Enjoy!
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"B-bleurgh!"
The great Iroquois chief had been seasick for several days now, noisily bringing up everything he had eaten that morning. And yet, there was nothing left in his stomach.
His face was pale, his legs trembling like those of an old man or a child just learning to stand, and the dark circles beneath his eyes seemed to have circles of their own.
He looks like a zombie, François observed, suppressing a mocking smile. So the fearsome Akwiratheka does have a weakness after all...
The other chiefs making up the delegation were hardly in any better condition. Most were too exhausted even to make it to the railing and instead remained in their beds, with a bucket within easy reach.
In the worst cases, they were so utterly drained that they could barely manage a few sips of water.
Naturally, the smell aboard the Sincère was far from pleasant.
From a distance, as the ship sailed effortlessly across the deep blue ocean beneath a brilliant sun, there was nothing to suggest the torment the sea was inflicting upon its passengers.
Among those accompanying the delegation was an elderly missionary dressed in a black cassock, who devoted much of his time to caring for the sick. He looked after the Indigenous envoys, but also the members of the crew.
François had crossed paths with him once, many years earlier, during the reconquest of Acadia. Back then, he had been just another young soldier, and the two men had never spoken. Naturally, he had no recollection of the encounter.
Since leaving Quebec, they had exchanged a few words, but had never really had the opportunity to get to know one another. Both men had been very busy until now.
"Good morning, Major," the missionary said in a calm, soothing voice. "How are you feeling today?"
François turned towards the priest and greeted him politely.
"Good morning, Father. I can't complain, thankfully. Hmm, unfortunately, I can't say the same for our fellow travellers."
The priest glanced towards Akwiratheka's broad back.
"This too shall pass, with God's help. They merely need time to grow accustomed to the sea."
"I hope it won't take too long. It would be a shame if they couldn't enjoy this brief respite, especially when they'll be in such high demand in Paris and Versailles."
The missionary, Father Le Loutre, offered a sympathetic smile.
"I hope so too. I pray for them all every day."
His gaze fell upon the neatly stacked sheets of paper covered in writing before the young Major de Montrouge.
"Is your story progressing as you had hoped?"
François shrugged slightly.
"It depends on the day, but overall, I'm satisfied. I'm slowly approaching the end. The day before yesterday, I must admit, I was struggling a little."
"I thought as much."
The old man smiled, deepening the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
"You seem more inspired today."
"Yes. I couldn't tell you why, but the words have been coming easily since this morning. I suppose sometimes it's best to set one's work aside for a day and return to it later. Though I must confess, I spent part of that time thinking about what should happen next."
"Don't push yourself too hard. Rest is important, and the voyage is still a long one. You, too, will need all your strength once we reach France."
François nodded.
You have no idea...
A few days earlier, he had briefly mentioned his next project to the missionary: a book devoted to New France and the peoples who inhabited it. The idea had immediately piqued the priest's interest. He saw it as a worthwhile undertaking, one that could help French readers gain a better understanding of these territories and their inhabitants.
The project nevertheless remained an ambitious one, particularly for a single man.
During their conversation, the officer had explained that he did not intend merely to string together a few descriptions of villages, customs, and exotic clothing. He wanted to portray these peoples and their societies with the same seriousness he would accord European nations, exploring their histories, institutions, beliefs, interests, and disagreements. He might even include illustrations, although doing so would considerably increase the cost of printing the book.
His aim was also to explain how these different peoples viewed their relationships with France.
The delegation offered him a rare opportunity to fill in some of the many gaps in his knowledge. Despite the years he had spent in America, he really knew only the Mohawks. For the time being, he knew very little about the other Haudenosaunee nations or Indigenous peoples.
By the end of the voyage, he would have a solid foundation on which to build his research. He would be able to question men who understood their own societies from the inside. However, he had no illusions about the limitations of his undertaking. Not only would his informants be far from impartial, but the envoys aboard the ship did not represent all the nations of New France.
Thus, although he would be able to take notes, he would still have to compare them with other accounts and accept that some questions might remain unanswered.
For the time being, however, François's first and foremost priority was to finish his novel. It was a far less serious undertaking, but one to which he had devoted a great deal of himself.
"I know," François replied with a faint sigh. "It's just that... my duties keep me so busy that I have very little time to myself to do the things I enjoy. So I try to make as much use of whatever free time I have as possible. Besides, I'm afraid I'll lose the thread of the story if I leave it alone for too long."
Jean-Louis Le Loutre tilted his head slightly to one side.
"Does that happen to you often?"
"Fortunately, not very often," François replied, setting his quill down in his small inkwell. "My previous novels..."
He hesitated for a moment.
"...were different from this one. I knew exactly what I wanted to tell, and the path I needed to follow was much clearer to me."
He quickly placed a hand on a sheet of paper that threatened to blow away, then thought back to his previous works.
Aside from this novel, Peter Pan was the only truly original work he had written, since he had altered the story so extensively back then that it bore no resemblance to the version all the children of his former life knew. This time, the characters were new, and every scene came from his imagination rather than his memories.
Le Loutre considered this for a moment, his brows drawing together slightly.
"Do you mean that this time you haven't drawn up a detailed outline? Why not?"
"Oh, I have," François replied promptly. "I do have one."
He took out a small leather-bound notebook and opened it to reveal pages covered in crossed-out passages, arrows, and notes added in the margins.
"Let's say that, with this one, I have to fill in more of the gaps than I did in my previous works. I know where my characters need to end up and whom they need to meet along the way. What takes me the most time is finding the right words to describe each action and every place, while making sure that every decision feels natural."
The elderly abbé, who was approaching his sixty-fourth birthday, looked at the little notebook, then at what the major had written so far.
"That represents a considerable amount of work. One might think you were writing a scholarly treatise. I must confess that I know very little about such matters, but I'm not sure other authors go to quite as much trouble as you do. Is your story really so complex?"
A genuine smile spread across François's lips.
"Quite the opposite. It's fairly simple. It's just that I like to bring the worlds I want readers to discover to life. From what I've seen, authors often leave readers to imagine the places and characters for themselves, with little more than a few hints to guide them. Personally, I like to give them more to work with. I want them to be able to picture the places, hear the sounds surrounding the characters, and understand what they're feeling, even when they don't express it openly."
The missionary nodded, although he was not entirely convinced.
"That must make your work considerably more difficult. Doesn't it risk weighing down your prose?"
"It's all a matter of proportion, I would say. Descriptions are like salt in a dish. Without it, the meat is bland. Add too much, and it becomes inedible. But if you find the right balance, salt brings out the flavours rather than masking them."
He then remembered something old Seamus Murphy, the apothecary in New York, had once told him.
"I think you could also compare descriptions in a novel to medicine. Properly measured, it heals the sick. But take too much, and that same potion can become a poison."
This time, the missionary seemed to appreciate the comparison more.
"I see. That's an interesting way of looking at it. So you aren't trying to describe everything and explain everything, but rather to give the reader what they need to enter your story."
"Exactly. At least, that's what I strive to do."
The old man studied the pages for a few moments longer before looking up at the officer.
"If you don't mind, sir, I would like to read the beginning of your manuscript. Out of simple curiosity, of course."
François hesitated only briefly before gathering the pages corresponding to the first two chapters and handing them to him.
"By all means. I hope you enjoy it."
Father Le Loutre went off in search of a quiet place to read, choosing the upper deck so that he could enjoy the daylight and the fresh sea air.
When he returned about fifteen minutes later, his expression was more serious.
"Well?" François asked. "What did you think, Father?"
"You have a very interesting style, Major. I understand better now what you were trying to explain to me. Your writing is a pleasure to read, and I had no difficulty picturing the scenes you describe."
"Thank you," François replied with a slight bow.
"However, I do have a few reservations."
François raised an eyebrow.
"About what, exactly?"
The priest handed the pages back to the officer, who placed them beneath his existing pile to keep the sheets in the proper order.
"Well, your main character, the knight, mysteriously travels through time. It's an original idea, and there's nothing inherently objectionable about it, but I found no explanation for the phenomenon. You describe the sky and the circumstances surrounding it in considerable detail, yet you never explicitly name the cause. This silence could be misinterpreted, even though one might understand it as a manifestation of divine will."
François smiled gently.
"That is intentional. I prefer to leave readers free to form their own opinions."
Father Le Loutre furrowed his thick eyebrows. A few hairs longer than the rest stuck out from them, curling upwards.
The major did his best not to dwell on them.
"Sir," the cassock-clad man said, "it seems to me that you are taking an unnecessary risk. You could easily dispel any doubts with a sentence or two. Why preserve the ambiguity? Why risk being misunderstood if your intentions are innocent?"
"Hmm... Because I don't think everything needs to be explained. Sometimes, mystery is part of the story. It can remain unresolved right to the end. If one reader sees the hand of God in it while another imagines something else, I see no problem with that."
"Perhaps you don't. But what about those who read your text with less charitable intentions? If you ever decide to have it printed, you will need the approval of the Bureau de la Librairie. They might ask you to clarify this passage, and others too, if they contain similar ambiguities."
"This story isn't intended for publication, Father."
The priest looked surprised.
"Really?"
François folded his hands in front of him.
"Yes. It's... well, it's less a commission than a personal request. Someone who discovered my modest talents by reading one of my manuscripts asked me to write another story. At least for the time being, it isn't intended for the public."
Le Loutre narrowed his eyes, wondering who this person might be.
"I see. So that's how it is."
He considered this for a moment, then looked again at the fairly substantial pile of sheets lying before the young Major de Montrouge.
"Yet you are going to considerable lengths to satisfy this person. Surely you weren't obliged to go quite so far."
"Perhaps not. But I like to do things properly."
Father Le Loutre clasped his hands behind his back, like a teacher addressing a pupil. He smiled briefly, then grew serious again.
"That is an excellent attitude, Major, provided you don't forget that certain stories can have consequences their authors never anticipated. Is that not precisely why the Bureau de la Librairie exists?"
François did not answer. He waited for the priest to continue.
"Your knight comes from another century," the missionary went on. "Yet he retains the mindset of his own time. I imagine you have him point out the shortcomings of our society, and that he does not hesitate to judge the people of our age. Am I mistaken?"
"That's right," François admitted. "Part of the story is built around his observations and misunderstandings. He encounters things that seem perfectly ordinary to us, while others strike him as absurd or unjust. It's a way of encouraging readers to think by presenting our world from a different perspective."
The old man's expression hardened, for this literary device was nothing new. Montesquieu, for instance, had done much the same thing by writing a fictional correspondence between two foreigners who discovered France and described what they saw to friends back home.
"You are playing a dangerous game, Major, or so it seems to me. Even if you have no intention of having your work printed, that does not give you free rein to write whatever you please. Criticizing a custom or denouncing an injustice is not necessarily reprehensible, but there is a difference between criticizing certain aspects of society and giving the impression that its very foundations are deserving of condemnation. Your knight could become the mouthpiece for ideas you have no intention of defending, without your even realizing it. That could bring you a great deal of trouble, far beyond merely offending the person for whom this work of fiction is intended."
"I'm simply giving a voice to a man from the past. I'm not trying to portray our own age as a catastrophe."
"Perhaps not, but readers do not always distinguish between a character's opinions and those of the author who created him."
François remained silent for a moment. He knew the man had a point. In his former life, he had heard of people who confused an actor's morality with that of the character he played. Why should an author be any less vulnerable to such misunderstandings?
"You're right," he conceded, without quite admitting defeat. "But Hugues does more than criticize the eighteenth century he has only just discovered. He also sees what has improved since his execution. The position of women, libraries, the progress of science and thought... He also observes that the kingdom enjoys a degree of internal peace that was not always possible in his own time, partly because great lords no longer enjoy the same freedom to maintain their own armed forces and wage war against one another. I'm not blindly glorifying the past."
Back when he had still been Adam, he had held a very poor opinion of people who mindlessly insisted that "things were better in the old days." Probably because he had been taught to look down on them.
Since his transmigration, however, his opinion had changed considerably, despite the fact that the past he had discovered was hardly a peaceful place. As he grew older, gained experience, and learned to think for himself, he had come to realize that things required a more nuanced view.
"I believe," François continued, "and this is only my opinion, that there were admirable things in the past, just as there are today. There were injustices, violence, and suffering, but we have managed, to some extent, to reduce them, even if we haven't succeeded in eliminating them altogether. What interests me is showing that every age has its advantages and its shortcomings."
Le Loutre studied him for a long moment. He had not expected a military officer to reflect on such profound questions. There was enough material here to make for a fascinating debate.
"So you believe people idealize the past?"
"Some do. Those who look back with nostalgia tend to think in terms of gains and losses, and the losses are easier to see. Some people see nothing else. The traditions, the bonds between people, the values they believe have disappeared. But they often forget all the inconveniences, and even the suffering, that went along with them."
"That's an interesting view, and I believe I share it. Perhaps we must learn to look at things as a whole, though that is easier said than done, since it requires us to question our own assumptions rather deeply. The opposite must also be true: those who see only the benefits of modernity fail to realize what they lose in the process."
Something shifted subtly in the old man's expression.
"This deserves further thought. But I understand your approach better now. I only hope you will exercise the same caution when you tackle more delicate subjects. Some people may be particularly sensitive to them."
"I'll do my best."
Father Le Loutre gave him a slight nod and walked away to return to the sick. François watched him go, then turned his attention back to his manuscript.
I'm going to need several rounds of revisions...
For the time being, he still had several pages to write before he could consider his novel finished. Hugues still had to set right all the wrongs of the past.
He picked up his quill again, keeping the missionary's remarks in the back of his mind.
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A week and a half later, François finally laid down his quill.
He had just completed his novel, which he had titled The Strange Adventure of the Knight of Beaumont. For once, it was a story that had sprung entirely from his own imagination.
He had known the broad outlines from the beginning, but Hugues and Julie's journey had taken shape as he wrote, and several chapters had never appeared in his original plan.
Despite his own experience as a time traveller, which had proved invaluable, this was undoubtedly the work that had demanded the greatest effort from him.
François spent the following three days resting. On the fourth, he began reading the manuscript again from the very first page. The hardest part was over, but he could not simply declare the work finished and leave it at that. He needed to reread the text, correct any awkward phrasing he came across, and check for consistency. The chronology of events had to hold together, and the characters had to keep the same names from beginning to end.
It was no small undertaking.
Throughout the process, he could not stop wondering whether Marie-Thérèse de la Ferté-Imbault would enjoy the story.
François gazed at the many sheets covered in his fine handwriting, neat in some places, nervous in others.
This was obviously not the manuscript that would eventually find its way into the marquise's hands. He would need to have a clean copy made, one that was pleasant to read and worthy of being presented in a Parisian salon. That would be a copyist's job, for a fee he would have to determine.
Depending on the length of the manuscript and the quality he wanted, the work would take more or less time. Two months at the very least, probably longer, depending on the copyist's availability.
By then, François would most likely already be in New York.
The convoy had covered a considerable part of the distance separating America from Europe, and the chiefs, who had suffered greatly during the early days of the crossing, had gradually grown accustomed to the ship's movements and the conditions aboard. Even those who had been worst affected had regained enough strength to walk about the deck and gaze at the horizon without vomiting.
The major decided that the time had come to begin his next undertaking. He took a new notebook from his belongings, plain and much like the one containing the outline for The Strange Adventure of the Knight of Beaumont, and opened it to the first page.
He wrote down a provisional title, followed by a few of the subjects he wanted to explore. There was so much to investigate that he soon filled three pages with questions alone. Some concerned everyday practices, others ceremonies and religious beliefs, as well as trade and diplomatic relations.
François had no doubt that more questions would arise along the way, probably enough to fill another three pages.
Later, he would have to organize everything, not only for the reader's sake but also for his own. Otherwise, he would struggle to keep track of his findings when comparing the answers he obtained during this voyage with those he gathered in future inquiries.
He felt as though he were standing before an immense mountain, determined to reach its summit, and the prospect filled him with doubts. But if he never began the climb, he would never get any closer to the top.
If he failed to reach the end, it would not be a disaster. He could always warn his prospective readers that he could not cover everything and that subtle differences might exist between communities within each nation. Such a disclaimer would not diminish his ambition: to present as comprehensive a picture as possible.
If he approached the task properly, his work would earn recognition and become a reference for generations to come.
He began by approaching the Haudenosaunee chiefs and explaining what he intended to undertake, asking whether they would be willing to answer his questions. He assured them that he would take great care not to distort their words and that he genuinely wanted to understand how their societies worked, how they viewed the world around them, and what their history was.
Most of them were immediately curious, but some doubted his ability to remain impartial. They also wanted to know who the book was intended for and whether they would be able to check that their words had been accurately recorded.
François took these entirely legitimate concerns seriously and offered every assurance he could. His response was greatly appreciated.
He then began asking his questions. With little else to occupy them, the chiefs willingly took part, answering each one in considerable detail. Almost every answer, in turn, gave rise to new questions.
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The voyage continued without any major incident. Slowly but steadily, the French ships drew closer to the European continent.
François made progress with his work, but when they finally reached Brest in the middle of the afternoon on June 3, he was still a long way from finishing. He had, however, managed to speak with every member of the delegation.
After several weeks at sea, how relieved they all were to see solid ground again and hear the cries of seabirds! The batteries lining the Goulet, the narrow passage that guarded Brest's harbour, thundered a welcome. Then it was the castle's turn.