The King's Daughter (12 page)

“If you must leave us so soon,” said Jeanne, just a trifle sharply, “all the more reason to begin making the repairs to the house as quickly as possible.”

Monsieur de Rouville didn't have to be told twice. After all, the scene he had feared had gone very well. He would be spared the crying and tears that used to accompany each one of his departures. One day, as his friends had advised him, he, too, would spend months improving his property. Meanwhile, the forest awaited him, mysterious and dangerous. He still did not know how to resist its call.

20

SIMON WASN'T
called the Builder for nothing. With his axe he expertly fashioned the door, shelves and furniture Jeanne had demanded.

Limp was a big help, despite his infirmity. They both hunted and smoked meat for the winter. With the aid of Jeanne and Gansagonas, they harvested the enormous pumpkins growing in the small field between the stalks of Indian corn. At the end of the summer, Limp came to gather the ears of corn for Simon and stored them in the “cellar” behind the cabin.

This cellar, a small eight-foot square underground room dug directly into the earth, was reinforced with tree trunks and lined with fir branches. It was used as a pantry and a cache for fur pelts. Sealed by a trap door and hidden under a square of turf, it was absolutely invisible to anyone who did not know of its existence. It was an undertaking of which Simon was very proud.

The two men stored supplies of dried corn, smoked eel and pumpkin in a chest. Set near the hearth, it would serve as a pantry and would contain the family's staple food during the winter. The fruits of the hunt completed this frugal diet that was shared by all the settlers in the colony at that time. Molasses and raisins brought by boat from the West Indies were the only sweets that broke the dullness of these monotonous meals.

From morning till evening the king's daughter, sleeves rolled up on her strong arms, washed, scrubbed and brought order to the dark cabin.

One way or another she got everyone settled. She put a mattress filled with leaves and moss on the rope bed. The patchwork bolster given to her as a wedding present by Madame de Bretonville livened up the “bedroom” corner with its bright colours.

On the rough table she placed the blue-flowered sugar bowl that Thérèse, seeing her admiration for it, had generously given to Isabelle.

In the corner near the hearth, the wooden trunk Louis XIV had given his “daughter” did double duty as a storage space and a seat.

The iron pot, essential for any cook, hung on the chimney hook that Simon had been farsighted enough to bring along in his baggage.

On the wall near the door, wooden racks awaited the muskets that the settlers hung up as they came in, above the powder horns and sacks of lead shot.

Branches of autumn leaves, changed every day, were hung above the table, adding an artistic touch.

A broom made of twigs attached to a handle vigorously swept the dust from the beaten earth floor.

Next year, Jeanne planned, without a doubt to trouble her, I'll ask for a wooden floor. No, why not a whole new house?

Meanwhile, in her energetic grasp, the log cabin became a warm and hospitable home.

When the principal furnishings were finished, Jeanne attacked the next problem. The children were so out of the habit of laughing and so uprooted that they sat in a corner for hours without moving. The harpy who had looked after them had terrorized them. Their big serious eyes followed the young woman's every movement; the puppy was the only one who seemed to be enjoying his childhood.

Perplexed, the inexperienced mother studied the problem. Suddenly she had an inspiration.

In a spirited voice she announced, “Now, the most important thing is to make a doll for Isabelle and a ball for Nicolas. Come and help me, children.”

From the king's daughter's trunk, Jeanne produced two pairs of white stockings that were part of her trousseau. Sitting on a log in front of the doorstep, she opened the sewing kit Mother de Chablais had given her before she left.

With a malicious smile the good nun had said, “I know that using a needle and thread is not your favourite activity, my daughter, but the day will come when this kit will make you a perfect housewife.”

The Mother Superior disguised her nagging doubts with a commendable optimism.

Little by little a doll took shape, thanks more to the seamstress's ingenuity than her deftness with a needle. The excited children gathered dead leaves to stuff it. Growing lively for the first time since Jeanne had known them, they gave her advice in their serious voices. Jeanne, as much an instinctive psychologist as Sister Berthelet, led the children to take part in the operation.

“We need some hair. What will we use for hair?”

“What about mine?” Isabelle suggested timidly.

Nicolas solemnly cut off one of his sister's blonde curls, and the doll got its head of hair. A fringe borrowed from the Spanish shawl became a smiling mouth. For the eyes, Jeanne sacrificed—with no regrets—two of the blue buttons from the silk dress Thérèse had forced her to take along in her trunk. They dressed the doll in a flowered handkerchief, a present from Mademoiselle Crolo upon Jeanne's departure from the Bon-Secours School.

Wild with delight, Isabelle pressed the shapeless doll to her heart.

“What will you call her?” asked Jeanne, threading her needle. “A name is very important for a girl.”

“Her name should be Aimée,” Nicolas decided, making Jeanne's heart seize with pain.

“No,” decreed Isabelle, contradicting her brother for the first time. “She's mine and her name is Zeanne.”

Tears in her eyes, Jeanne kissed the little girl's blonde head.

“And what about me?” cried Nicolas without ill will. “What about my ball?”

They set to work again. Once more, a stocking and some leaves made their contribution. Artistically decorated with carbon, saffron and a few drops of blood—for the unskilled seamstress pricked herself often—the ball was thrown and caught with cries of joy. Unfortunately, its career was almost cut short; the dog got hold of it and ran off with this toy that had fallen from the sky into his clutches. An epic pursuit, punctuated by cries and laughter, ended in the capture of the ball.

“Bad dog,” scolded Nicolas. “He doesn't come when I call him.”

“That's because you haven't found a name for him,” explained Jeanne. Out of breath, she let herself drop onto her log.

“Call him Zeanne,” suggested Isabelle, who had a one-track mind.

“Silly. That's no name for a dog. Mama, what's a good name for a dog?”

“I once knew a boy whose name was François. He had a dog called Miraud,” said Jeanne dreamily.

“Then my dog's name is Miraud. Come, Miraud. Here, Miraud.”

For safety's sake, Jeanne tied a long string to the ball and fastened it to a branch. She was quickly discovering parental tricks for avoiding difficulties.

Happy with her success, she watched the children playing. A new idea came to her suddenly. Too long absent and awkward with the children, Simon was a stranger to Nicolas and Isabelle. She had to remedy that. Immediately she began a clever campaign to bring them together.

“Children, when your papa comes home, you must show him your new toys. Papas are very interested in their children's games. He'll be very pleased.”

She watched for Simon and ran to meet him when she saw him coming out of the forest, gun in hand, a haunch of venison over his shoulder. Surprised and touched by this welcome, he gave one of his rare smiles, revealing his sparkling teeth that had the power to make Jeanne's heart melt. She trotted along by his side, very lively, absorbed by her own plot.

“Simon, you'll have to be very interested in what the children are going to show you. It's very important to them.”

“I'm afraid I'm not a good father.”

“But you can learn to be. You see, I wasn't a lady either but I learned.”

That flash of wit made the hunter burst out laughing. Still holding his musket, he wrapped his arm roughly around her.

“Indeed. To look at you with your cap all askew, your sleeves rolled up and your nose all dirty, it's plain to see you're the mistress of a lord who wears a wig.”

Jeanne's innocent ruse bore fruit. As Simon sat on the log carefully cleaning his gun, Isabelle timidly came near, holding her doll.

“Her name is Zeanne and she's beautiful.”

“Look, sir,” cried Nicolas, punching the ball with his fist.

The young father put down his weapon and sat the little girl on his knee. He examined the doll seriously and had her tell him the long story of its manufacture. Little by little, Nicolas, more daring, came closer.

“My dog's name is Miraud,” he said. Then the child mustered his courage and mumbled, “May I look at your gun, sir?”

Busying herself over her pot, Jeanne followed the events, a smile on her lips.

When Simon came in to eat an hour later, he lifted Nicolas up in his arms. The little boy, proud as punch, hung the musket on the rack near the door all by himself. As soon as his father set him on the ground, he ran over to Jeanne.

“Mama, Papa is going to take me into the forest tomorrow. And later Miraud is going to be a hunting dog. Isn't that what you said, Papa?”

“An excellent hunting dog, no doubt about it. Probably the best in Canada and maybe in all of New France.”

Laboriously, Isabelle explained, “Sir Papa, he's going to make a cradle for Zeanne with boards, and it'll rock and Zeanne will go to sleep and...”

Over the children's heads, Simon and Jeanne exchanged the amused glance of indulgent parents.

The young woman rejoiced. Her cabin in the woods had become a happy home, the home of Jeanne de Rouville, king's daughter and mistress of the manor.

21

DURING A
family stroll in the surrounding forest, Miraud flushed out a partridge.

Nicolas, a lively child, ran ahead of them, exclaiming, “Look, the bird is hurt. Its wing is dragging and it's walking all crooked.”

Simon was a hunter who appreciated the value of any game he saw, and he had already shouldered his gun.

Jeanne gently turned the muzzle of the gun aside. “Don't shoot, Simon. It's a poor mother protecting her little ones by pretending she's hurt. She deserves to have her life spared. She's a heroine.”

“How do you know that?” asked Simon, who persisted in thinking his young wife was a townswoman.

“When I was young I learned that from my grandfather who was a poa...I mean a hunter like you. Look, children, the little partridges are hidden here. Let's leave them in peace.”

A conscientious teacher, she explained the mother partridge's clever trick to the fascinated children. She walked down the path, holding Nicolas and Isabelle by the hand, and captivated them with her well-told story. Simon followed her, shaking his head. His second wife never ceased to amaze him.

Walking along a barely visible path, they stopped near an enormous tree that towered over all the others. To have room to grow, it was not adverse to choking or crowding out its neighbours.

Simon pointed it out. “That's the old giant, the biggest oak in the forest.”

Adjusting his musket on his shoulder, the hunter stretched out his arms, made a leap and caught hold of a branch. Pulling himself up agilely, he hoisted himself into the tree. They watched his leather-clad figure disappear higher and higher between the bare branches.

Craning her neck, Jeanne asked, “Why are you climbing? Is that your chateau?”

Childhood souvenirs crowded her memory. Perhaps even serious adults needed a land of dreams.

The lord's distant voice reached them. “It's an excellent observation post. From the top I can see both sides of the river.”

He came down rapidly, with sure movements, bombarding them with broken twigs.

Like an expert, the young wife observed his manoeuvres. Nose in the air she said admiringly, “You climb well for your age.”

Simon stopped short and contemplated her there at his feet. “What do you take me for, your father?” he protested.

Candidly, Jeanne let herself be carried away once again by her indiscreet tongue. “Not all forty-year-old men can climb so fast,” she stated with conviction.

“Forty years old?”

As if in shock, Simon let himself slide down, straddling a branch. Incredulous, he repeated, “Forty years old? Where did you hear that I'm forty years old?”

Jeanne regretted her remark. Too late, she realized she must have wounded him. And she'd even sworn to herself never to refer to their age difference.

Leaning over her, Rouville repeated, “Who told you that?”

“Carrot-Top did. He didn't say that exactly, but he told me you were building forts in 1665 and that you were a captain. Hubert de Bretonville is a captain and he's more than forty. So...I thought...”

Embarrassed, she stammered and fell silent.

Like a cat, Simon jumped down beside her. He looked at her, head bent, fists on his hips.

“Madame made clever calculations. Madame drew conclusions. You silly little thing. I was a captain in the Canadian militia, not in the army. And in New France we're not very old when responsibilities are thrust on us. I'm old, that's true, older than you. I'm thirty-two years old, not forty.”

With great dignity he turned and strode away, pursued by Jeanne and the children. From time to time they heard him mutter, “Forty years old. An old husband. Imagine that!”

For the hundredth but not the last time in her life, Jeanne resolved to hold her tongue and turn it around a good number of times in her mouth before speaking.

Just the same, she was happy to have made a mistake in her calculations. Simon was much younger than she had thought. That meant they would be together longer. She would have to tell him that, whisper it in his ear that evening. That would console him.