Hello! Sorry for the delay! Here is a new chapter!
Enjoy!
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The days following his meeting with the governor were devoted to the final preparations.
François would gladly have claimed that there was nothing special to do. After all, he was officially little more than an escort, and the journey involved nothing more than crossing the Atlantic.
The season was ideal for such a voyage, the members of the delegation had been chosen long ago, their ship was ready, and the merchant vessels accompanying them had finished loading their cargoes of furs, one of the principal sources of wealth in this vast territory. As for the documents required for the journey, everything was in order.
In practice, however, the final days proved far busier than François could ever have imagined.
The remaining representatives arrived in Quebec one after another, bringing their baggage, the gifts intended for the king, and, above all, their expectations. The French officials checked their identities, settled the last practical matters, and ensured that everyone had everything they needed, both for their stay in the city and for the crossing.
François was not at the forefront of these preparations, but he nevertheless had a role to play. He had to help ensure the delegation's security and see to it that its members could coexist until they embarked, without old rivalries jeopardizing the voyage.
These nations knew how to negotiate, trade, and conclude peace agreements around a fire, but that did not mean their past conflicts had been forgotten.
Unsurprisingly, the formidable Haudenosaunee stood at the heart of the tensions.
Their relations with the French and their allied peoples had been shaped by decades of warfare, shifting alliances, and rivalries. This was particularly true of the Wendat, whom the French called Hurons, and the Algonquins.
From what François had gathered, the former were an Iroquoian people, but their territory had been devastated during the wars of the previous century, scattering their communities. The latter, meanwhile, lived primarily in the Ottawa Valley and the regions west of Montreal. They played an essential role in trade and travel toward the Pays-d'en-Haut, the Great Lakes, and the interior of the continent, and were among France's oldest allies. They had often sought French assistance in their own conflicts.
François could not help wondering whether several weeks aboard the same ship might rekindle old feuds. The risk seemed far from negligible, but there was another possibility, one the French authorities were hoping for: that the voyage might bring these peoples closer together, since they rarely had the opportunity to spend such a long time in one another's company.
The uncertainty made him almost more nervous than what awaited him in Paris.
He had spoken at length with Akwiratheka, who had arrived in Quebec on April 12 alongside the Royaner Brant Canagaraduncka. The giant's hair had grown back considerably since the death of the former matriarch, though the unmistakable scars on his arms and legs remained. He had assured François that he understood what was at stake during this voyage and promised to conduct himself properly, so as to bring neither shame upon his people nor dishonor upon the Confederacy.
Meeting the aging King Louis XV, however, was not what excited him most. Akwiratheka was particularly looking forward to the hunts in the French forests.
As he had told François a few days earlier, he was firmly determined to distinguish himself before His Majesty by killing the largest wild boar the Court had ever seen.
There was, however, one small detail that threatened to complicate his plans: Akwiratheka had never hunted a wild boar in his life. There were none in North America.
François had described the animal to him, and the chief had immediately pictured a monstrous beast covered in black bristles, dangerous, tough, and surprisingly fast. The description had only whetted his appetite for the challenge.
What François had not told him, on the other hand, was that he would not be there to witness it.
If what Governor Vaudreuil had told him on the day of his arrival in the city was true, he would not even see Versailles.
He was not even certain he would have time to enjoy his stay in Paris. Vaudreuil had made it quite clear that the matter was urgent, so François assumed that Versailles would want to send him to New York as soon as possible.
If that proved to be the case, he would soon be approached by a seemingly ordinary man, an intermediary tasked with formally informing him of his true mission, providing him with precise instructions, and handing over the funds he would need.
François could easily imagine being ordered to set off immediately, just a few hours after his arrival.
Fortunately, that seemed unlikely.
He would most probably remain with the delegation for the first few days, giving him the opportunity to attend certain banquets, meet influential people, get some rest, and perhaps even see his good friend Martin Morrel de Lusernes.
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The day of departure finally arrived.
On the morning of April 21, as a faint golden mist hovered above the waters of the St. Lawrence, the mooring lines were cast off. François remained on deck for a long while, his hands resting on the rail, as Quebec slowly receded into the distance.
Like him, the members of the Indigenous delegation watched the rooftops, gun batteries, and ships at anchor grow steadily smaller.
The weather was mild. A gentle breeze, almost summery, brushed their faces, as though wishing them a pleasant voyage.
For Akwiratheka and the other representatives who had never before set foot aboard a ship this large, it was an entirely new experience. They were deeply impressed, even if most of them showed little sign of it. Yet the Sincère was hardly a giant of the seas.
She was a flute built in Cherbourg in 1764, with a burden of seven hundred tons. From what François had gathered in passing, she had been designed on the model of an English vessel captured in the East Indies, off Bengal, during the previous war. Despite the French shipbuilders' efforts, the result had not quite matched the original vessel's performance. That did not prevent the Sincère from being an excellent ship: sturdy, reliable, and fast, while perfectly suited to trade.
Her three masts rose majestically above the deck. She carried a few guns to allow her crew to defend themselves in the event of an encounter with hostile vessels, and her spacious hold could accommodate a considerable cargo. Moreover, her relatively flat bottom made navigation along waterways such as the St. Lawrence much easier, a river notorious for the hidden hazards lurking beneath its surface.
As planned, five other merchant ships accompanied her. They followed the Sincère cautiously, slowly maneuvering around the rocks and sandbanks marked by buoys.
The St. Lawrence began to widen before them.
One by one, the chiefs turned away from the shore. François did not. He remained where he was, watching the landscape drift lazily past, knowing that before long he would have nothing left to look at but the open sea, stretching beyond the horizon, for a month to six weeks, depending on the winds and the whims of the ocean.
I hope everything goes well, he thought, letting his gaze wander among the wispy clouds scattered across the sky. This time, Onatah doesn't even know I'm going to the British colonies.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Akwiratheka's massive figure. The chief was talking with the other Haudenosaunee delegates, all of whom barely reached his shoulders.
Whatever happens, I'll come back. If I discover that the situation is too dangerous, then so be it. Too bad about the mission. I'll ask Versailles for permission to leave New York.
But he had barely finished thinking this when he realized there was a problem. His brow furrowed slightly.
Ah... But by the time my message is sent, reaches France, and I receive a reply, how many weeks will have passed? Damn it, what's the point of asking permission if the mission is already over by the time I get the answer?
François sighed inwardly.
Perhaps that's why they've only assigned me three or four months. Hmm, assuming Versailles doesn't decide to extend the mission. Would they do that if things blow up while I'm in New York?
Unfortunately, there was no one around to answer his questions.
As if mocking him, a seagull let out a loud, shrill cry from the rigging, one that sounded remarkably like a demonic laugh.
Tsk! If only we could communicate more easily! Everything would be so much simpler. I miss phones so much!
His thoughts drifted back to his previous life. Back then, he had never realized just how miraculous that little object, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand and so thoroughly integrated into everyday life, really was.
He had hardly ever used it to make calls. Mostly, he had sent text messages and browsed the Internet, especially YouTube and certain social media platforms, in both cases to watch people doing stupid things.
What a waste. The inventors of the Internet and the telephone must be spinning in their graves.
François watched three seagulls circling high above them, occasionally crying out.
Just being able to talk to someone without waiting weeks, or even months, for a reply... It would change so much about life here...
At last, he turned his back on the shore and rummaged through his belongings until he found his manuscript. He had added only a few pages to his novel during his stay in Quebec.
There was still plenty of work to do before he could consider the story finished.
Finding a spot where he would be in neither the sailors' nor the other passengers' way, François settled down and picked up his pen again. A few curious glances lingered on him as those around him wondered what he might be writing.
As for François, he could only hope that his efforts would live up to the expectations of the marquise, about whom he ultimately knew very little.
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A week later, the Sincère had reached the open sea. With almost all her sails unfurled, she cut briskly through the waves, surrounded by the merchant ships accompanying her and the two frigates assigned to protect the convoy. Naturally, the captain had given orders for them to maintain a speed that would match that of the slowest vessel.
La Boudeuse, that handsome thirty-two-gun frigate, was doing precisely the same with them. She was an impressive sight on the water. From what François had heard in Quebec shortly before they embarked, she had begun her career by taking part in Monsieur de Bougainville's expedition, which had carried her around the world between 1766 and 1769. The major suspected she could sail much faster than she was doing at present.
As for L'Atalante, also armed with just under thirty guns, he had heard that a few years earlier she had joined other ships of the French Royal Navy in bombarding the Tunisian coast in retaliation for acts of piracy committed against French vessels. However, he knew nothing about Tunisia in that era. All he knew was that one day, provided history had not changed too much, the region would eventually become part of the French colonial empire.
Little interested in the service records of the two frigates, Major and Chevalier Boucher de Montrouge sat on a heavy crate in the shade of a sail billowing in the steady westerly wind. A second crate, taller than the first, served as his desk.
For several seconds, his pen had remained suspended above the paper.
Silent, his face intent with concentration, he was trying to picture the scene he wanted to write. Whenever he wrote, he imagined himself as an invisible spectator inside his own novel, much like a cameraman on a film set. That was how he managed to describe places, sounds, gestures, expressions, even textures and smells with such precision.
This particular scene was especially important. It therefore demanded an extra effort.
Let's see... Hugues and Julie are about to part ways. For good this time. I mustn't ruin this moment. The reader needs to feel what they're going through, without having my characters burst into tears or spend three pages lamenting their fate. Besides, that wouldn't fit the characters I've built.
He raised his pen a little higher and rubbed his chin with its tip.
They must appear to remain in control of their emotions, but there need to be unmistakable signs of just how deeply they feel.
François lowered his pen and let out a long breath.
"Easy enough to say..."
He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter until he could almost see strange shapes dancing before him, then pictured Beaumont standing before Julie. They were facing each other, barely a meter apart, amid the barely recognizable ruins of Beaumont Castle. After centuries of abandonment, little remained to be seen.
The broad, sturdy towers had collapsed long ago, along with the roofs and even the thick walls. Vegetation had sprung up everywhere.
For Hugues, the brave knight who had known this place in its golden age, the sight must have been devastating. The ruins reflected what had become of his name after his death, and after the deaths of his father and his treacherous brother.
François had peppered his novel with humorous scenes to highlight the gulf between Hugues and the people of the eighteenth century. Only a few centuries separated them, yet society, customs, and ways of thinking had changed profoundly.
As a result, his characters sometimes struggled to understand one another even though they spoke the same language. It was a convenient device, and the author was perfectly aware of it, but he had chosen to keep it rather than burden his narrative with unnecessary explanations.
These misunderstandings had led to some amusing moments, but despite them, a romance had eventually blossomed between Hugues and Julie.
For them, however, this story was no mere comedy. Least of all for Hugues.
He had seen his honor shattered and his family turn their backs on him without even bothering to hear him out. Then, through his journey through time, he had discovered the terrible truth about his downfall and its consequences. He had found himself in a strange era, bearing a disgraced name and surrounded by people who did not think as he did.
Julie had been his rock, the person he could cling to when everything else seemed lost. Thanks to her, he could make a place for himself in this century. But he had discovered a way to return home and put everything right.
That, however, meant giving up Julie.
When it came to the loneliness and the feeling of being torn away from everything he had known, François had drawn heavily on his own experiences during the first years after his transmigration. He had spent a great deal of time describing that corrosive feeling.
In the first part of the novel, what set François/Adam apart from Hugues was the watch that had transported him into another man's body. It had given him hope of recovering his former life, but also left him afraid that he might never see again the people he had once known. Hugues, by contrast, had no such lifeline. All he had was an endless sorrow at the sight of everything that had been lost.
François/Adam's situation also differed from Hugues's in the second part of the story, since Hugues had found a way to return to the past. François had not. At some point, the path back to the twenty-first century had disappeared without him even noticing.
He therefore had to imagine the complex, contradictory emotions tormenting the knight as he grappled with one simple question: should he remain by Julie's side, the woman who had helped him so much and for whom he had gradually developed feelings, or should he return to his own time?
The lovers had discussed this at length in an earlier chapter, but the door had not yet been closed. The temptation remained, immense and painful.
If I were in Beaumont's place, if I had the chance to go home, see the people I love again, and undo the mistakes that led to my death, what would I say to Julie? Would I hesitate?
Despite his own experience, he found it difficult to answer either question.
François had stayed with Onatah out of love; he had no doubt about that. But he was also aware that, by then, returning to the twenty-first century was no longer an option. That was the most important difference between him and his character.
One thing is certain, he thought. Whatever I decide, I'll know that I'm losing something forever. I suppose Hugues must already be wondering whether, for the rest of his life, he'll keep asking himself if he made the right choice.
His thoughts drifted, and Onatah's calm face took shape in his mind. He remembered the day the Picardie Regiment had left the New World to return to France. On the quays of Quebec, he had faced a choice: stay with Onatah or board the ship waiting behind him.
Even after all these years in this body, I don't know whether I would have stayed if I'd been certain I could recover the comforts of my former life.
The uncertainty, accompanied by an unpleasant sense of guilt, tightened his chest.
I love Onatah deeply, but... my love for her has grown enormously over the years we've spent together. We've shared a home, slept beside each other, faced hardships together... and then there were the children.
He stared at the sheet before him without writing a word.
With her, I've known happiness, a kind of happiness I would never have believed possible in my former life. Beaumont never had any of that. He never built a family with Julie. We're very different.
François focused on his memories of those first few months after his transmigration. Back then, he had not even known Onatah existed, and he would have done almost anything to escape that century and the Six Years' War.
Only his fear of the noose had held him back, for that was the punishment reserved for deserters. Without that fear, he would undoubtedly have returned to Hastenbeck to retrieve his watch, go home, apologize to his parents, and put his life back on track.
No woman, not even the beautiful Onatah, could have stopped him then, even if the two of them had grown close.
It must be the same for him.
He nodded slowly, then finally lowered his pen.
"Hugues gazed into Julie's eyes. The young woman could discern the conflicting emotions stirring within this tall, powerfully built man.
For long seconds, neither of them spoke.
The wind was rising, rushing through the broken stones of the castle and stirring the leaves of the twisted trees whose roots had taken hold in the crumbling towers, once so tall and proud. It seemed to urge them to part, yet neither appeared to hear its call.
The world itself could have crumbled around them, and still they would not have hurried this moment to its end.
Above them, the sky of 1770 was gradually darkening, heavy with threatening clouds.
Hugues and Julie knew this was the last time they would ever see each other.
She drew her blue shawl more tightly around her delicate shoulders, though it was far too light to shield her from the wind. She dared not take her eyes off the knight, who towered over her like a mountain, as though she feared he might disappear before she found the courage to say goodbye.
At last, Hugues raised his eyes toward the sky, his expression grave, before turning his gaze back to her.
The moment had come. But he could still change his mind...
All he had to do was stay, leaving behind his former life, his name, and the injustice he had suffered. He could put it all behind him, for it belonged to the past.
He could continue living beside Julie, perhaps even grow accustomed to this era so different from his own.
But was it really that simple?
After everything he had learned about his wife, his brother, and his father's tragic fate, could he look at himself in a mirror without feeling ashamed, knowing that he had a way to set things right? His honor, his most precious possession, commanded him to return and bring everyone's misdeeds into the light. To restore to his family the good name it had lost.
And then there was Julie... Julie de La Roche-Belcombe.
Hugues suspected that a part of her wanted him to stay, for her sake. But both of them knew that was impossible.
He held out a hand, broad and worn from years of weapons training. Julie took it without embarrassment or hesitation. It was warm, reassuring. Her fingers closed around his.
"Julie," he said slowly, "you shouldn't stay here. We don't know what will happen. It could be dangerous."
"I know," she replied with difficulty, lowering her eyes to their joined hands. "But I don't want to leave before you do."
Her words, spoken so softly, were almost carried away by the wind.
She hesitated, then raised her eyes to his.
"Hugues... Are you certain you want to go back there?"
The knight did not answer immediately.
In his pocket lay the small glass vial that would take him back to the time of King Charles VII. Inside, a mysterious liquid, mauve with golden glimmers, swirled with every movement.
Slowly, he took it out.
"I must, Lady Julie."
Those few words hurt him far more than he let on.
There was no point in saying anything more. Everything that needed to be said had already been said.
Julie made no attempt to change his mind, for she knew it was the right thing to do, even though it pained her terribly.
"I thank the Lord for allowing me to meet you," Hugues continued tenderly. "You are an extraordinary woman. Whoever is fortunate enough to become your husband will be a happy man."
Julie gave a small, joyless laugh. A tear trickled down her cheek.
"Could I ever love anyone else? My parents are constantly reproaching me for being too choosy. After meeting you, I'll be even worse. They will never find a man who can hold a candle to you."
Hugues clasped Julie's hand more tightly between his own.
"Please, don't say that. Worthy men have not disappeared from the world. I am certain you will find someone who knows how to make you happy."
Julie's hand trembled.
"And what if I don't?"
Hugues had no answer. He wished he could offer her greater reassurance, but no words could guarantee what the future had in store for her.
He bent down and gently kissed her hand.
A gust swept through the ruins, and the clouds darkened from ash gray to charcoal black. A storm seemed about to break.
"I would not wish to hurry you," the elderly physicist, who had remained some distance away, interjected, "but it is time to go!"
Hugues and Julie turned toward him. They had almost forgotten he was there.
The old man was gazing anxiously at the sky. Clouds swirled above Beaumont Castle, forming a dark spiral that swallowed the light.
Julie released the knight's hand. She knew the moment had come.
"He's right," she whispered. "Hugues, promise me one thing."
"Tell me."
"Don't forget me."
Hugues de Beaumont shook his head.
"I promise. I swear it before God."
Julie hurriedly wiped away her tears, then raised a hand to her neck. Gently, she unclasped the small golden cross she wore there and placed it in the knight's palm.
He accepted it in silence.
"Keep it. It will protect you on your journey. And that way, whenever you look at it, you will think of me."
Hugues closed his thick fingers around the cross before placing it around his neck. He wished he could give her something in return, leave her with a memento of his passing worthy of what she had given him, but he had nothing.
When he had arrived in this era, he had been wearing the clothes of a condemned man.
He stepped closer, gazed deeply into her eyes, then drew her into his arms. Julie did not resist, accepting his embrace.
It was brief and desperate. The young woman could feel the knight's heart beating against her own, fast and strong. The part of her that wanted him to stay screamed at her to hold on to him, to ask him one last time to remain, to abandon everything for her sake.
It took all her strength to resist.
Julie lifted her head and studied his features one last time, then leaned toward his ear to whisper a few words.
"Hugues, I..."
"BLEURGH!"
François jumped, abruptly torn from his novel.
Back in the real world, he quickly looked around and noticed Akwiratheka nearby, bent over the ship's railing.