The King's Daughter (4 page)

Jeanne felt directly concerned for her friend's happiness; that was part of clever Sister Berthelet's plans for adapting the girls to convent life. She gave an older girl the responsibility for a younger incoming one who was lost and in distress. Marie du Voyer's parents had perished in a coach accident, and the eight-year-old orphan, blonde and timid, had been inconsolable.

Jeanne had been eleven years old—tall, sturdy and resourceful. The nun had brought Marie to her and said, “My child, there's someone here who needs you. She will be your little sister. Protect her, for it is in helping others that we know happiness.”

Marie du Voyer blossomed under her new friend's energetic influence. Jostled and stimulated by Jeanne, she gave her the joys of sisterhood in return. The older girl had poured out all the unfulfilled tenderness of her solitary childhood onto that trusting child. Marie's gentleness had often calmed Jeanne, and many times Jeanne's boldness had given Marie courage, as on this departure day.

The sailors bustled about, orders were shouted back and forth, the passengers were excited. It was Sister Bourgeoys's fifth crossing, and she busied herself getting the trunks stored in the narrow, overcrowded cabins.

Jeanne, curious as usual, watched the manoeuvres with fascination. The sailors climbing up the rigging with the agility of monkeys reminded her of her own ascent into the oak tree of her childhood. How distant it was, her chateau in a tree! Somewhere, perhaps, Thierry had found the sailing ship of his dreams. Jeanne, watching as the shore disappeared on the horizon, bade farewell to her childhood and turned resolutely towards the future.

Leaning against the rail, Marie was still crying. Her impatient friend was about to give her a good scolding, when suddenly she stopped. An officer was circulating among the passengers, asking them to return to their cabins to facilitate the manoeuvres.

He approached the tearful young girl. Jeanne saw him bow and offer Marie first his handkerchief, then his arm.

From a distance, she discreetly watched the officer escorting the pretty blonde to the door of her cabin. When he returned to the deck and crossed paths with Jeanne, she noticed that he was young and handsome.

She found her friend Marie sitting on her trunk, hands clasped, eyes shining. Her intuition for romance told her—even before the victims knew—that here was a pair of bashful lovers.

Marie was holding the handkerchief between her fingers. Jeanne teased her gently, “It seems that handkerchiefs are going to play a big role in our lives.”

“Of course, of course, Jeanne,” Marie answered absently. She hadn't heard a thing her friend had said.

5

THE CROSSING
was short for those times: it took forty-one days. Jeanne, forced into idleness and impatient for the future, found it long. But it lasted no more than an instant for Marie du Voyer, who seized every opportunity to appear on deck and chat with her lieutenant.

He was twenty years old and his name was Jean Dauvergne. His father had a business in Quebec, and this was the young man's last crossing as a ship's lieutenant. He was to settle down in New France and take charge of his father's affairs.

With the bemused indulgence of a maiden aunt, Jeanne encouraged these clandestine encounters. She stood guard near the rigging where Marie and Jean would discreetly sit, quietly exchanging the thousand nothings that make up lovers' conversation.

When someone approached, Jeanne would hum a tune, and like a guilty party, the young couple would leap to their feet. Marie would turn to Jeanne, eyes shining, stammering foolish things in a dreamy voice. Meanwhile, the lieutenant would busy himself checking the rigging or would gaze intently at a wave that was exactly like all the others.

Few things escaped Sister Bourgeoys, but if she did discover their secret, she had the discretion not to intervene.

By a stroke of luck both unfortunate and too good to be true, the other king's daughters fell victim to seasickness and didn't leave their dark, poorly ventilated cabins.

The six novices were preparing for their apostolate with seclusion and prayer. They appeared for mass that was celebrated on deck by a travelling priest when weather permitted. Otherwise, they were hardly to be seen.

One day, the look-out reported four sails in the distance. Rumours travel fast in the enclosed world of a ship. Soon all the passengers knew they were English vessels. Because of the state of war between France and England, it was feared these enemies would attempt to pursue and capture them.

The captain thought it his duty to assemble the passengers and announce this eventuality to them. Indignant protests, tears and shouts ensued.

“What will become of us?” asked the worried girls.

Remaining very calm, Sister Bourgeoys said in a loud, lively voice, “If those people capture us, well, then, we'll go to England or Holland and find God there as we would anywhere else.”

Her witty reply reassured the less courageous among the group, and the captain was very glad to have this strong woman on board.

The ships disappeared on the horizon, and the voyage continued with no more of these alarms.

Jeanne, always ready to scrap, had hoped to witness a naval combat. She didn't realize she would have certainly been confined below deck where she would have seen nothing at all. She was almost disappointed to see the danger disappear.

But a different and even more formidable danger took its place.

A mysterious fever struck down five sailors. On an ocean voyage, the threat of an epidemic was to be feared more than the worst tempest. The captain, who knew of Marguerite Bourgeoys's reputation and devotion, relied on her competence. During each of her crossings, the seasoned traveller had rendered innumerable services.

She asked that all the sick be grouped together in the same place. Then she went to see them. Realizing she alone would not be equal to the task, she called the energetic, courageous Jeanne to her side.

The two women spent several days and nights caring for the unfortunate men, wiping the sweat from their feverish brows, making them swallow teas and concoctions of medicinal herbs. Sister Bourgeoys always carried ample supplies of them with her.

After five days of exhausting efforts, the sick men recovered and were declared out of danger—except for one: François Legrand.

The young seventeen-year-old Norman was growing weaker by the hour, and soon he lapsed into a fatal coma. Nothing more could be done for him, and Sister Bourgeoys, worn out by her long vigils, was forced to take some rest. Jeanne had just slept for a few hours, and she replaced her at the dying boy's bedside.

Crouched on a stool by the narrow bunk, the helpless girl watched his gaunt face and listened to his gasping breath. She asked that a lantern be lit in the dark cubbyhole, for she felt herself transported back to that night long ago when her grandfather lay on his deathbed.

Perhaps it was he in the end who hadn't wanted to meet his death in darkness? François must be reassured in the same way, Jeanne reasoned.

As she was putting a damp towel on his feverish forehead, the boy opened his eyes. For the first time in two days, he regained consciousness. With a claw-like hand, he grasped his nurse's fingers.

“Miss, I'm going to die. I'm afraid of dying all alone at sea. I'm afraid.”

“You're not alone, François. I'm right beside you. I won't leave you.”

Gently she led him to recite his act of contrition. The priest had given him last rites a few hours earlier.

Jeanne spoke of the Virgin and God's goodness, as she knew Sister Bourgeoys would have. But the boy didn't let go of her hand, and she could see the terror in his dark eyes.

Then, in a gentle, even voice, Jeanne Chatel told the little sailor from Normandy who didn't want to die the beautiful version of death that her grandfather had handed down to her.

“You'll go to a big garden of dreams where you'll meet all the people you've ever loved in your life. Even your dogs. Did you ever have a dog, François?”

“Yes. When I was a little boy. A big dog with curly hair who used to sleep with me. His name was Miraud.”

“Well, then, François, Miraud is waiting for you and he'll welcome you with a wag of his tail. You'll do everything you liked to do on earth.”

“Will I play my flute?”

Like a trusting child—as Jeanne once had been—François became a willing partner in the game they were playing.

Jeanne was not sure whether Marguerite Bourgeoys or the priest would approve of her own private version of paradise, but if God was good as she believed he was, he wouldn't disappoint a simple, naive sailor. For a long time they plotted in low tones.

Reassured, the dying boy shut his eyes, and a smile played at his pale lips. He was preparing his own paradise. Jeanne prayed beside him, asking her grandfather to take in this poor abandoned child.

“Miss,” François breathed, “look in my trunk. I want to give you a present.”

“That's not necessary,” Jeanne protested, though she was deeply moved. But seeing her patient grow restless, she opened the old trunk that had been pulled next to the bed.

“There at the bottom, in my clean shirt. The Spanish shawl...it's for you. I bought it in port to give to a girl back home, the one I would have married.”

“If you want to tell me her name, I'll send it to her for you.”

François smiled sadly. “She has no name. I haven't chosen her yet. Take it. I'll look down upon you from paradise and I'll think how beautiful you are.”

He fell silent, exhausted, and Jeanne, with her instinctive knowledge of what gives pleasure to others, draped the magnificent red and green flowered shawl over her grey dress. The long silky fringe glistened in the lamplight, and her grey eyes, wet with tears, were soft and tender. François gazed at her for a long time.

Suddenly he squeezed her hand and in a calm voice said, “Goodnight, miss. I'm going now.”

His curly head fell back. Jeanne gently pulled up the sheet to cover his relaxed, peaceful face. “Bon voyage, François. Say hello to my grandfather. And wait for me there, both of you,” she murmured softly.

The next day, before the assembled crew and passengers, the slender body, sewn into a large sail, was cast into the sea. Instead of her usual coif, Jeanne Chatel was wrapped in a gaudy shawl whose iridescent colours stood out from the group's dark clothing. Disapproving eyes turned towards her. But Marguerite Bourgeoys, who had been entrusted with the story, had given her approval with the open-mindedness that put her far ahead of her time.

Under the cold sun of the Atlantic, on that little vessel that was but a tiny dot on the grey ocean, all the lights seemed to gather on the Spanish shawl. Jeanne clasped the gold medal that hung around her neck. She was sure that François Legrand and Honoré Chatel were watching her with pleasure from their paradise. She felt the warmth of their presence all around her; of all the passengers, she alone watched with dry eyes as the waves closed over the corpse of the seventeen-year-old boy.

A few days later, when a rope gave way, pitching two sailors from the main mast, it seemed quite natural to call on Marguerite Bourgeoys and her appointed assistant. With the help of three strong men who held down the injured, the nun reset the broken bones and sewed up the wounds. Pale with compassion, Jeanne helped as best she knew how.

Fighting nausea as she held the unfortunate sailors' heads, she slipped a piece of wood between their clenched teeth in order to muffle their cries of pain.

When the brutal surgery was over and the sailors were finally unconscious and as comfortable as possible, Jeanne ran to the rail of the ship. At last she could succumb to her nausea and sink to her knees. Sister Bourgeoys came to her side and gently offered her a damp cloth to wipe her sweaty face.

“I'm sorry for this weakness,” murmured Jeanne, ashamed.

“On the contrary, my child. You were admirable when you were needed. This is the perfectly human reaction of a sensitive person. Already I can foresee the generous contribution you'll make to our colony. It's souls like yours that we need the most.”

“I'm not very adept at prayer,” admitted Jeanne frankly.

“You're a good girl. You'll help others. That will be your way of praying. Some people's devotion is more useful than others'. You will be one of those.”

Sister Bourgeoys retired, leaving Jeanne to contemplate the surging waves and low sky.

Jeanne was happy that someone had confidence in her at last. If it wasn't for her enthusiasm and natural light-heartedness, she would have given in to frustration long ago. With the exception of Sister Berthelet, the good nuns of the congregation had never been entirely satisfied with her efforts. All her life, her character had been unfavourably compared to Marie's gentleness, Anne's piety, Geneviève's industriousness and the modesty of all the others.

Fortunately, ten years of security with her grandfather had given her a store of optimism and a reserve of warmth that had sustained her in the dark hours when the convent routine threatened to crush her spirit.

6

ONE DAY
, the look-out sighted land at last. The travellers were a little disappointed to spot only a thin dark line on the horizon, but soon the ship sailed past the high rocky cliffs of Newfoundland. Then the coast of Nova Scotia paraded before their eyes.

The St. Lawrence narrowed but still appeared gigantic compared to the watercourses of France. Sometimes they rounded a green island set like an emerald in the steel-grey ribbon of the river. The wind brought them the invigorating scent of the pines that bordered the shores and came down right to the banks.

One morning as the passengers on deck were admiring the rocks jutting over the Saguenay River, Sister Bourgeoys took Jeanne to the narrow cabin she shared with five of the novices. With a laugh, the seasoned traveller told her companions that the dark little cubby-hole represented a luxury for her. Indeed, she had already made the crossing on deck, sleeping in the open on the ropes, in the days when she had been too poor to afford a bed on board.