The King's Daughter (7 page)

I found myself back at Bon-Secours with orders to pack up my trunk and keep only what would be useful on the journey tomorrow. At the last minute my lord and master said over his shoulder, “You may also keep some finery, since there will be a dance in our honour tonight. I'll come get you at eight o'clock.”

Isn't that gallant? Am I not spoiled?

I'm letting myself be carried along by events, indifferent to everything, too much out of my element to have any reactions, too uninformed to nourish hope. What will this winter be like, my first one in New France, with this silent lord, this taciturn Huron woman and the children of Aimée whose place I'm taking? You will know the answer in a year's time. Adieu, Marie. May God keep us.

12

“
THERE WILL
be a dance in our honour.” Jeanne had a great number of questions about that subject, but Mademoiselle Crolo lived withdrawn from society, and she was unable to enlighten her.

Jeanne bent over her trunk and searched in vain for some “finery.” All her dresses were grey, and Mother de Chablais's idea of stylishness was a white coif and matching starched collar.

Jeanne Chatel had never been one to rack her brains over an unsolvable problem. She took the Spanish shawl and draped it over her shoulders, abandoning the white scarf that was proper attire for any modest woman. She made sure her white cap hid her hair completely. Then she sat down by the hearth to wait for her husband.

We're finishing at the beginning, she thought bitterly. He's taking me to the ball after he married me, and he married me before he knew me.

Dismayed, the nun objected to the king's daughter's style of dress. “A modest girl doesn't wear garish colours like that.”

“Mother Crolo, isn't it my duty to please my husband?”

“You will please him with your virtues.”

Jeanne laughed sarcastically. “Then he'll have to be content with very little.”

Just then a military officer presented himself at the school door and greeted her courteously.

“Madame, I am Lieutenant Pierre de Touron. I acted as witness to your marriage. Monsieur de Rouville asked me to escort you to the dance, for he has been delayed by urgent business. He will join us later at the governor's house. It's a great honour for me.”

“What!” Jeanne exclaimed, horrified. “Is the ball taking place at the governor's house? That's terrible. I have neither the clothes nor the manners for such a fête. I can't go.”

“On the contrary, madame,” protested the gallant soldier, looking approvingly at her well-made figure. The shawl she had wrapped herself in lent some colour to her pale face. “You will be the queen of the ball—and not only because you'll be the heroine.”

Never had an orphan heard such a beautiful speech. Tongue-tied for once, she let the young man help her on with her big grey cape, the coat worn by novices and king's daughters alike. Putting her hand on her escort's arm—as if she had been used to doing that all her life—Madame de Rouville, head high, stepped out with the handsome officer. That's the sort of husband she needed: eager, eloquent and obviously overflowing with admiration. They went briskly down the road that led to the fort, and Jeanne noticed two armed soldiers escorting them. In Ville-Marie, you couldn't even go to a ball without running the risk of meeting danger.

As Marguerite Bourgeoys's ward walked along in her uncomfortably new leather shoes, she soon had much more down-to-earth worries. She did not know how to dance and had never in her life attended a social gathering. A good ten times she was tempted to reverse her steps and run back to the refuge offered by the Bon-Secours School, but pride prevented her. She was going to show that Monsieur de Rouville, who was too overworked to pay any attention to his wife on their wedding day! She'd show him that Jeanne Chatel could manage very well by herself!

The sentinels saluted the couples as they came into the fort enclosure one after another. Pine torches and lanterns lit up the warm night. Near the wall, Monsieur François-Marie Perrot, the governor, haughty and cantankerous, and his scarcely more likeable wife were welcoming their guests. The lieutenant and Jeanne traded deep bows with them.

Already couples were gaily dancing under the stars in the centre of the regiment's parade ground. An orchestra composed of three musicians was playing lively melodies. Under a tree, large pots of spruce beer awaited the thirsty guests. Farther along, brandy was served.

Jeanne was relieved. She had feared a big court ball with all the pomp and traditional ceremony. This boisterous gaiety reassured her a little.

“Here comes the bride!” shouted the guests, breaking off the saraband. Joyful exclamations greeted this announcement.

“The bride will open the ball,” proclaimed a noisy, strapping fellow.

A circle immediately formed around the new arrivals. The musicians tackled a wild rhythm, and the lieutenant, throwing Jeanne's cape onto a wooden bench, held out his hands to her.

“I don't know how to dance,” Jeanne admitted, embarrassed.

“Just follow me,” Pierre de Touron reassured her. “Do what I do and nobody will notice a thing. They're far too busy admiring and envying you.”

The lieutenant took hold of his partner and led her, in step, across the grounds. Then, grasping her firmly around the waist with both hands, he turned her faster and faster. Jeanne was supple and agile and had a good sense of rhythm. She fell into step almost before she knew it.

Little by little, other couples began dancing. Light on her feet, a little out of breath, the new bride fairly flew in her partner's strong arms. Her unusual timidness gave way to the pure joy of life; her bursts of laughter were infectious. She changed partners every other minute and jauntily went from arm to arm. Lieutenant de Touron returned for more than his share, and his saucy compliments made the colour rise in the king's daughter's cheeks.

Her grey eyes sparkled with pleasure. She threw back her head and her brown locks escaped from the modest white cap; recovering their natural shape, they curled into wild ringlets. Her grey skirt swirled, revealing fine ankles wrapped in white trousseau stockings. Jeanne never suspected it, since everyone had always tried to make a modest girl of her, but she could be very pretty when she was full of life—as she was tonight.

That is what the amazed Monsieur de Rouville realized when he arrived at the party, stern and frowning, his gun slung over his shoulder.

That gaudy shawl, that wild hair, that abandon on the dance floor—was all this quite fitting for the wife of a worthy and respected lord? And all those sweaty noisy men fighting for the honour of spinning his wife in their arms! The stormy look on his face fell like a cold shower on the gathering.

The musicians fell silent, the dancers came to rest. But nothing discouraged the sociable fellow who exclaimed, “Here comes the groom. And it's none too soon. Simon, you must dance with your wife!”

Shouts of approval rang out. The groom had to agree. He carefully leaned his musket against a tree and approached Jeanne, standing motionless, still out of breath, next to her last and most persistent partner, Lieutenant de Touron.

With cutting irony, Rouville said to his friend, “I'm relieving you of your duties. They don't seem to have been too demanding.”

“You have given me more difficult missions in the past,” countered the soldier without losing face.

He turned to Jeanne and said gravely, “Madame, it is with much regret that I return you to your husband. Don't forget that from this evening onward, I am your devoted servant for life.”

Jeanne, unaccustomed to these extravagant phrases, and very embarrassed at such boldness in front of her stern husband, did not know how to reply. Pierre bowed with the ease of a nobleman at the court of Versailles and kissed his partner's hand, which had suddenly grown icy. Dazzled, Jeanne stared at her hand in amazement; she had forgotten to put it down again. It was like a storybook. Jeanne Chatel, the orphan from the congregation nuns, the outlawed poacher's little girl, had just had her hand kissed by a handsome young gentleman.

A bantering voice drew her from her momentary paralysis.

“May I tear you away from your dreams, and would you permit me to take this consecrated hand and dance with me? Our friends desire it.”

And indeed, the applause and shouts urged them into action. Monsieur de Rouville seemed to be well liked despite his cloudy countenance. The voices rang out, loud and bawdy.

“Come on, Simon. Show us the Iroquois step.”

“Your wife dances well, Rouville. You're the only one who doesn't know it yet.”

“Dance, old boy. You won't dance much this winter.”

As the affectionate gibes fell like hail, the groom's face relaxed, and a smile revealed his dazzling white teeth.

So he knows how to smile, Jeanne thought bitterly. But only for other people.

Bending his tall frame, Simon asked gently, “Madame, do you have enough strength left to accompany me?”

Taken aback, she nodded without a word.

The music began again. Jeanne felt herself being carried off in an iron grip. Simon was holding her much too tightly; it was difficult to be light-footed in those conditions. Stiff and awkward now, she missed a step and stumbled. Inwardly she was fuming; this mocking, melancholy man was always catching her off guard.

The quadrille seemed endless to the poor girl. Simon made all the figures effortlessly, but he seemed preoccupied and it was obvious he was thinking about something else.

As soon as the music stopped, he pulled her along in his wake without asking her opinion. He threw the grey cape over her shoulders, picked up his musket and, after waving to the group, made his way to the door.

The governor made the appearance protocol demanded of him, then fled from those miserable settlers he despised to take refuge in his quarters. The dance became much more rollicking as a result of his departure.

Simon moved along with giant steps, forcing Jeanne to run to keep up with him. Did he think she was going to let herself be dragged along like a docile little dog on a leash? But that was what was happening, as she grumbled under her breath. Impatient, he executed a half turn in her direction and slowed his pace.

As soon as they were outside the wall of the fort and had gone past the sentries who saluted them, Simon gave a low whistle. Two figures immediately came from the shadows and followed in their footsteps. Did the brave Monsieur de Rouville himself feel the need for protection in the heart of Ville-Marie? What would he need on his isolated estate, then? An army ready to wage war?

An owl hooted in the distance, and another answered close by. Jeanne's poacher's heart skipped a beat. Maybe those owls had feathers, but they didn't have wings—that was for sure.

Simon stopped near a clump of trees. Carried by her momentum, Jeanne bumped into his large back that blocked the way.

The two men who had been following them suddenly seemed to vanish into the night. Branches parted noiselessly on either side of them. They were surrounded.

Jeanne's heart beat wildly. “Give me a knife,” she whispered to Simon in a voice that brooked no refusal.

At least she might have a chance to defend herself. She cursed the coquetry that had prevented her from taking her new musket to the ball, forgetting that she didn't yet know how to use it.

If he had heard her, Monsieur de Rouville did not let on. He did not raise his gun; instead, he in turn let out the night bird's sorrowful cry.

Two Indians loomed up before them. Her husband held her tightly by the arm. Was that to prevent her from crying out? He had nothing to fear. She wasn't the sort of girl to give in to hysteria. She was gathering all her strength and rage for one final combat.

Just then the clouds parted, and the moon cast its light on the scene, revealing the Indians' sharp features, the feathers in their hair and Monsieur de Rouville's calm face. He released his hold on her arm and raised his hand.

Speaking in a language she could not understand, the three men launched into a long conversation. Simon seemed to be giving instructions. He pointed towards the river, and the others responded by asking him questions. The discussion wore on, and Jeanne, drained of her energy by the sudden alarm and the day's emotions, was staggering with fatigue.

Without missing a syllable of his conversation, her all-seeing husband put a strong arm around her and held her against his hard body. She thought it was a gesture of tenderness and it moved her. But he gave her a little shake, as if he were bringing her back to her senses, then dropped her again. He didn't want to be dishonoured in front of his native friends by a weak woman. Jeanne stiffened. In the future she'd die rather than betray a single weakness.

After a final word, the Indians seemed to sink back into the night. She blinked her eyes and cocked her ears. She and her husband were alone again.

The iron fingers closed on her arm again and she was propelled forward in her lord's wake. A far cry from Lieutenant de Touron's respectful courtesy.

An instinct made Jeanne turn around. Once the danger was past, their two protectors had taken up their posts again. One was an Indian, the other walked with a limp. That was all she could determine.

A yellowish light in the window of the Bon-Secours School bore witness to Mademoiselle Crolo's zeal. The good lady sat by the hearth, saying her rosary, as she waited for her boarder. The new Madame de Rouville would sleep in the convent again that night.

Visibly preoccupied, Simon deigned to give her a brief explanation. “I have to finish my preparations. One of my men will come for you at dawn. Your trunk is down at the dock. Be ready. We'll be leaving very early.”

“I'll be ready,” she answered with dignity. A notion to rebel stirred under her calm appearance.

“Have you any more orders for me?” she asked impudently.