Hello everyone!
I can see that more and more of you are adding this novel to your library and following me. It truly makes me happy and motivates me to keep going, to push myself further.
Before starting this project, I had begun publishing another novel in a different style, simply titled Total Blackout. It's a story centered on several characters trying to survive the collapse of society and rebuild it.
That novel didn't meet with the same success as this one, and I would really love to hear your opinion. Is it the theme, the writing style, the characters, the plurality and alternation of points of view, or something else? Thank you in advance—and once again, thank you for your support!
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The small carriage jolted over the uneven cobblestones, shaking its lone passenger without mercy.
Each bump made it feel as though the vehicle might fall apart at any moment.
Writing was impossible under such conditions. Even thinking was difficult.
And it had gone on for nearly two weeks.
In the twenty-first century, such a trip would have taken only a few hours by car or train, barely more than an hour by plane.
It was in moments like this that he bitterly regretted modern conveniences. Every league traveled was an ordeal.
He now understood why people moved so little. Crossing the kingdom was an adventure in itself.
But his ordeal was coming to an end, for at last he had arrived in Paris.
François pulled aside the thick curtain that covered the carriage window and dimmed the cabin.
Slowly, the landscape slid past him.
The cultivated fields had vanished, replaced by vast estates with enclosed gardens—true islands of wealth hidden behind tall stone walls and ornate gates. Then came more ordinary houses, their façades worn and tired.
Although this was not his first stay in the capital, he could not help but be astonished. As he had confided to Onatah, Paris did not seem to have changed much since the Middle Ages.
The buildings were dark, their walls often cracked and stained with mold, their roofs covered in moss and pigeon droppings, their overhanging upper floors threatening to collapse. As for the streets and alleys, they were simply vile—clogged with filth and reeking with foul odors.
This was still the time when chamber pots were emptied straight out the window, with little concern for the consequences. People here walked and lived in their own excrement.
Oh my God… That stench! How can they live in such a foul reek? Have they all lost their sense of smell?
His gaze fell on a man walking calmly through the crowd, carrying over his shoulder a long stick from which hung a dozen dead rats, tied by their tails.
François grimaced and looked away.
Gradually, the crowd grew denser. The little carriage was forced to slow down.
They had entered Paris through the Faubourg St. Jacques, following the rue d'Enfer. They passed by the Oratorian college and not far from the Observatory.
After Place St. Michel, the carriage continued along the rue de la Harpe. The streets and architecture changed—signs that the vehicle was entering an older district.
Here, the houses were narrower, packed tightly side by side, their upper floors jutting out to steal a few extra feet of space above the street.
François felt as though he were traveling back in time, journeying across the centuries. At the far end of the long, relatively straight street lay the Île de la Cité, cradle of the city, where a splendid cathedral had been raised—Notre-Dame de Paris.
It could be seen from afar, but it could be heard from even farther.
DING! DANG! DONG!
The Parisians paid it no heed. The bells of Notre-Dame were part of the city's soundscape.
He sank deeper into his seat, which was fairly comfortable despite the jolts, and listened to the noises of the city beneath the chaotic rattle of wheels on cobblestone.
People spoke loudly, in many different accents. Vendors praised their wares, women gossiped by the roadside, town criers spread the latest news, filthy children darted between carts, porters grumbled under their loads while dodging passersby, drunkards sang or muttered to themselves with a shoulder propped against a wall.
To this cacophony were added the steady steps of patrolling soldiers, the barking of dogs, the neighing of horses, and the clucking of hens.
All this tumult was dizzying.
He felt both crushed and exhilarated.
His mind wandered for a moment. He recalled the old forests of the Saint Lawrence, the calm of his seigneury, the cleanliness of Fort Bourbon.
Tilting his head slightly, he observed more closely the buildings they passed.
Most were timber-framed houses of three or four stories, their ground floors occupied by shops. He had no doubt entire families crowded into rented rooms under the very roof, paying a fortune for the privilege.
It is really different from Quebec, François thought, gently closing the curtain.
Perhaps the strangest thing of all was how wealth and poverty lived side by side—sometimes separated only by the width of a street.
Here, a townhouse with manicured gardens; there, a hovel where washerwomen, seamstresses, and artisans struggled to survive.
France's victory over Great Britain had done nothing to change this glaring imbalance.
To think that in twenty years the Revolution will break out… That these children will be the ones storming the Bastille, parading severed heads on pikes.
No one in this teeming city could imagine the horrors soon to unfold in these streets, the torrents of blood that would be spilled in the name of lofty ideals.
It seemed so far away, and yet François felt as though the fall of the monarchy could happen tomorrow.
If I can prevent all this. I don't know how, but… I don't want to remain passive. I can't.
The memories he still held from his history classes about the period were vague at best. Back then, he had thought the past belonged to the past, something unworthy of study.
What was the point? They were dead.
Since his transmigration, he could not stop regretting that way of thinking, reproaching himself for not having paid more attention, if only out of principle. It was not because those people were long gone that they ought to be forgotten.
On the contrary, one had to remember in order to learn. The history of a nation was the memory of its people, a cornerstone of its identity. To forget it—or worse, to be content with forgetting—was as absurd as suffering from amnesia and making no effort to discover who one was.
On a practical level, François had little to rely on beyond the scraps he had retained from his lessons. The only date he had truly memorized was July 14, 1789—the storming of the Bastille.
For him, it had been nothing more than a fortress tied to royal authority. The Parisians had stormed it, torn it down, and that day had become a national holiday.
That was the extent of his knowledge.
The rest had been forgotten.
The Bastille, in this summer of 1769, had not yet been stormed or dismantled stone by stone by the revolutionaries. It still loomed in the northern quarter of Paris, along the eastern boundary of the city, like an ancient sentinel. Impressive and intimidating, yes, but already outdated.
It was little more than a hulking mass with eight round, massive towers, each topped with cannons, arranged around a central courtyard. A relic of the King's absolute authority. In practice, it was no more than an armory and a prison, the place where the monarchy locked away those it wished to forget.
Whispers still lingered that a simple sealed letter could send a man there.
But one should not imagine thousands of political prisoners, victims of Bourbon tyranny, crammed into vermin-infested cells.
In 1789, there had been only seven prisoners within its walls: four forgers, two madmen, and a fallen aristocrat guilty of incest. Far less than what the revolutionaries had expected to find.
What the insurgents had truly sought within those walls was powder and arms. With those supplies, and the support of part of the army, four years had sufficed to topple a millennium-old regime.
And what if it happened sooner? François thought grimly. What if the Revolution broke out here and now? Everything we have gained in America and in India could be swept away in an instant.
He supposed that must have been how things had played out, how the United States had been able to expand until it reached the Pacific Ocean.
The English would certainly not stand idly by. And Martin… Martin could very well end his days under the guillotine.
His gaze hardened.
I will not let that happen.
When the black carriage reached the Île de la Cité, it turned left. It followed the Seine for a time, ablaze beneath the setting sun, until at last it arrived at the Quai de la Grenouillère.
There, at the crossing with the Rue de Bourgogne, stood his friend's townhouse: an elegant residence, restrained yet assured in its lines, facing the Palais Bourbon.
The latter, purchased by the Prince of Condé only a year earlier, was undergoing major extensions. Its façades, supported by scaffolding, already spoke of the prince's ambition.
And across the river stood the majestic Tuileries Palace with its vast gardens, a marvel that reduced everything around it to mere backdrop.
The carriage turned onto the Rue de Bourgogne and then left again, reaching the Rue de Bourbon where the main entrance of Martin's townhouse lay.
The coachman pulled the reins sharply, and the horses came to a halt in the middle of the surprisingly clean and uncluttered street.
Around them rose façades of pale stone, their tall windows gleaming in the evening light—townhouses of every style, each vying for magnificence with its neighbor. It was a true showcase of prestige.
Martin's townhouse was far from ugly, yet it could not compare to the Hôtel de Bouillon or the Hôtel Conti. As for the Palais Bourbon, it stood on a level of its own.
The difference was like that between a mule and a warhorse—as vast as that between his own manor in New France and Martin's hôtel particulier.
The man François had hired, Yann Madec, leapt down from the driver's bench. Having remained there for the entire journey, replaced twice along the way, he now strode toward the gilded black gates.
A servant, vigilant and elegantly dressed so as not to shame his master, approached. A few words were exchanged, and the gates creaked open with a long metallic groan.
The modest carriage, which had begun to block traffic, moved forward once more. As soon as it entered, the gates closed behind it. The vehicle came to rest in the center of a small paved courtyard.
Several men were already at work. One servant stepped forward to open François's door while Yann carefully retrieved his luggage.
"Monsieur de Montrouge," a clear voice suddenly rang out behind him, "we have been expecting you these past two days."
François smiled and turned to face his old friend. The man who approached bore little resemblance to the young officer—barely more than a boy—he had once known. The softness of youth had vanished entirely.
What remained was a refined gentleman of confident bearing, impeccably dressed, accompanied by his charming wife—radiant in a light-blue gown, her rounded belly betraying an advanced pregnancy—and their three children.
"Monsieur de Lusernes," François replied warmly, "you must forgive my delay. But perhaps it is time the kingdom improved its roads… Brittany included?"
Laughter burst from Martin's lips, and the two men stepped closer. Affection bound them, yet they still observed proper etiquette.
François swept off his tricorne and bowed with grace, and Martin returned the courtesy.
Then François turned to the lady of the house and bowed even lower.Ryckje van Schaick—or rather, Rose de Lusernes.
"Madame, I am delighted to see you again. Time, assuredly, has no hold over you."
With great delicacy, he took the hand of the stunningly beautiful woman and inclined his head as though to brush it with a kiss. Naturally, no contact was made.
Slowly, he straightened. His eyes met hers—eyes shining with kindness and intelligence.
"It has been a long time, monsieur," she said softly, with a faint foreign accent. "We are happy to see you again, and it is with pleasure that we invite you into our home."
Everything sounded very official, almost ceremonial, but François knew that this tone was only due to the presence of servants and a few onlookers in the street. Once inside, they would be able to speak more frankly, as friends, and rediscover their old complicity.
"Hmm, about my luggage."
Martin glanced at the trunks at the foot of the carriage and gave a discreet signal to two footmen.
"My men will see to it. I made sure a chamber was prepared for you—one I trust will suit you well."
François smiled and inclined his head. If it was the same room as during his first stay in Paris, he would sleep very comfortably.
"Thank you. The brown trunk holds a few gifts for you. Thank you again for opening your home to me."
"It's only natural! Come, monsieur, let us not linger in the courtyard."
As soon as the doors of the hôtel closed behind them, the tumult of the street faded away, as if they had stepped into a protective bubble. The air, cooler than outside, was also calmer, scented with polished wood and freshly cut flowers.
Their footsteps echoed on the pale flagstones of the entrance hall, lined with tall mirrors, restrained yet elegant tapestries, paintings, and charming bouquets arranged with devotion.
Martin placed a fraternal hand on François's shoulder and guided him across a vast vestibule. François was quickly relieved of his coat and tricorne.
He passed several paintings, among them a splendid portrait of the family. Painted a few months before the birth of their youngest, a sweet little girl named Louise, she was not yet included.
Martin and Ryckje—who still bore that name in private—looked radiant. Martin was portrayed seated to the left, close to his wife, who was also seated.
She rested one hand on her rounded belly, the other upon her husband's hand. Jacques, their eldest son, stood to his mother's right, his face turned toward her as if seeking her attention.
Charlotte, the younger daughter, stood by her father, gazing straight ahead, her head slightly tilted, one hand extended toward a small black-and-white dog rearing up on its hind legs to snatch a treat.
The work was very fine, and true to life. The artist had captured the family's harmony. The only fault one might find was that he had failed to do justice to the radiant beauty of Madame de Lusernes.
François passed another painting, this time a lively hunting scene, but did not linger to admire it.
Soon, they entered a spacious salon flooded with light and richly adorned from floor to ceiling, though never ostentatious. The ceiling itself was a masterpiece, enough to make one wish to lie down on the superb carpet with its intricate patterns just to admire it better.
Everything here spoke of respectability and the rank of a man well established in Parisian society.
"Come in, come in," said Martin, dropping the formal address to speak more openly with his old friend. "At last, you are in Paris! Three years, can you believe it? It has been three years since we last saw each other!"
François smiled faintly.
"Honestly, it almost didn't happen. I made a grave mistake in the New World with the Iroquois. Things could have gone very badly. Fortunately, in the end, all was resolved."
"Oh? What happened? I heard nothing of this."
Seated at the broad table near an impressive window overlooking the Rue de Bourbon, François recounted the events that had nearly shaken New France.
Martin and Ryckje listened intently, though the children were soon distracted when servants brought in pastries and hot chocolate—a beverage dearer than tea.
Martin's expression darkened slightly. He furrowed his brow but remained silent until the tale was done.
"Well, that could have been quite serious indeed. I am glad it ended swiftly. And what did your wife think? How is she, by the way?"
"She is well, thank you. As are our children. She would have liked to come, and regrets sending you only her greetings through me. As for the matter itself, she had little opinion. I made a mistake, and the Mohawks gained from it—as did we. Our relations emerged stronger, and that is what matters most."
Martin slowly nodded, raising his cup to his lips.
"Hmm. I suppose so. And what news from the New World, then?"
François let his chocolate cool a little before launching into a long account: the affairs of Quebec, the growth of its port, the development of his seigneury, the rumors from the British colonies, the mounting tension between the settlers and the Crown.
Martin asked many questions, and François did his best to answer them.
Ryckje, attentive, would sometimes interject with a word, a smile, a remark full of liveliness.
Who would have imagined, ten years earlier, that she would one day find herself in such a fine house—in France, no less—wife to a nobleman? Had someone told her then, she would have laughed.
She still sometimes struggled to grasp how greatly her circumstances had changed. She too had changed. It had been necessary.
When she first arrived in France, she had felt as lost as when she had reached Quebec after the fall of Albany. Thankfully, Martin had been at her side. He had been her only anchor, her only landmark in this foreign land.
Her first meeting with her in-laws, the Count and Countess de Lusernes, had been harsh. She was a nobody, with neither fortune nor a prestigious title. But Martin had defended her passionately, praising qualities she herself doubted she possessed.
It had taken an entire year to break the family's resistance. The Countess, fearful of losing her son, had finally yielded, moved both by his determination and the quiet courage of the young woman.
Thus Ryckje had become Rose, and had converted to Catholicism. Though she had kept her family name, it had vanished into obscurity upon her marriage to Martin Morrel de Lusernes. To society, she was Rose Morrel de Lusernes—or more simply, Madame de Lusernes.
And the day would inevitably come when she would bear the title of Countess, once Martin inherited his father's name and rank.