The King's Daughter (6 page)

Jeanne read the words swimming there before her eyes, doing her best to conceal the trembling of her voice.

Dear Madame:

This letter is to inform Mademoiselle Marie du Voyer of an urgent situation. Her fiancé, Monsieur de Rouville, needs her in Ville-Marie immediately, due to the lateness of the season. A group of travellers, accompanied by two Sulpician priests and two women, will leave tomorrow at dawn by canoe, and Mademoiselle du Voyer is granted permission to accompany them. In Ville-Marie, she will take up residence at the Bon-Secours School, where all arrangements have been made for her marriage to Monsieur de Rouville. He most definitely wishes to reach his lands before winter sets in. Wishing Mademoiselle du Voyer all possible happiness in her saintly destiny, I place her under the protection of Notre Dame du Bon-Secours.

The usual greetings and the founder's signature followed.

Jeanne was shattered. Just then the door opened and Marie came in, eyes shining. To preserve the spell she was under, she went past her friend without a word. Wishing her good night with a little wave of her hand, she climbed the steep stairway that led to the attic where the girls slept. With a lover's selfishness, she fell asleep to dream of her happiness, not realizing it had just collapsed.

Jeanne went to the doorway and saw the motionless form of the Indian waiting by the steps. As before when she believed her friends were in danger, just as instinctively, just as rapidly, her resolution took shape. She turned to Widow Myrand who, candle in hand, was hoping that all her excited boarders would finally solve their problems and let her go to bed.

“Madame Myrand, if you can help me pull my trunk over near the door, this Indian will help me take it out. And if you would leave me the candle and give me something to write with, you can go to bed and I won't wake you when I leave at dawn.”

“Oh?” said the widow, not very interested. “So you're Mademoiselle du Voyer?”

“Yes, I am,” said Jeanne calmly. “And my fiancé is waiting for me in Ville-Marie.”

9

ON THE BANKS
of the St. Lawrence, September, 1672

Dear Marie,

I'm writing flat on my stomach on the soaking wet ground. I'm using the notebook Sister Bourgeoys gave me on board ship for the first time to record my spiritual thoughts. I'm supposed to be dry under a canvas sheet that a Sulpician father and one of the voyageurs gallantly stretched from some poles and baptized a shelter. The rain drips from the leaves and everything I touch, eat or breathe is wet. The Indians have managed to light a fire that is smoking between two rocks, and their skin glistens with a red glow. They gave me some kind of food called pemmican that's both greasy and hard. The women mentioned in Mademoiselle Bourgeoys's letter are two Hurons as silent as their men.

The Indians, the voyageurs and the two Sulpician fathers have been paddling for two days, bent under the rain, following the river bank. After Cap Rouge, not a single settlement, except for two isolated farms and the blackened ruins of a third.

They call me Mademoiselle du Voyer and I answer as if it had always been my name. What will Monsieur Simon de Rouville say when he discovers the hoax? If ever you read these words, it will be because everything has worked out. You will find happiness with your Jean and Monsieur de Rouville will either have accepted or rejected me. I came here as a king's daughter to marry a settler in New France, and in my heart, deep down in my heart, I knew my beautiful dreams of a proud military man, of a gallant lord or a rich farmer were just that—dreams.

At least if your own dream becomes reality, then one of us will have succeeded. Here's my lovely notebook all wet and limp, and the writing almost illegible. It doesn't matter. I'm not writing to be read, but to feel less alone.

At another campfire...

The journey continues between two deserted shores. This river is so wide we often lose sight of the other side. Constantly I think of how disappointed Monsieur de Rouville will be when, instead of the pretty cousin he's been waiting for, he sees an orphan with her hair pulled back in braids, a pale face and colourless eyes. Even as a governess, am I what he would wish for? And suddenly I realize his choice will involve my whole life, and I'm very afraid, much more than of the Iroquois. Tomorrow we arrive. If the rain stops, perhaps my hair will dry.

10

VILLE-MARIE
, September 7, 1672

Dear Marie,

Your fiancé saw me and I don't know yet how to interpret his reaction. Here's what happened. The trip lasted five days, which is very fast, so they told me with great satisfaction.

The canoe travelled past an island called Sault Normand, then turned abruptly and headed towards the shore. Near the mouth of a little river, I spotted the stockade of a fort. On the left, among the scruffy trees, a few cultivated fields surrounded a chapel and a couple of stone buildings that looked like barns to me; a Sulpician father proudly pointed them out as Mademoiselle Mance's hospital and Sister Bourgeoys's Bon-Secours School. Here and there were a few houses, and in the distance was the silhouette of a rounded mountain with a cross on top: Mount Royal.

When the canoe was about a hundred feet from the bank, all the voyageurs let out loud shouts and waved their paddles. When they heard the noise, the soldiers fired their muskets into the air, the chapel bells began to ring and people—men, women and children—came out of the houses and the woods and rushed down the gentle slope to meet us.

The voyageurs and Indians beached the canoes and jumped into the water, some of them up to their waists, in spite of the cold. I was ordered to remain seated, and they all lifted the heavy boat and placed it high and dry on the sand. I really did feel like the king's daughter. One of the voyageurs shouted, “Rouville, here's your fiancée!”

From among the villagers waiting on the side, I searched out the pot-bellied old man who would correspond to the image I had of your future husband, ever since I first read his letter.

A tall slim man came forward, dressed in a coureur de bois fringed shirt. He leaned on his long rifle and gave me a long, silent look. The setting sun kept me from seeing his face but it illuminated mine, which must have already been blushing. He didn't seem like a very gallant fiancé to me. Perhaps he was disappointed. I had just had time to plunk a cap—probably the wrong way round—on my tousled hair. Camp life doesn't lend itself to stylishness.

Nevertheless, a friendly phrase or a word of welcome never costs you anything. Monsieur de Rouville said brusquely, “I will see you this evening at Bon-Secours.” And he turned on his heels and went off to talk to one of Hurons who accompanied us. He spoke with authority, and the others seemed to fear him.

Fortunately the women made a big fuss over me, questioning me, wanting news of Quebec and France. They inquired after people in the colony and the prices in Europe. Since I was poorly informed about both, I mustn't have made much of an impression. They took me and my trunk to the school which, as I had guessed, was an old barn. They left me in the hands of a Mademoiselle Catherine Crolo and other assistants of Sister Bourgeoys.

After a supper that seemed like a banquet, since it featured vegetables and fresh fruit after the rations of the canoe trip and the crossing, I decked myself out in my best finery. Despite all my efforts, the only mirror I found in the school still showed me the same pale face, the same rings around my grey eyes. Fatigue made me look ashen, and I was exhausted and nervous. Tenderly I thought of you and Jean, and your happiness gave me courage.

When Monsieur de Rouville appeared soon after the meal, he still had his precious firearm. From up close, I found his tanned face rather pleasing. He has regular features, pale, piercing eyes and black hair that he wears short. He seemed very ill at ease and I can't blame him, since Mademoiselle Crolo took her role as chaperon seriously and didn't leave us alone for a minute. We sat side by side on the same bench, avoiding looking at each other.

As his first words, “our” fiancé announced, “If it's convenient for you, Mademoiselle du Voyer, since we have to leave for my estate before winter, Father Lefebvre, father superior of the seminary, will solemnize our marriage on Friday.” Estate? What estate?

I felt as though I had to stop a runaway horse. I didn't know where to begin my protests and explanations. I started with the most urgent.

“I am not Mademoiselle du Voyer.”

And in one fell swoop, I explained your story as clearly as I could. His reaction was unexpected.

“But just the same you're a king's daughter, aren't you? You're ready to get married on Friday? I must go right away and inform Father Lefebvre of the change of name.”

He executed a quick bow and, without another word, he fled as if a dragon were chasing him.

I was wavering between anger and tears when he burst into the room again. “I didn't hear your real name. What is it?”

I flung it at him and added spitefully, “You should also know I'm older than you think.”

He frowned. He was expecting a child of fifteen. In his harsh voice he asked, “Oh? And how old are you then, mademoiselle?”

I faced him with dignity. “I am eighteen, nearly nineteen.”

He smiled ironically and said in a mocking voice, “That's a respectable age indeed. Almost an old maid.”

Mademoiselle Crolo coughed discreetly. I was furious. Didn't he see how distressing and false my situation was, and couldn't he help me instead of mocking me in front of our chaperon? I'm sure that faced with your beauty and gentleness, he would have reacted quite differently.

And that's how it is that on Friday I will marry a perfect stranger and go and live in an unknown land with the approval of the father superior and the blessing of the whole colony. I hope you will be happy, Marie. I have the feeling I'm paying for your happiness with mine.

11

VILLE-MARIE
, September 7, 1672

Dear Marie,

I'm finishing this notebook with the pitiable account of my wedding. I will leave it in the hands of Mademoiselle Crolo, and in a year, when we return to Ville-Marie to sell the furs my husband will have trapped during the winter, I will add an epilogue to it. If it is a happy ending, you will receive this notebook by messenger; if it is unhappy, I will burn it and you will think your friend has disappeared into the savage wilderness. You will mourn her a little as you cradle your blond children in your arms.

For a wedding present my fiancé solemnly handed me...a musket. He made me swear never to part with it. All the men admired it and I was wondering what Mother de Chablais and our companions in the congregation would say about such a present.

The marriage ceremony was simple and quick, as everything is in New France. The groom and the guests left their weapons at the chapel door and picked them up again as they left. They fear the Iroquois even in the town. The groom wore a wool suit and seemed very uncomfortable in his hard shoes.

At the last minute a substitution had to be made because, so they said, the man who was to act as my husband's witness hadn't returned on time from an expedition to Huronia. Instead of Captain de Preux, Simon de Rouville's school friend and comrade-in-arms, a lieutenant whose name I forget stood up with the groom. Since I knew neither of the two officers in question, I wasn't the least concerned.

I held the wildflowers a woman had slipped into my hands in place of a bridal bouquet; I thought I was living a dream.

After Father Lefebvre asked me the traditional question twice, and my lord gave me an imperious poke with his elbow to call me to order, I murmured yes in a tiny voice. He wasn't so hesitant. His yes resounded through the church and made me cold all over. It seemed to say, “Obviously I want to marry her; that's why I'm here. Let's get all this nonsense over with and let's get going. I have more urgent things to attend to.”

It was done. We were husband and wife and I didn't even know his age or just what colour his eyes were.

Everybody took my change of name very naturally. From du Voyer, there I was Chatel and the next moment Madame de Rouville. People here don't care about details. Life is too short and too intense.

On the chapel steps, as I was being congratulated, three people told me how much I resembled Aimée, Monsieur de Rouville's first wife. Now I understand why he accepted me so quickly. This resemblance gives him the illusion of taking up his life at the point where it was broken. He was on a hunting trip when the Iroquois burned down his house and killed his wife and son. The Huron servant fled into the forest with the two other children. He blamed himself for not having defended his wife well enough, but by a miracle she has been returned to him thanks to an unfortunate resemblance. Monsieur de Rouville is going to have the extraordinary opportunity to literally reconstruct his life.

That explains the gift of the musket and also your friend's discouragement. It wasn't good enough being a second-hand fiancée; now here I am a replacement wife. We are leaving immediately by canoe for the southern part of the region where my husband has a house, a field and his hunting grounds. On the way we will pick up his two children who are being kept by a family. An old Huron woman who was his first wife's servant will accompany us. And we will spend the winter (that they say is long and cold) in some far-off part of the forest.

That all happened this morning. And here I am now back with the congregation nuns, spending the afternoon while my husband makes the final preparations for our departure at dawn tomorrow. Everyone seems to have dispersed immediately after the ceremony, since no one can afford to lose a day's work, even to attend a wedding supper.