Hello everyone! Here's a new chapter that I hope you'll enjoy!
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That time at Fort Bourbon had been far from restful. A mountain of work had slowly piled up on his desk, and François had been forced to devote his entire days, from morning until night, to overcome it.
He had also drastically cut down on his hours of sleep in order to prepare for his departure.
On June 15, 1769, he was temporarily relieved of his duties and entrusted command to his adjutant, not without leaving him a thick notebook filled with meticulously written instructions so that everything would continue to run smoothly in his absence.
As for the seigneury, he had no worries at all. Onatah and Jeanne knew how to make the land prosper—better, in truth, than he could have done himself.
The hardest part remained the separation from his family.
Pierre and Louis, though the reasons for his departure had been patiently explained to them, clung to him with all their little strength, refusing to accept the idea of not seeing their father for so many long months.
The seasons imposed their authority. Beyond mid-October, returning to New France became perilous. The risk of one or several storms was too great, not to mention the ice that would paralyze the continent by the time of his arrival.
The safest option, therefore, was to spend the winter in France, far from them, and wait until the following spring. That meant he would not see his family in America for ten or eleven months.
To soothe his crying children, he had been obliged to promise them presents upon his return. In truth, it was already planned. Several ideas were already running through his mind.
To Onatah, he had also promised a gift, a token of his love, a present worthy of her. Perhaps a jewel, or a Parisian dress that would make the women of Quebec green with envy.
Their last night together had been brief, but passionate.
He left at dawn with two large trunks of wood, fabric, and leather—sturdy enough to withstand long voyages—gifts for his family, for his childhood friends in Corbie, and for Martin Morrel de Lusernes, his former comrade-in-arms with whom he would be staying a few days in Paris.
All of them would be delighted with what he was bringing back from America.
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Quebec, the day of departure. A particularly hot Friday.
The slightest gesture demanded extra effort.
The sky, of a rare purity, looked like a vast playground for birds, dancing with the winds above the city. The river, immense and a shade of blue even deeper than the sky, sparkled with a thousand reflections, like a long serpent clad in sapphire scales.
Such a sight invited contemplation, in the shade of one of those great, living trees at the water's edge.
François walked down at an easy pace along the long ramp leading to the port, overflowing with activity, savoring one last time the scent of the city: fresh bread out of the oven, tender grass, and freshly cut wood.
His trunks had already been loaded the day before. Only he was missing.
A few sailors, canvas bags slung over their shoulders, rushed past him at a run, afraid of missing the departure. Perhaps they had drunk too much the previous night, or wanted to linger a little longer in a woman's arms?
François could not help but smile and headed in the same direction.
His ship was there, at its berth, still securely moored to a newly built wooden pier.
The port had indeed stretched somewhat eastward, toward the Saint Charles River, after major works to deepen the waterway. For the moment, there were four new quays, long enough to accommodate frigates.
The young major was to embark on a twenty-eight-gun vessel built in 1766, named La Garonne.
It was a pale copy of the HMS Coventry, a sixth-rate British ship from 1757 of excellent quality, captured during the Six Years' War off the Portuguese coast. French engineers had studied it and tried to improve upon it. Instead, they had made it heavier and less maneuverable.
La Garonne did not even carry its full armament—only twenty-four guns. That did not make it better, nor much faster.
François boarded at the same time as a broad-shouldered man bent under the weight of two immense canvas sacks.
"The last dispatches," he explained to an officer before disappearing into the bowels of the ship.
The officer caught sight of the major's epaulettes and came to meet him.
"Welcome aboard La Garonne, sir. May I assist you?"
"I am Major Boucher de Montrouge," François replied, presenting a sealed letter. "Here is my embarkation order."
The officer, a lieutenant still in his thirties, quickly scanned the official document and nodded.
"All is in order. We weigh anchor in one hour. Do you have baggage?"
"I reported yesterday to have it loaded. I was told it was placed in the hold."
"Perfect. Hmm… Mr. Huet, show the major to his quarters."
François followed a quartermaster, his face marked by years at sea, through the low-ceilinged gun deck toward the stern. The corridor forced one to stoop, and the strong scents assailed him at once:a mixture of damp and fresh wood, hemp, tar, and sweat.
He was shown to a small space partitioned off by planks—what was pompously called a "cabin" for passengers. In reality, it was a narrow alcove without windows, shared with two other passengers.
There were no bunks, the space being too limited, but hammocks instead.
François contemplated the cramped space in silence.
Well, thank God the children aren't here, he thought. That would have been difficult.
Even for him, the journey ahead promised to be long and arduous.
For François, accustomed to the generous space of his chamber at the manor, the contrast was brutal. It reminded him of his first crossing to America, years earlier.
The difference, this time, was significant: he was not forced to share a vast, cluttered lower deck filled with ropes, cannons, barrels, and the bustle of hundreds of sailors and soldiers from his regiment.
After inspecting the narrow berth where he would spend his nights, François returned to the upper deck. The atmosphere there was feverish: sailors, under the watchful eye of their officers, hurried to finalize preparations before setting sail.
A bell rang, followed by a long whistle.
The heavy black anchors rose from the clear waters of the Saint Lawrence, and the thick mooring lines holding La Garonne to the quay were hauled aboard. Tugged by a few rowboats, the frigate drifted away from the pier and slowly advanced into the river.
Gradually, she pivoted to face its immense mouth, still invisible from this distance.
With a surge of emotion, François let his gaze linger on the city's receding silhouette. Soon, the fortifications towering over the river, the steep rooftops, and the high steeples of Québec faded into the horizon.
A steady, warm wind filled the sails as the crew unfurled them one by one with practiced precision.
La Garonne gathered speed, following a route tested by generations of pilots and marked by buoys, though she could not go faster.
The Saint Lawrence was treacherous. Running aground now on a sandbank would be both disastrous and humiliating.
It took four and a half days for the frigate to reach Anticosti Island at the mouth of the river, and two more to round the southern tip of Newfoundland.
Ahead of them stretched the Atlantic Ocean, opening its arms to them like a loving woman, resplendent under the July sun.
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The voyage was long, though not endless—and peaceful.
Unlike in 1759, François had no reason to fear crossing paths with a British squadron. The two kingdoms were at peace.
The season, moreover, was ideal for an Atlantic crossing.
There were, of course, a few days of foul weather, but nothing compared to the dreadful storm they had once faced on their way to Louisbourg. Most often, the weather was fair, allowing François to sit on deck, writing while breathing in the clean sea air.
With nothing else to do, within a month he completed his version of Sleeping Beauty. The adaptation was not difficult. He had simply followed Disney's story, inserting a Christian moral suitable to appease the censors. He had no desire to repeat his ordeal with The Lion King.
That work—utterly new to the people of this century—had brought surprise and confusion among the censors.
They had puzzled over the "circle of life." Was it compatible with Christian values? Did Mufasa represent Louis XV or some other monarch? Did Scar symbolize a minister or a prince of the blood? Was it a veiled critique of monarchy? And what, then, were the hyenas supposed to be—foreign mercenaries, perhaps?
Their feedback had taken far longer to arrive than for Pirates of the Caribbean. In the end, they had judged it to be a sort of extended fable, in the tradition of La Fontaine and inspired by the tragedies of antiquity. One could also detect the influence of William Shakespeare.
At least, that was how François's work had been perceived.
Still, it had not been accepted right away. He had been forced to revise it, producing four different versions.
In the final edition, published at the end of 1767, François had expanded Rafiki's role, transforming him into an elephant; he had also given the story a clear Christian moral by making Simba understand that his legitimacy came from God and that he could not escape his destiny.
Finally, François had sharpened his critique of the dangerous idleness and refusal of responsibility embodied—and glorified—by the meerkat Timon and the warthog Pumbaa.
Sleeping Beauty was a different case, and had the advantage of already being well known in France thanks to the storyteller Charles Perrault. But that would not make the censors any more lenient.
What mattered most was that François's work not be seen as a threat to "impressionable minds." Disney's version was much lighter than the earlier ones, the oldest dating back to the Middle Ages.
He had no wish to include a second part centered on the princess's life after marriage, her struggle against her ogress mother, dull political intrigues, or violence.
François was grateful to have grown up with Disney's light and luminous version. It was that story he wanted to share with his readers: an innocent tale of love between a virtuous princess and a courageous prince, with an epic battle against the forces of evil.
Almost at once, he had launched into his next project—again, a work utterly unknown in this era: Peter Pan. It was a daunting challenge.
The character, born only at the dawn of the twentieth century, would surely make a strong impression. The idea both thrilled and unnerved him.
The last thing he wanted was to ruin a story that had so deeply shaped his childhood. It had been one of his favorite animated films.
Yet soon he found himself hitting an invisible wall.
He froze before his draft, half-covered in ink.
"No… this won't work…" he sighed as he reread his draft.
With experience, François had come to understand how the people of this century thought. What the censors expected.
It wasn't enough for his story to be well-written and entertaining. It had to serve a purpose, carry a moral. He practically had a duty to help young readers draw a lesson from it.
But who was Peter Pan? A boy stubbornly refusing to grow up, to accept any form of authority or responsibility. A free spirit, provocative, yet searching for a mother for himself and the Lost Boys.
In the mindset of the eighteenth century, such an idea risked being seen as a dangerous apology for disorder.
In Disney's version, he was pursued by a pirate who himself was hunted by a crocodile that had swallowed a clock—symbol of time passing—along with one of his hands. Captain Hook was both the villain and a comic device.
That would certainly not please those who would analyze his work in depth.
The only redeeming feature of that story, in that version, was that the well-born children taken to Neverland by Peter Pan eventually returned home. They accepted their duties: to grow up, become responsible adults, and found a family.
François scratched his temple with the tip of his quill.
I need to adapt it… But how far? The moral must be clear. I need to make readers understand that growing up is necessary. That one cannot remain a child forever.
His gaze fell on his last sentence, where the Lost Boys appeared—rowdy supporting characters orbiting around Peter Pan, their leader, though their origins remained vague.
I must show more clearly the importance of order. And the need to respect adults.
François was already thinking about the parents of the children who had followed Peter Pan to his magical island.
They must apologize in the end and promise to behave from now on. As for Peter, he must be shown as the wrong path, the voice of temptation. A sort of demon luring innocent souls astray?
The thought sent a faint shiver down his spine.
Ah… this changes the whole atmosphere.
Absentmindedly, he let his quill wander across the margin of the draft, scribbling a few words that he immediately crossed out.
He would also need to insert a touch of religion into the text, reminding young readers of their duties toward God and the King. It was inevitable, and the more he thought about it, the heavier the story became.
It drifted away from fantasy to become a moral lesson. But wasn't that precisely what this century expected?
And Captain Hook… What to do with him? He was the villain, yes, but also an adult. The enemy of Peter…
He began to wonder if he shouldn't turn him into a tragic hero, the voice of reason.
"Ah, I don't know!" he burst out, dropping his quill and burying his face in his hands.
The story is going to change completely! This is too hard! Should I give up and move on to something else?
He feared betraying the story and its characters. This tale, which had marked his childhood, meant a great deal to him. He wanted people of this era to discover Captain Hook and Peter Pan.
If I make Hook honorable… no, that won't work. He would no longer be Captain Hook. And he must still be seen as a threat by the children.
Someone brushed past him, nearly knocking the board from his knees that served as his desk. François startled and looked up at a young officer who turned back.
"My apologies, sir," he said sincerely, bowing slightly.
"Oh, it's nothing."
François followed the man with his eyes for a moment as he walked away among the sailors, barking orders.
Although… What if I made Hook a true figure of authority? Someone who resembled a father? He would embody adulthood, responsibility.
His eyes fell back on his draft.
It would then make sense for Peter Pan to present him as a danger to the children. He doesn't want to become like him!
François feverishly began scribbling again, writing that Hook was not a pirate but a naval officer loyal to God and the King—someone who had chosen to grow up where Peter had refused.
Then he stopped once more. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.
This is a pain!
He sat still for a moment, when suddenly, for no particular reason, he thought of another tale, another work from his former life—Star Wars. Of Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. Of the revelation of their kinship.
"And what if… Hook and Peter Pan were actually father and son? No, brothers?" François whispered to himself.
The idea intoxicated him for an instant. He imagined them as sailors, lost together in Neverland with ship and crew. Two brothers who could remain young forever thanks to fairy magic.
But Hook, unlike his elder brother, eventually decides to grow up. He matures while Peter builds his little community. Hook, now a captain, loses his hand during a fratricidal duel.
François raised his eyes to the ocean, frowning.
"Why does Peter refuse to grow up?"
The answer came instantly, with brutal clarity.
Because he is afraid of dying. No—he is afraid of aging. Because he is beautiful, narcissistic, proud, arrogant. The prospect of decay haunts him. Because he once watched someone he loved slowly lose his memory, sink into the madness of old age.
François recalled his grandfather, the one who used to tell him stories when he was a child. The original owner of the watch that had brought him to this time.
Since he had absorbed François's memories, he could recall everything in the smallest detail.
His death, preceded by a slow agony, had broken his heart.
Peter does not want to end like that. He is terrified. So he chose to remain a child, whatever the cost.
He shuddered. The story was taking on a new dimension.
This obsession had led his companions to their downfall, turning them away from God, and had brought him to a confrontation with his brother. But Hook—the adult, merciful, just, and pious—was ready to forgive him. All he wanted was to bring everyone back home.
Once again, he tore his gaze away from the draft and caught sight, far off on the horizon, of a thin dark line. Land. France.
Soon a few seabirds appeared, shrieking as they wheeled above the proud vessel, as though to salute it. It surged ahead at full speed, every sail spread, slicing through the waves like a sharpened blade.
François sighed, crossed his arms, and let his gaze wander one more moment across the scene.
"This might work."
All that remained was to choose an ending: Peter's death, his return to his original world, or his decision to remain in Neverland.
La Guyenne passed through the Goulet of Brest on August 11, beneath a blazing sun. The air was hot and dry, heavy with scents.
On either side, batteries kept watch to ensure no unauthorized vessel entered. Ahead lay the roadstead, like a miniature inland sea.
The frigate slowed and turned toward the Penfeld River, splitting the town of Brest in two.
Its castle, perched atop jagged rocks worn by the tides, rose proudly like a faithful sentinel.
On both sides of the river lay numerous vessels: massive warships waiting or under repair, as well as a few ferries shuttling across waters that could hardly compare with the immense Saint Lawrence.
With such bustling activity, it was hard to believe this port had partly burned only a few years before.
Now under the control of an experienced pilot who had come aboard earlier, La Guyenne entered the Penfeld.
Thanks to him, the ship had no trouble making its way and mooring almost at the foot of the castle.
The shipyards stretched farther along the river, near a great plateau called Les Capucins.
Gangways were set in place, and unloading began at once. François stepped ashore, grimacing at the pungent reek of hot tar, and stood aside to wait for his trunks to be brought out.
The King's agents were already moving about, clad in dark uniforms, their faces stern. Together with a naval officer, they inspected the cargo and the papers of each passenger.
When his turn came, François presented his authorizations and was required to open his baggage.
Neatly folded clothes, personal belongings, but also a few gifts for his loved ones—everything was in order.
Once he received approval from the officials, he left the port and entered the city.
Had he been an ordinary traveler, he would have been forced to find lodging on his own, but this was not the case. He was an officer, a major.
As on his first visit to France, the Navy took charge of his accommodation. Since the barracks were already full, he was quartered in an inn at the King's expense.
The place was not luxurious, but it was clean, well kept, and spacious. His room, with its light-colored walls and decent bed, seemed sheer comfort compared to his "cabin" aboard La Garonne.
The contrast was even starker with the shabby room he had once occupied in Québec during his first leave.
Without a word, he sat down on the bed. It was far better than a hammock, endlessly swaying with the roll of the sea.
But Onatah would not be at his side when the time came to lie down.
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The next morning, at first light, François left Brest.
Once again, his rank spared him many inconveniences. Had he been an ordinary man, he would have been crammed into a stagecoach with six or seven others, jostled for hours along France's rutted roads.
That was not fitting for an officer and a nobleman (even if only personally ennobled). So he hired a private carriage and engaged a servant to assist him along the way.
He had no intention of carrying his own luggage.
This option came at a cost, true—but he could afford it. Moreover, the royal treasury would partly reimburse his travel expenses.
And after such a long voyage and so many years of service, he felt he deserved a touch of comfort.