her grandfather would take her through Lord Villebrand's woods to set his snares. At his side she had learned not to fear the nocturnal rustlings of the forest and to glide like a shadow through the mysterious trees. The learned man would explain the solar system, the rotation of the earth and the names of the stars.

Before dawn they would return along shadowy paths, hand in hand, the fruit of their larceny tucked away in the game sack. In his fine deep voice, her grandfather would recite one of Villon's poems or Horace's odes. Through the comforting magic of his presence, the night became a friendly refuge. The same magic of their love for one another made the half-charred ruins of the house a happy home for Jeanne, the only one she had known, though the inhabitants of the area maintained it was haunted and avoided it fearfully. Her mother had died when she was born and her father a month later. Honoré Chatel took in his granddaughter, the child of his only son, and brought her to his lair, all that remained of a once prosperous estate adjacent to Lord Villebrand's land.

The Chatel family, who belonged to the gentry, had been dishonoured and ruined by an ancestor who had fallen into disgrace with a spiteful king. The slander of a powerful and jealous neighbour, a Count de Villebrand, had been at the origin of this disaster. Little by little the land, then the personal effects, jewels, books, furniture—everything had been sold. Finally a fire destroyed the house; only its large living room was spared. Jeanne grew up in those dismal surroundings, knowing cold and hunger but surrounded by love. She lived a strange existence, divided between life's harsh realities and the fantastic and imaginary world her grandfather recreated for her through his stories and books.

Jeanne had done the same for her friends, bringing the only fantasy into their ordered, monotonous life, conjuring up for them the magic hours and the legends that had enchanted her childhood.

That evening they learned she was soon to depart. As if to reassure themselves, her friends begged her, as they often did, to “tell us about Thierry.”

Sometimes Jeanne would refuse, regaling them instead with stories of knights drawn straight from her varied repertoire, or with the exciting adventures of the gods of Greek mythology.

But the moon was shining in the Troyes sky, Jeanne was in high spirits, and she agreed to launch into her most beautiful story: the one that was almost true.

“This will be the last time I'll tell it to you. Now we know the ending, and it won't be the one we'd dreamed of.”

Marie, Anne and Geneviève held their breath while their friend collected her thoughts. In a low voice full of mystery, Jeanne began.

“When I climbed to the very top of the big oak tree, I would see the towers of the Villebrand chateau. I knew that there lived the lord whose grandfather had ruined my ancestor. And I used to say to myself that one day I would be the Countess of Villebrand and avenge my family.”

The storyteller's friends shivered deliciously.

“One day, when I was eight years old, I went to steal nuts in the part of the estate that was near our house. To do that, I had to jump over an old stone wall with iron pickets on top.”

“How high was the wall?” asked Geneviève. She had known the answer for years but asked again every time.

“Higher than the convent wall. Too high to get over easily. I had to climb a tree whose branches drooped over the top of the wall. From there I let myself hang from my arms, then I jumped to the ground and rolled.”

The orphans, who were forbidden to go up the stairs two at a time, had unabashed admiration for the storyteller's boldness.

“Weren't you afraid?” Anne asked timidly for the hundredth time.

“Not at all. I'd been doing that since I was six.”

Jeanne was patient with the interruptions; for her companions they were part of the story. She continued, “That time I tried to jump too soon. I was left hanging by my skirt on one of the pickets on the top. I was hanging like a picture on a wall, struggling to get back up, when I heard ferocious barking that was coming closer. I knew there were guard dogs on the Villebrand estate, but they never went far from the chateau, and I'd never seen them near the wall.”

“Were you afraid?” Marie trembled with sympathetic fear.

“I was more afraid of being caught. Going onto an estate without permission is serious. Before I was able to unhook myself, two big angry dogs charged out of the woods and jumped at me, growling.”

Jeanne pictured herself again, bending her knees, kicking her feet to escape the threatening fangs, desperately trying to slip her hand into her pocket.

“Why?” breathed Geneviève, for whom this gesture seemed the ultimate in composure. “What were you looking for in your pocket?”

“The bag of mustard powder that Grandfather always made me carry to protect myself against villains or wild animals.”

Nothing seemed more adventurous to the breathless listeners than this need to be armed against such formidable dangers at the age of eight.

“Would you have really thrown mustard in the dogs' faces?”

“Of course. Especially since one of them had just torn open my calf with its claws. I was terrified. I thought I was done for.”

“And just then...” Geneviève suggested, eyes wide.

“Just then I heard a horse galloping. A voice called out sharply, ‘Sultan, Dragon, come here.' The dogs turned and ran towards their master, tails between their legs.”

“And what about you?”

“I was still hanging by my old skirt that should have torn but wouldn't let go. Blood was running down my foot.”

“And then?”

This was the best part of the story, the one that made their romantic hearts beat faster.

“Then he came towards me. Thierry de Villebrand, the count's son, came to my aid.”

“On his big white horse?”

“On his big white hunting horse. He came over to the wall and took a good long look at me.”

“Was he handsome?” Anne sighed.

“As handsome as the statue of Saint Michael in the chapel. Tall, blond, tanned, dressed in buckskin and leather boots, with his hunting rifle over his shoulder.”

“Was he old?”

That question was essential to the story. Jeanne had been waiting for it before continuing.

“He seemed old to me. He was fifteen.”

“What did he do?”

“He said in a mocking voice, ‘Only foolish little birds get caught in the net.' ”

This unromantic remark nonetheless proved that noblemen are never at a loss for words.

“And what did you say?”

“What could I have said? I waited, hanging there foolishly while he went on laughing. He had very white teeth and his eyes were as blue as the sky.”

Three sighs broke the silence.

Here the story became less enchanting, but only for an unpleasant moment that quickly passed. It seemed to the listeners that the heroine had not been true to her role. But it must not be forgotten that the heroine was Jeanne Chatel, hardly known for her patience.

“I got angry seeing him there, so conceited on his horse. I cried, ‘If you came here just to watch me, you can leave. This is all I'm going to do.'”

Was that any way to talk to a handsome knight?

“Was he insulted?”

“No. But he stopped laughing and asked, ‘Did you hurt yourself?'”

“I said, ‘No, but your dogs hurt me.'”

“He saw the gash on my leg. Immediately he brought his horse very close to the wall, stood up in the stirrups and took me under the arms. He tried to unhook my skirt, but his horse was prancing and he didn't succeed. My old skirt was strong.”

“What did he do?” Anne whispered wildly.

“He took his dagger from his boot and murmured, ‘too bad.' Then he ripped the cloth right to the top and freed me.”

“Did you fall to the ground?”

“No. He had a firm hold on me. I wasn't very big. Don't forget I was only eight years old.”

Alas, they had forgotten!

“He seated me in front of his horse and said to me, ‘I'm going to take you home. You can't walk with your leg like that.' Then he took a big white handkerchief from his pocket, folded it and bent down and put it around my calf that was bleeding and hurt very much.

“Then he prodded his horse into a walk and asked, ‘Where do you live? In the village?'

“I said, ‘No. I'm Jeanne Chatel. I live right by the estate, on the other side of the wall.'

“Since it wasn't his family that had been ruined, he had forgotten the story of the ancestors. He simply said, ‘I'm Thierry de Villebrand.' Then he added, ‘so you're the old recluse's granddaughter?'

“I didn't know what that word meant, but the expression seemed offensive to me. I retorted, ‘My grandfather is an honest man.'

“He replied mockingly, ‘As honest as his granddaughter who climbs walls to steal apples.'

“I was furious. Without thinking, I blurted out, ‘I didn't want apples. I was looking for nuts. There aren't any apples near here.'

“He had a good laugh over my accidental confession. He said, ‘Listen, if you want nuts, don't break your neck climbing over the wall. I'm going to show you a break I discovered when I was young. And near there is a wild apple tree nobody knows about. When I go back to school in Paris, the dogs won't come this way again. Take all the fruit you want and nobody will be the wiser.'”

“He was generous,” Geneviève remarked.

“Perhaps he knew about the story of his ancestor, and he wanted to make up for the injustice,” Anne suggested.

“Perhaps. I didn't ask him. I was happy enough to get out of it so well. He took a crust of bread from his pocket and offered it to me. I was hungry and I ate it. When we rode under the big oak tree I had climbed to see the chateau, Thierry said, ‘When I was little, this tree was my sailing ship. I was her captain. I used to hide here to get away from my tutor. The view is very beautiful up there.'

“Before I knew it, I'd answered, ‘I know. I often climb up there. It's my chateau.'