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The day had long since begun for the people of Montrouge when François left the manor.
In this late October, temperatures were beginning to drop, but the days could still be pleasant. This one promised to be mild. The sun shone in an almost cloudless sky, and the air was comfortable enough. It was probably around fifteen or sixteen degrees Celsius, and if the weather remained favorable, it might even reach twenty.
The nights, however, were becoming cold.
The day before, temperatures had fallen below six degrees. Two days earlier, frost had even whitened the landscape.
Winter was approaching.
Around him, the great trees had all shed their leaves. The maples, which only a few weeks earlier had set Montrouge ablaze with their brilliant colors, now stood bare. The last leaves still clinging to the branches seemed to be waiting for the first strong gust of wind to abandon the struggle and join their sisters on the ground.
Carmène, his chestnut mare, followed the dirt road at a leisurely pace as it crossed his lands in a long straight line. On either side stretched the narrow strips of land upon which each family had built its house, barn, and chicken coop.
And despite the small population, people were working everywhere. Some repaired tools or makeshift fences, while others carried firewood. The end of the harvest season did not mean there was nothing left to do.
The inhabitants François passed greeted him respectfully by removing their caps, interrupting their work for a few seconds before returning to it.
Eventually, he stopped his mare in front of a modest wooden house that resembled a large cabin. It had few windows, and gray smoke drifted from the chimney.
A broad-shouldered man, perhaps in his forties, was chopping wood with almost mechanical regularity. He raised his axe and brought it down onto a log resting on a wide stump.
Thwack!
Already weakened, the log split cleanly in two. The pieces joined the others in a small pile waiting to be carried into a shelter to dry. That task belonged to three children aged seven, ten, and twelve.
The Faure family.
François dismounted.
Thwack!
The axe fell again, and the blade bit deeply into the wood. This time, however, the log remained intact.
The man's forehead glistened with sweat. Thick veins stood out across his straining muscles and the backs of his tired hands. The effort was considerable, yet he did not slow down.
The oldest child, Étienne, was the first to notice François's presence. His eyes widened.
"Father..."
Antoine Faure halted his motion. His axe remained suspended above his head for a moment as he turned his gaze toward the road. He frowned slightly upon seeing the seigneur approach, then lowered the axe.
"My lord."
He removed his wool cap and bowed respectfully. His sons immediately imitated him.
"I wasn't aware you had returned," he said as he straightened up.
"Hmm. I only arrived yesterday. I'm taking advantage of this fine day to see how the seigneury is doing."
He smiled warmly at the children, who were watching him with fascination. His finely embroidered coat, buckle shoes, and powdered wig seemed to belong to another world. Only high-ranking officers dressed so elegantly.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," François said, turning his attention back to the father.
The man briefly glanced at the small pile of wood lying at his feet. He was not a slow worker, but he already felt he would not meet his goal for the day.
As temperatures gradually dropped, their consumption of firewood would only increase. If possible, he wanted to build up a good supply before freezing temperatures and snow arrived.
"Not really... although I still have a great deal of work to finish before nightfall."
His tone was not insolent. It was simply factual.
François inclined his head slightly.
"In that case, I'll try not to take up too much of your time. Tell me, how is your family?"
"Well," the man said, scratching the back of his head, "there's bread on my table, and my children are healthy. I have no reason to complain."
Listening to him, François had the impression that this was his very definition of success—almost of happiness.
Antoine Faure cast a glance toward his modest house, and beyond it, across his vast plot of land. The total size of his holding was large enough to contain thirty rugby fields.
For now, it was little more than a vast wooded expanse. It would take decades to clear it completely and bring it under cultivation. His children would have plenty of time to grow up and start families of their own before that happened.
"This land isn't bad. We have enough to do, and more than enough wood to keep us warm through the winter. We simply have to get up early and work hard. A simple life, but an honest one."
François nodded slowly.
"How was this year's harvest?"
The man shrugged, his face largely expressionless.
"Decent. The potatoes did well. I'm fairly pleased. Maybe not quite as good as last year, but we got a lot of large ones. We kept the smaller ones for spring planting."
"I'm glad to hear it. I hope the same can be said for the other families."
He paused briefly and took the opportunity to look at Antoine Faure's three sons. They were following the conversation very closely.
"To be completely honest, I also wanted to speak with you about your children."
The farmer's expression hardened immediately.
"Oh?
"Yes, Monsieur Faure. As you know, we are offering the children of Montrouge an education at the manor under the guidance of a clerk my wife hired to teach our eldest son."
Antoine Faure nodded slowly but kept a closed expression. He could feel his children's eyes on his back. He had no doubt they hoped he would agree to send them there, since it would allow them to escape their fair share of the work on the farm.
"I am aware of it, my lord."
"Yet your boys do not attend.
"No."
The tone was firm and final. François felt as though he were speaking to a brick wall.
Faure was aware of it as well. Even though this man, more than ten years younger than him, was his lord, he did not have the authority to force him to entrust his children's education to a stranger, no matter how carefully that stranger had been chosen.
François did not change his attitude and kept a cordial, understanding tone.
"And yet several families have sent their children. From what I have seen, many have made significant progress. They are currently learning to write the letters of the alphabet properly. Soon, they will be able to write their names. The next step will be learning to write common words, and then complete sentences."
"I know what you are trying to do, my lord, but with all due respect, I will not change my mind."
"May I ask why?" the lord simply asked, in an almost naïve tone.
"Well, because there is too much work on the farm," Faure replied with a sigh. "As you can see, I need them. Every pair of hands is necessary."
He briefly glanced at the tall trees that covered almost the entirety of his holding. There was so much to do.
"My boys help me a great deal," he continued calmly, "and they help their mother as well. When the youngest is old enough, he will help too."
Indeed, François knew that this man had a fourth child, another son. Like Louis, he was three years old. And according to Onatah, a fifth was on the way.
"I understand completely," François replied calmly. "There is no shortage of work, and a day only has twenty-four hours."
This time, Faure nodded openly. If he had the power, he would make days last at least forty-eight hours, because working from dawn until dusk as he did never seemed sufficient.
"And winter is coming," he added. "Soon the ground will be frozen, the rivers too, and cutting wood will become far too difficult. Now is the time to do it. And if there are things that need repairing, now is also the right time. I do not care whether other families have sent their children to the manor. Hum, once again, with all due respect... I must think of my family first."
He looked at his three sons standing beside him, then at the house he had built with his own hands, even if he had not done it alone.
"And honestly, I do not see what it would bring them."
François remained silent. Antoine continued.
"They will plow, they will sow, they will harvest, and one day they will raise children of their own. Knowing how to read and write... I am not saying it is completely useless, but nobody dies from not knowing how to do those things. My father could neither read nor write. Neither could my grandfather. Yet they fed their families and lived respectable lives."
He placed a work-worn hand against his chest.
"I cannot read either. And look."
He gestured toward his house, his vegetable garden, and his children.
"We lack nothing essential."
He rested a hand on the head of his second son, Jacques-André.
The boy looked up at his father with wide eyes. Like his brothers, he had completely stopped carrying logs in order to listen to the conversation.
"Being hungry and being cold, on the other hand—that can kill. That is why I will not send them to the manor."
The two men exchanged a few more words, but François quickly understood that he would gain nothing more that morning.
Fortunately, Antoine Faure was neither foolish nor hostile. He simply saw things from his own perspective. To him, a few hours spent learning the letters of the alphabet were a few hours that could have been spent preparing the winter wood reserves.
There was no urgency, however. This man could very well change his mind later, especially after seeing the results achieved by other children.
François therefore took his leave and climbed back into the saddle. He headed toward another house a few hundred meters farther along the road.
This land belonged to the Rosec family.
As their name suggested, they originally came from Brittany, like the Madec family. However, they had settled in the New World a century earlier. The master of the household, Ronan Rosec, was the younger brother of Gaspard Rosec, a sergeant in the New Aquitaine Regiment.
The latter owned his own land in the first concession row, but his military duties often kept him away. His wife therefore managed the farm in his absence. The couple had two young children, twins, still too young to receive instruction from Monsieur Gaston.
According to Onatah, they would not oppose the project when the time came.
Ronan, however, had a daughter of learning age. Yet although she was old enough to study alongside the others, she had not attended a single lesson. It was for her that François had come.
The Rosec family's house had a very simple design and a steeply pitched roof crowned by a large stone chimney. It had been built slightly back from the road. To the left stood an impressive vegetable garden, nearly twice the size of the Faure family's.
Ronan Rosec, his wife, and his daughter were working there, harvesting carrots, turnips, a few rather underdeveloped leeks, but above all cabbages. The rest, such as wheat and potatoes, had already been harvested several months earlier.
François dismounted and passed through the simple gate that marked the boundary of the property. He was quickly noticed by little Marguerite, who was struggling to carry a large wicker basket heavily loaded with vegetables. Her big light-colored eyes widened in surprise when she recognized him.
"My lord!"
Ronan Rosec quickly approached to greet the lord and removed his wool cap, whose color lay somewhere between brown and green.
"Good day, Monsieur Rosec."
The farmer looked a great deal like his brother. Fairly tall for the period, with broad shoulders, a triangular face, and a serious gaze. His ash-blond hair, however, was beginning to recede at the temples.
His wife came forward in turn to greet the visitor.
With an ordinary face, she wore a simple grayish-white apron with a pocket in the center and a plain bonnet from which a few brown strands escaped.
"Madam."
François bowed politely, and the woman answered with a deep, somewhat awkward curtsy.
As for Marguerite, she could not take her eyes off him. François noticed and offered her a slight smile, which made the young girl blush. She immediately lowered her eyes and bit her lower lip.
"I have only just returned to Montrouge," François explained. "I am making my way around the seigneury to see what has changed during my absence and to hear how everyone is doing. May I borrow a little of your time?"
The man and woman exchanged a glance. Refusing would have been impolite.
"Of course, my lord. Please."
They invited the lord into their modest house. The interior was simple but clean. A table, rather large for a family of three, occupied the center of the main room, and something was simmering gently in a pot suspended above a small fire in the hearth.
Like all the inhabitants of Montrouge, the Rosecs had enough space to build something much larger, but the family had been content to erect an ordinary house.
The reason was simple: a larger house required more firewood to heat during the winter, more maintenance, and more work. It made little sense.
After a few ordinary exchanges about the harvest and the coming winter, François finally brought up the sensitive subject of their daughter's education. Unsurprisingly, their expressions immediately closed off. Ronan stiffened, and his wife stopped smiling. Yet neither of them glanced toward Marguerite.
"My lord," Ronan Rosec said cautiously, his voice low and his hands clasped before him, "we are very grateful for what you are offering, but... we do not intend to send Marguerite."
The girl tensed in her chair but did not make a sound.
François showed no change in mood and merely nodded calmly.
"May I ask why?"
The man seemed surprised. He had interacted little with the lord since settling on these lands, but he had expected to be contradicted immediately and forcefully.
"Because she is a girl," Ronan replied, as though the answer were self-evident. "She will learn what she needs to know here."
The young girl lowered her eyes. She knew what her parents thought.
And it was not what she wanted.
She wanted to learn alongside the others.
"And what does she need to know?" François asked, his face neutral.
"How to keep a household. How to cook. How to sew. How to care for children. How to help on the farm."
He shrugged slightly.
"The important things."
François did not answer immediately. He noted that the wife said nothing but seemed to approve of what her husband was saying.
"You do not think knowing how to read is important?"
"For a girl?" the farmer asked, genuinely perplexed. "What use would it be to her?"
The question was sincere, without hostility. The man was not trying to provoke him; he simply did not understand.
He noticed his daughter's agitation, though she was doing everything she could to suppress her complaints. She gripped the edges of her dress tightly and held back her tears.
He sent her upstairs to her room, and she obeyed, but she did not go farther than the last step of the small wooden staircase. She wanted to witness the rest of the conversation that concerned her most directly.
"She may one day need to know how to read or write a letter," François continued, leaning slightly forward.
"Who would write to her?"
"Her future husband, for example. He might have to be away, as I was, for many months and wish to communicate with her, to give her news."
The farmer hesitated for a few seconds.
"If her husband knows how to write, she could ask someone at the fort to read it to her."
"And what if that person lies? What if they have bad intentions?"
Ronan did not answer. François continued.
"If your daughter can read, no one will be able to hide what is written from her."
He noticed a slight reaction from Ronan Rosec. He had not convinced him, but he had forced him to think.
"I sincerely believe that there is no such thing as useless knowledge, Monsieur Rosec. A girl who can read and write already stands apart from many others. That could greatly work in her favor during marriage negotiations."
This time, the Rosecs reacted more noticeably. The couple listened more attentively.
"Her future husband, perhaps a merchant, might be looking for someone who can assist him in his affairs. In that case, the knowledge she could acquire by attending the study room at the manor might make all the difference."
Ronan Rosec pursed his lips. Although it was unlikely that a wealthy merchant would notice his daughter, it was not impossible that a man in a better situation than theirs might take an interest in her. She was pretty as a doll. Such a man might ordinarily pass her by despite her charming face, but what if she could read, write, and even do arithmetic? That was not inconceivable.
"You know," the lord said softly, interrupting his thoughts, "when I joined the army, I never imagined that one day I would become a lord in New France."
The Rosecs looked up.
"Nor did I think I would become a nobleman. My title was granted to me personally. I am doing my best to change that, of course, but nothing is guaranteed. In the end, it is His Majesty who decides. If I fail, my descendants will remain commoners."
Ronan and Morgane Rosec's eyes widened at those words.
Both had assumed that their lord was a hereditary noble and that the same was true for his children.
"Because I do not know what the future holds for them, I do everything in my power to give them as many opportunities as possible. So that they may obtain a good position, not be looked down upon, and make good marriages."
François's gaze drifted toward the staircase. He could not see her, but he knew she was there, listening very carefully.
"As parents, do we not all want the same thing—the well-being of our children?"
He smiled when he saw them nod.
"But... forgive me, my lord, but you have sons... and we only have a daughter."
"Haha, that is true. However... my wife is convinced that she is currently carrying a daughter. You may take my word for it: I have no intention of neglecting her education. For I sincerely believe that teaching her these things is doing her a service."
Ronan Rosec pursed his lips and scratched the back of his hand.
"You... Do you truly believe it is good to educate a farmer's daughter?"
He paused, then, his fists clenched, revealed the unusual reason for his reluctance to educate his daughter.
"To be completely honest, my lord, I am afraid that once Marguerite is educated, she will no longer be happy here with us. That she will want to leave. That she will look down on us because we do not know as much as she does."
François could not help raising an eyebrow in surprise. It was not the argument most people of this era used to limit girls' education.
He looked at the man differently. In the end, he was simply a father afraid of watching his child grow up.
"Why are you afraid of that?" François finally asked. "The instruction provided at the manor, until we have a building dedicated to it, has one and only one purpose: to help the children of Montrouge express themselves better and to give them the foundations of reading and writing. Later, once that has been acquired, Monsieur Gaston may teach them new things about the world in which we live. Moral instruction is the responsibility of parents and the clergy."
For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, Ronan no longer seemed entirely certain of himself.
They spoke for a while longer, and when François left the house, he was not convinced he had found the right words to change Ronan Rosec's mind.
As he placed his foot in the stirrup, he noticed that little Marguerite had come back down to the porch. She stood beside her parents, watching him prepare to leave.
François could read the hope in her eyes, but for the moment there was nothing more he could do.
She imitated her mother, Morgane Rosec, by curtsying and holding the sides of her dress.
François nodded gently and rode off toward the next house.