Hello! Here is a new chapter!
Enjoy!
Thank you Mium, , Bellnconnue, Rafael_Fernandes_2952, Porthos10, AlexZero12, paffnytij, A_Revolving_Door, Elios_Kari, Ic2096, KanKarp, Daoistjuhlup, Yako_3972, bepoed, and Nomad_W for your support!
-----------------------------------------
The winter of 1771–1772 had been, from a climatic standpoint, quite normal.
By December, an impressive blanket of snow had covered New France, so thick that it almost completely cut the city of Quebec off from the rest of the world. Just before Christmas, which was an ordinary day in this century, there had even been a major snowstorm that almost completely buried some houses.
Later in the season, the last rivers and lakes froze several centimeters deep.
And yet, the colony was far from quiet.
As early as mid-November, an astonishing rumor had begun circulating throughout the city, spreading between November and December. People were saying in the streets and in some shops that the Iroquois were going to send representatives to Versailles to meet the King.
At first, it was only supposed to be a Mohawk delegation.
Eventually, between January and February, people realized that it was only a project and that no official request had yet been made. That did not mean there would not be one once fair weather returned to New France.
No one knew where the rumors had come from, but they were detailed enough to alert other Indigenous nations, particularly the Mi'kmaq, Abenaki, and Algonquin. Unsurprisingly, they eventually made their own inquiries and separately asked Governor Vaudreuil whether the rumor was true and whether it would also be possible for them to travel to Versailles to pay their respects to His Majesty.
In the streets and taverns, people said that the governor was in a difficult position.
Fortunately, he had not yet sent anything to Versailles.
Anyone with even a passing interest in local politics suspected that he could not allow too many representatives to travel to France without risking the whole affair turning into a disaster.
He must have been perfectly aware that the more people involved, the greater the stakes would become. France could then be embarrassed, while the various participants might end up dissatisfied.
By March, the rumors had become somewhat more elaborate. Old Vaudreuil was reportedly still considering a solution with the commander-in-chief of the French armies in New France and Intendant Hocquart. The most obvious solution was to reduce the number of representatives.
No one seemed to suspect that all of this was deliberate.
In reality, Vaudreuil had allowed the information to circulate. By acting as he had, he had brought about the emergence of a delegation that could be presented at Versailles as representing the interests of France's allied nations, rather than as a simple Mohawk delegation seeking privileged access to the King.
As spring approached, discussions with the various nations intensified in order to determine the composition of the delegation, establish who would have the right to speak on behalf of the Confederacy, define the subjects that would be discussed with the King, and so on.
François, as a mere major, was not involved, despite his good relationship with one of the Mohawk chiefs who was a candidate for this historic journey. Thanks to Akwiratheka, however, he was kept informed almost in real time of the project's progress.
What had been mentioned only very briefly in the Mohawk chief's village, on the eve of the old matriarch's death, was slowly becoming a reality.
It was not until May 6, 1772, that a very official letter was carried aboard the Rosace, bound for the Secrétaire d'État de la Marine, Pierre-Étienne Bourgeois de Boynes.
The governor general explained in detail what the Mohawks' original request had been, how it had evolved over the winter, the proposed composition of the delegation, and the reasons given for the journey. As Colonel de Montmorency-Laval had done in his own report, he also included the political motives he suspected, pointed out the diplomatic risk of favoring one Indigenous nation over another, and gave his own opinion, based on decades of experience on the ground.
Naturally, he recommended the journey, emphasizing the opportunity it represented to strengthen the ties between these nations and France.
And meanwhile, life continued at Montrouge.
Work in the fields had truly resumed in April, with plowing and the first sowing, which meant that the small study room at the manor had been deserted. All the children except Pierre had returned to their parents to help them.
Pierre therefore felt quite lonely.
Unfortunately, the following month would be no different, as the small tasks assigned to the children of Montrouge would continue into June. In July, however, when the wheat and other crops were in full growth, the children would have a little more free time, allowing them, if their parents agreed, to return to the manor to receive Mr. Gaston's valuable lessons.
Young Louis would probably not join him until the following year. Otherwise, Pierre and Louis would have no opportunity to study together. Pierre would certainly be sent to Montreal or Quebec to continue his education at a Jesuit college.
In the eighteenth century, the age of ten was considered an important milestone for children: the moment when they had to leave the nest.
Naturally, this frightened the boy, who had never left the seigneury before.
That evening, François returned to the manor a little earlier than usual. It was still daylight, and the sky had taken on a magnificent golden hue.
As he led his mare toward the stables, he noticed several carts, some covered with tarpaulins, as well as heavy crates and trunks. Curious, he dismounted and approached. And the closer he got, the more belongings he seemed to find.
What's all this?
The officer looked up at the manor but saw nothing unusual. He turned his attention back to the crates, which bore marks indicating that the taxes had been paid. There must have been about ten of them.
He could not open them without tools.
The trunks, however, were another matter. One of them was long and made of black-painted wood.
As soon as he opened it, François's eyes widened in surprise. He looked toward the manor again.
A huge smile lit up his face in the evening light.
He led his mare to her stall, removed all his equipment, and hurried toward the house. The moment he opened the door, bursts of laughter rang out.
Yann Madec, his forehead glistening with sweat, was standing in front of him, startled by his arrival.
"Ah! My lord! I was just going to—"
François, still smiling, discreetly gestured for him to be quiet. The servant quickly stepped aside and allowed his employer to enter. Then he went outside, because all those crates and travel trunks could not be left out overnight, even if rain was unlikely.
François followed the corridor and passed Jeanne, who was carrying a large tray bearing a tea service. Having not heard him come in, she was startled as well.
"My lord, you're already here! We weren't expecting you for several more hours."
"I know. I finished earlier today. And I believe that worked out rather well."
"Yes, my lord. Your guests are in the drawing room with Madame and the children."
François's gaze fell upon the rounded shape beneath the tray Jeanne was carrying. She had been unable to hide her condition for several months now.
Indeed, the beautiful Jeanne Brochant, or rather Jeanne Gaston, was pregnant. She had married the tutor in the autumn, and only a few weeks later discovered that she was expecting a child.
She was in her sixth month of pregnancy, just like Onatah. But her belly was considerably more advanced, as though she were about to give birth.
Madame Gagnon, the midwife, even suspected that there might be two children.
"Very well, Madame Gaston. Don't overexert yourself. Your health comes before everything else. Remember to sit down frequently."
"Yes, my lord."
He watched her walk away, then François headed toward the drawing room, where another burst of laughter could be heard. Without realizing it, he quickened his pace.
Everyone turned as they noticed him enter.
Onatah, one hand resting on her belly, smiled at him.
The two guests standing beside her felt tears well up in their eyes. Every time they saw their son again, they felt as though they were discovering him all over again, as if an entire decade had passed without them noticing.
"Father… Mother…" François said emotionally.
He crossed the room in only a few strides and took his mother into his arms. She could not hold back her tears and hugged her son tightly.
"François," she whispered against his chest, "I am so happy. It has been so long."
"Three years," the man, still dressed in his major's uniform, confirmed. "I've missed you so much. But what are you doing in the New World? And the butcher shop?"
Charles Boucher put little Louis down, and the boy ran to embrace his father.
"Sold," the old man replied with a strange smile on his lips. "We sold it to the Desmoulins, for a good price."
François's eyes widened in surprise.
"S-Sold? You really sold it?!"
François's father nodded once.
"Yes."
"But… but that's… that's your treasure!"
Charles Boucher stepped closer and placed a broad, weary hand on his son's shoulder, who was now taller than him.
"It's true. We were very attached to it. But you know, son, it's just a business."
His gaze shifted toward his wife, then returned to François.
"At first, we simply wanted to have a business of our own that would allow us to live decently. Then we tried to make it grow so we could leave you something worthwhile."
He made a small nasal sound that sounded like a restrained chuckle.
"And then you enlisted. And you became a seigneur. What would a seigneur want with a modest butcher's shop in Corbie?"
He shrugged.
"It would be a lie to say that signing the sales contract didn't hurt... but we have no regrets. Ha! I'm sure whatever we got for it is nothing compared to what you earn serving in the King's armies."
François could hardly believe his ears.
Ever since François's and Adam's souls had merged, he had access to every memory as though they had always been his own. He therefore knew just how much his parents had cared about that butcher's shop.
Charles Boucher added:
"And besides... if we had had to wait until our grandchildren were old enough to cross the ocean, we'd have been waiting a very long time. We're not getting any younger, you know? Hehe. Apparently, we made the right decision."
The old man winked at Onatah, who gently caressed her belly.
François couldn't help smiling as he watched them interact. Even though he had spoken at length about her to his parents during his rare visits to Corbie and had mentioned her dark skin several times, he had never been able to completely shake the fear that they might not accept Onatah and their grandchildren.
His fears were clearly unfounded. Perhaps it was because they had been together for almost ten years. They had had just as long to come to terms with the fact that their son had married a Native woman and that their grandchildren would not have skin as pale as theirs.
Charles had been the least surprised, having served in the army and been sent to defend the East Indies. For Marie, however, it had been quite a shock. She had expected Onatah to have dark skin, but not quite that dark. No one in Corbie had skin like hers.
"Did you arrive long ago?" François then asked.
"A little while ago, yes. We were served some tea. It gave us time to get acquainted."
He gave his son's shoulder an unusually affectionate pat.
"You found yourself a very good wife, my boy. I'm happy for you."
"The best of wives," the man said softly, his voice filled with love.
He exchanged a brief glance with Onatah, then suddenly realized.
"Wait a second... If you sold the butcher's shop, that means..."
"That we're moving here, sweetheart," Marie Boucher replied in her husband's place. "You suggested it during one of your visits, but we turned you down back then. Well, here we are."
Her gaze settled on Pierre, who was looking at her curiously. Marie could clearly recognize some of François's features in him, such as the shape of his nose and ears.
His skin, eyes, and hair no longer seemed to matter at all.
"Your wife offered to let us live here with you, but that wouldn't be right. This is your home. So we thought we'd settle a little farther away. Apparently, there is plenty of land available."
"That's true... But you do realize that this land hasn't been developed, don't you? There's nothing there, you know? Absolutely nothing. Everything will have to be built from scratch."
Charles Boucher showed no particular emotion.
"I may be old and small, son, but this body isn't quite useless yet. And you know better than anyone that I don't back down. Even when the obstacle seems impossible to overcome. If everyone simply accepted defeat because the task ahead of them was difficult, we'd never accomplish anything. France wasn't built without effort."
François smiled faintly. He knew there was no point trying to change his father's mind when he was like this.
"Very well. In that case, tomorrow, either Onatah or I will show you the censives that are available."
"The censives?" Marie repeated, tilting her head slightly to one side.
"That's what we call the plots of land that make up a seigneurie, Mrs. Boucher," Onatah explained.
Marie immediately turned toward Onatah as if she had been stung by a bee.
"Oh! None of that with me, please! Call me Marie. Or Mom."
"O-okay, Marie."
François smiled even more broadly.
"So," Charles continued, "we're going to live on one of these censives?"
"As I said, Father, there's nothing there yet. Just a road and markers to clearly define each plot. In the meantime, you'll live with us. Our house is large enough for all of us. And once your house is built, you can move into it."
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
"Are you planning to open a butcher's shop here?"
"Who knows?" he said casually, shrugging. "In any case, I brought my tools with me. I'm not sure they'll need my skills out here on the frontier, though."
"Think again! It would be a tremendous help to us! You have no idea!"
François had raised his voice without meaning to. Pierre and Louis looked at him in surprise.
"Ahem! Sorry. I got a little carried away. But it's a fact: there's a great need for your skills at Montrouge. The fort would be interested in them as well."
"Even though we're so far from everything?" Marie insisted, clearly unconvinced.
Onatah intervened.
"That's precisely because we're so far from the major cities that every skill is valuable. With a fort as important as Fort Bourbon nearby, you can be certain that its officers will come to you for supplies."
"Technically, that would be my responsibility," François admitted with a small laugh. "And I can confirm it. Supplying a fort is a nightmare. Every soldier consumes between half a livre and three-quarters of a livre of meat a day (roughly 250 to 350 grams). For a full garrison, that amounts to a frightening quantities. Without the help of the Haudenosaunee, we'd have a hard time keeping up with demand. Can you imagine the ordeal? Transporting all that meat by road and river? And what about the winters?"
He shook his head.
"Not only the cost is high, but the quality is poor as well. The Haudenosaunee sell us their meat, but that isn't easy either. But with a butcher's shop right here, everything changes! We could buy livestock and slaughter it on the spot!"
His eyes were shining like lanterns.
At that moment, he was no longer thinking as a son, but as a major.
"No matter how you look at it, I can see nothing but advantages!"
Onatah nodded several times, a serious expression on her face.
"It would also greatly benefit the people of Montrouge. The families who have already settled here eat meat as well. They can hunt, of course, but they don't have your skills. The losses are considerable. Having an experienced pair of butchers settle here would be greatly appreciated. It might even attract more settlers."
She looked more intently at her father-in-law.
"And if you can turn meat into other products, such as sausages or ham, that would be even better. My family would certainly be very interested."
Charles and Marie exchanged a silent glance. François could tell they had practically made up their minds.
"Well," his father said, scratching the side of his head, "it's a possibility. As I said, we brought all our tools with us. I suppose... opening a butcher's shop on your lands is feasible. But we'll need raw materials."
François took off his coat and placed it over the back of an ordinary chair near the dining table.
"Raw materials... Of course. The Saint Lawrence Valley can't be short of livestock breeders. To begin with, you won't need much. A few animals should be enough. Pigs, sheep, cows, and oxen, mainly."
"Hmm... Buying animals. That's fine in the short term. Ideally, though, we should have livestock here. Enough animals from the beginning for them to breed quickly."
"That would indeed be ideal," François sighed, "but the cost..."
He quickly calculated the figures. An ox cost between eighty and one hundred and fifty livres tournois, a cow between sixty and one hundred and twenty livres, a pig between fifteen and thirty livres, and a sheep around fifteen livres.
That's going to add up to thousands of livres very quickly... And we'll probably have to keep importing animals for another two or three years.
"Idiot," Charles Boucher said, interrupting his thoughts. "I told you, I got a good price for the butcher's shop. Buying a few dozen head of livestock shouldn't be a problem."
François stared at his father, doubt written all over his face.
"We should think this through carefully before deciding anything. And besides, you've only just arrived. Haha! We still have to build you a house."
They all began laughing when they realized they were already making plans for the future.
The conversation continued for another twenty minutes, and it was only when the women were preparing to serve supper that Onatah realized she had forgotten to tell her husband that a letter had arrived at the manor.
It was still sitting on the small chest beside the fireplace.
She went to fetch it and handed it to François.
"Oh, I just remembered," she said as she quietly approached François. "Monsieur Morrel de Lusernes sent us a letter."
François accepted it respectfully and weighed it in his hand. It was thick and heavy.
Martin must have a lot to tell me, he thought. I haven't heard from him since I retrieved my manuscript. Even though it was rejected, at least Ryckje... well, Rose liked it.
He broke the red wax seal and unfolded the paper, on which his name and address were written. When he opened it, he discovered a second letter inside the first. The sender's name meant nothing to him, so he focused on the first letter.
Let's see...
"Oh..."
His expression darkened almost as soon as he began reading. Onatah moved closer.
"What does it say?"
"It's little Henri, Martin and Rose's youngest son. He died during the winter."
All the color drained from Onatah's face, and she covered her mouth with one hand.
"Oh no!"
François and Onatah now knew what it was like to lose a child. Henri had been born in November 1769, meaning he had not even lived to see his third birthday.
"He... was in very poor health," François reminded her in a low voice. "They knew it. But that child was never lacking in love."
He slowly shook his head.
"He also says that his other children are doing well and growing quickly. Jacques will soon be ten, if I'm not mistaken. Charlotte must be seven, then, and Louise five. Oh? He also says that excerpts from my latest manuscript circulated widely in Paris over the summer."
"Really?" Onatah asked in surprise. "I thought it had been rejected?"
"It was. I suppose Rose copied a few passages to discuss them with her friends at afternoon gatherings."
Charles and Marie Boucher exchanged confused looks. They had no idea their son had been so active in the publishing world, even though his name remained largely unknown.
Most of the people who had discovered excerpts of Titanic did not even know who had written them. And that was not necessarily a bad thing, because although many of the women had enjoyed the subject matter, the men had been considerably less enthusiastic despite the obvious quality of the writing.
They had mostly identified with the fiancé and viewed the story as a tragedy for an entirely different reason. To them, Jack remained a scoundrel who had broken up a couple. As for the heroine, Rose, she was nothing more than an ungrateful, insolent, rebellious young woman.
"Apparently, it didn't last long. A passing fad that didn't even last a season."
François made a small disappointed pout, but quickly returned to a neutral expression. After all, it was already a very positive result considering the sheer volume of writing published every week in the capital.
In a way, it was a compliment.
"He also gives some news from France. Stories about taxes and appointments. And he bought a plantation in the East Indies? Near Karikal. He's going to develop an indigo plantation there."
He still knew very little about India at that time, but he knew that indigo was highly sought after in Europe, particularly Indian indigo, which was renowned for its quality. It was used to give textiles a beautiful blue color. It was inexpensive to produce, especially thanks to the cheap labor available there, but sold for a fortune on the European market.
And now that the English were no longer there to hinder the French, the French East India Company had a free hand to establish an almost complete monopoly over the market. They shared it only with their Dutch allies, who were still helping them secure Bengal.
"Apparently, he's decided to invest a substantial amount of capital right from the start."
"How substantial?" Charles Boucher could not help asking, completely unaware of what might be considered a substantial sum to the son of a count.
"One hundred thousand livres," François announced in a trembling voice.
"O-one hundred thousand?!"
It was indeed an enormous sum, even for a major, since he earned only four thousand livres tournois a year.
"Does he really have that much money?" Onatah asked, shocked by the figure.
"No. Here, he explained that he have turned to his family and also taken out a large loan. He won't be starting from nothing, but he hopes to become profitable fairly quickly. He's giving himself two years to reach full production, and another two years to recover his investment."
Everyone choked on their own saliva.
Four years. That was nothing.
In four years, Martin would have recovered his investment, and every livre earned after that would be profit.
Onatah turned toward François, a serious glint in her eyes.
He had no trouble guessing what she was thinking.
François finished reading the letter, then opened the second one, bearing an unfamiliar coat of arms. The person writing to him was a certain Marie-Thérèse de La Ferté-Imbault.
He broke the small red wax seal almost cautiously and unfolded the letter. The message was much shorter than his friend's.
The major admired the handwriting on the page for a moment. This woman, whom he did not think he had met during his various stays in Paris, had beautiful handwriting.
He read the letter, and little by little, his expression changed.
"What is it?" his wife finally asked after a long silence, leaning over her husband's shoulder.
"Hmm... It's... a lady who discovered my manuscript during a reading at a Parisian salon, and she says she really enjoyed my story, basically. She isn't being direct, but... I think she wants me to write a romance like Titanic for her and some friends."