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The sun had long since passed its zenith by the time François left the last censive. His tour of the seigneury had ultimately taken only a few hours, for Montrouge currently counted no more than twenty-three households besides his own.
As Carmène walked at an unhurried pace along the dirt road, a pleasant breeze brushed against his face and gently stirred the blades of grass.
Who would have believed that within a few weeks the temperature would no longer climb above fifteen degrees? Frost would then become a common sight.
Without hurrying, he made his way back toward his estate.
He had not lingered long with the families whose children were still too young or with those who had already agreed to send them to the manor, but everywhere he had taken the time to listen. The peasants spoke of the harvests, the shortage of labor, the lack of tools, the setbacks they had encountered, and their hopes and concerns for the months ahead.
As Carmène carried him onward, François organized his thoughts.
In the end, he divided the families of Montrouge into four categories: those who were supportive or already convinced, like the Madecs; the hesitant, who were still observing; the pragmatists, who were not necessarily opposed but had practical conditions that had to be met so their daily lives would not suffer; and finally the conservatives—or outright opponents—who, attached to both their habits and their convictions, refused to send their children to the manor.
Winning them over would require time and more than mere speeches.
He watched absentmindedly as these ordinary men and women worked their land. Montrouge was clearly still in its earliest stages of development.
Because resources were precious, everything was used carefully and economically. Every nail, every plank, every scrap of cloth. Even time itself was a resource that could not be wasted.
Seen from that perspective, he understood better why so few parents had agreed to send their children to the manor. The promise of future benefits, even when offered by the lord himself, carried little weight against the hardships of the present, especially in a region where winters could be both long and unforgiving.
When he finally reached his estate, he did not head straight for the manor or his study. Though eager to resume his writing, he had only just returned home. Instead, he decided to inspect his own lands.
The property was immense and, like the censives, largely undeveloped. Looking over all that empty space, he found himself imagining what might be accomplished if he possessed greater means. On either side of a beautiful gravel avenue, he pictured elegant French formal gardens like those he had seen in Paris, reminiscent of the Tuileries, with geometric flower beds, ornamental ponds, carefully trimmed shrubs, colorful blossoms, and perhaps even a few statues in the antique style.
He smiled as reality returned.
Such things were far from a priority. A garden like that would require meticulous upkeep, and he certainly would not be the one tending it. Not only did he lack the time, but he had never possessed much of a talent for gardening, either in this life or the last.
At present, Montrouge needed farmers and craftsmen far more than gardeners.
He entrusted Carmène to Yann Madec, who immediately took the mare's reins with exemplary seriousness, then walked around the manor toward the young orchard. The apple and pear trees stood neatly aligned like freshly recruited soldiers, each supported by wooden stakes driven into the ground.
The orchard occupied a square one hundred meters on each side. Beyond it, nature still ruled supreme: thick ferns, dark thorny brambles, moss-covered stones, and sturdy trees that had never known a pruning blade.
With some difficulty, he followed a narrow path winding through the undergrowth until it reached the Champlain River. He had to stop about twenty meters from the water, for the ground there was too wet. At this time of year, the soil was like a sponge. If he pressed on, he might well leave a shoe behind.
He remained there for a while beneath the shade of a tall pine, motionless as he reflected on his next steps. The gentle lapping of the water sounded almost like a drill against his ears. Here, the Champlain was only a few meters wide and gradually narrowed until it became a stream rising from wetlands farther to the north.
Another river also originated in that marshy region and flowed in the opposite direction toward a lake the English had simply named South Bay. Among François's long-term plans was the construction of a great canal linking those two rivers, thereby connecting Montrouge to Fort Carillon and everything farther north.
The project was even more ambitious than his dream of formal gardens, so for the moment it was not under serious consideration. But perhaps one day, with the government's support, it could be built as a strategic piece of infrastructure for the good of the kingdom.
After an indeterminate amount of time, François finally decided to turn back.
When he pushed open the manor door, the door to the study room opened almost at the same moment. A small group of children emerged carrying the results of their work tucked under their arms. They greeted him politely before heading home.
François could not help but smile softly as he watched them. He waited for Pierre to join him before entering the main room. Onatah was seated at the table, feeding little Louis. She had grown accustomed to eating afterward.
François sat opposite her, with Pierre on his right. Together they enjoyed a delicious meal prepared by Jeanne: rabbit stewed with vegetables from the estate, chiefly carrots and potatoes. Though the meal was simple, after spending so long away from his family, François found in it a special flavor.
That afternoon he decided to undertake nothing at all. With seven days of leave ahead of him, everything else could wait. All he wanted was to recover at least a little of the lost time with his children. Onatah, exhausted by her pregnancy and by managing the seigneury despite Jeanne's constant help, went upstairs to rest for a few hours.
François used the opportunity to play with his two little boys, something fathers of the period simply did not do. Sitting on the large animal hide spread across the rough wooden floor before the fireplace, he let Pierre climb onto his stomach while Louis tried to crawl beneath his raised legs, which formed a kind of tunnel. The boy had to hurry, because at any moment his father might make "the tunnel collapse" and block his way.
Their laughter was the sweetest melody he could imagine.
Without realizing it, more than an hour and a half passed in that warm atmosphere.
When the laughter finally gave way to yawns, Pierre climbed to his room of his own accord. Louis, meanwhile, fell asleep in François's arms, his face nestled against his father's chest and his tiny fingers clutching the fabric of his coat. He looked like a little bear cub clinging to a tree.
"My lord," Jeanne said softly as she approached without making a sound, "would you like me to put Master Louis to bed?"
François looked down at the little angel and smiled with quiet tenderness.
"Ah, yes, I'd appreciate that. Thank you, Jeanne."
Carefully so as not to wake the child, he handed him over to the maid, who carried him upstairs to his bedroom. François found himself alone in the manor's main room, now wrapped in silence.
He stood motionless for a moment in the middle of the room before slowly rising and making his way up the stairs.
He glanced briefly toward his bed and saw that his wife had fallen into a deep sleep. He quietly closed the door without entering and headed instead for his private workspace, a room nearly as large as the bedroom he shared with Onatah.
His heavy desk stood facing a window overlooking the orchard. To the left was a large cabinet where he kept his files. A second, smaller one was used exclusively for storing his drafts, writing supplies, notebooks, and copies of the works he had already published.
His Pirates of the Caribbean manuscript, rejected by the censors, was there as well.
François opened the cabinet and took out several blank sheets of paper along with a plain, empty notebook. He returned to his desk, which was impeccably tidy and free of dust.
Sitting down, he opened the notebook to the first page, dipped his quill into the inkwell, and began to write.
"Titanic"
Then, a few centimeters below:
"Characters"
He stared at the words for several seconds.
It had been so long since he had seen that film—or any film, for that matter. He still remembered a few scenes vividly, but the details had begun to fade like a dream.
He let out a long sigh.
Once, it would have taken only seconds to check the smallest detail on the Internet. Now, he had nothing but his memory.
Nevertheless, he began.
"Jack Dawson, around nineteen years old, handsome, daring, romantic, an artist with exceptional drawing skills. A young man of obscure origins who has traveled without ever finding where he truly belongs. Wins his ticket to New York aboard the Titanic during a card game with his friend Fabrizio.
Rose DeWitt…"
He held his quill above the heroine's name and closed his eyes for a moment.
"What was it again? DeWitt something… Damn it, Pirates of the Caribbean was easier. She had such a long, complicated name."
François searched his memory but came up empty. Fortunately, he did not have to follow the film exactly. No one would judge him for that.
"Oh well."
He crossed out what he had written and replaced it with a new name.
"Rose Whitehouse-Ravencroft, seventeen years old, beautiful, intelligent, resigned at first but gradually becoming more independent. Daughter of Ruth Whitehouse-Ravencroft and the late Charles Whitehouse-Ravencroft.
Ruth Whitehouse-Ravencroft. An arrogant widow dressed in dark colors, descended from a prestigious but ruined old English family. Seeks to preserve and restore her status by marrying her daughter to an immensely wealthy man. Her husband squandered the family fortune through his gambling addiction."
Then came the fiancé—the man readers would see as a victim unless François succeeded in portraying him as a villain who got exactly what he deserved.
He hesitated once again.
I think his name was Carl, François thought. But I can't remember the surname at all…
"Carl Hawkwood: twenty-seven years old, extremely wealthy, cold and even cruel. He must marry in order to inherit his family's millions, accumulated through the steel and coal industries in America. Though not especially attached to the marriage itself, he feels deeply insulted when Rose grows close to Jack. To him, Rose is both the key to his inheritance and a trophy. Unlike the Whitehouse-Ravencrofts, he does not come from an old family and therefore carries a sense of inferiority. For him, this marriage is a form of revenge."
Even more than the names, he had hesitated over the setting of the story. Two possibilities, each with its own strengths and weaknesses, presented themselves: placing the action in the eighteenth century or at the beginning of the twentieth.
During his first reflections, François had quickly realized that setting the story in the future was the wiser choice. No matter how skillfully it was written, he did not believe anyone could find such a tale believable if the great liner were made of wood and powered by sails.
It made far more sense to preserve the original setting, with its noisy, smoke-belching engines.
There was another advantage as well: placing the story in the future would surely intrigue readers while, he hoped, slipping past the censors. After all, they would certainly disapprove of the messages it conveyed, beginning with the romance between a penniless commoner of uncertain origins and the daughter of an important, though impoverished, family who was already engaged.
But if the story concerned the English, then perhaps it could simply be seen as a criticism of their increasingly loose morals. It was a fairly common strategy, and sometimes it worked.
He continued compiling his cast of characters for nearly an hour so that he could refer back to them throughout the writing process. He added officers, crew members, a handful of passengers, and even the two lookouts assigned to watch the horizon on that fateful night. Most of them were entirely his own creations.
"Well… that should be enough for now."
He looked over the pages darkened by his fine handwriting.
"In the worst case, I'll just add more names."
Taking care not to smear ink on his face, François gently scratched beneath his right eye before setting the notebook aside. He then picked up several blank sheets.
In the upper-right corner, he wrote a small "1", and in the center, in large letters, the title of his new project.
"TITANIC"
A little farther down, in slightly smaller capital letters, he wrote his name, the the words he had wanted to write for what felt like an eternity.
"CHAPTER ONE"
His heart beat faster with excitement as he gazed at those few words. This had always been his favorite moment—the instant when his project truly began to come alive beneath his pen.
"April 1st, 1910 – Portsmouth.
It was a cool day, but a beautiful one.
The wind blowing in from the sea snapped the flags and scattered the clouds of smoke rising from the city's thousand chimneys. An immense crowd packed the docks to witness a historic event.
Since dawn, hundreds of horse-drawn carriages, cabs, and wagons had clogged the streets leading to the harbor. Uniformed men directed travelers with almost military discipline, while porters rushed from group to group, pushing carts piled high with trunks, crates, and chests, some larger than themselves.
Shouts mingled with the shrill whistles of machinery.
Families embraced one another for one last time. Children questioned their parents about the extraordinary voyage they were about to undertake and the remarkable ship that would carry them.
And at the center of all this commotion stood a silhouette that seemed to belong to another world.
The Titanic.
Even those who had gazed upon His Britannic Majesty's greatest warships stood frozen, their heads tilted upward as they stared at the endless wall of steel whose black hull seemed to stretch on forever. Its four towering funnels loomed over the sea of passengers and spectators like the unshakable towers of a fortress, while its endless rows of portholes gave the impression that what had been built in those shipyards was not a vessel at all, but a floating city.
People said that no structure ever created by human hands had reached such dimensions.
They also said it was impossible to sink.
Visitors instinctively craned their necks until they ached just to admire it more fully. It was a marvel—and that was only its exterior.
Some even removed their hats, as though standing before a king. The Titanic certainly deserved to be called the king of the seas, even though it was about to sail for the very first time.
Suddenly, several magnificent vehicles appeared, each more splendid than the last, making their way through the crowd. They were automobiles—machines propelled not by horses, but by engines.
The driver of the lead car, a remarkably elegant red-and-gold vehicle, watched his surroundings with utmost attention to avoid accidentally running anyone over. Fortunately, its distinctive noise and striking beauty made it impossible to miss, and people hurried to clear its path.
At last, the small convoy came to a halt.
From the first automobile stepped a stern-looking man wearing a long brown coat, who quickly surveyed the area. His employer, who had ridden in the back seat, did not wait for permission before climbing out.
He was a tall, slender man with square shoulders and a sharply defined jaw. In his right hand he carried a walking cane, not for support but as an accessory. It struck the pavement with a crisp click.
His first glance was for the Titanic.
A satisfied smile spread across his lips.
He could feel the envious eyes upon him, but he paid them little attention. They followed him wherever he went, whatever he did.
Carl Hockley adjusted the sleeves of his impeccably tailored gray-and-black suit, cut as though it had been designed exclusively for him, before walking toward the second automobile, white as mother-of-pearl and black as ebony. Its chauffeur opened the rear door, and a delicate gloved hand emerged.
Before the driver could take it to assist its owner, Carl stepped forward and did so himself, the perfect gentleman. She was a rare beauty, dressed in an elegant gown, with pale skin and crimson lips.
Realizing whose hand she was holding, the young woman hesitated briefly before finally stepping out of the vehicle. She resembled a porcelain doll in her exquisite grace.
In turn, she lifted her eyes toward the enormous ship, yet her expression remained perfectly blank.
"So this is the Titanic," she said in a voice of complete indifference. "I imagined it would be bigger."
The man beside her, now joined by his bodyguard and trusted aide, mister Lovejoy, let out a faint breath through his nose, half amused and half disappointed by so little enthusiasm from his fiancée.
"Bigger? Ha! Come now, Rose. The Titanic is currently the largest ship in the world."
Yet her face remained utterly impassive. Even confronted with such a wonder, no emotion seemed capable of disturbing her features."
As he described the scene, François had the strange sensation of becoming Adam once more, watching again the film he had loved so dearly.
In this novel, he would do everything in his power to allow his readers to picture these characters and this extraordinary ship.
But he would not follow the film exactly. In his original era, everyone already knew the tragic fate awaiting the vessel and most of its passengers. That was not true for the people of this century. He did not want to rob them of that discovery or make them believe too soon that the disaster was inevitable.
The readers would undoubtedly be astonished by the turn this maiden voyage would take, despite the clues he intended to scatter throughout the story. And when the conclusion finally came, he hoped they would all weep as he himself had wept before that film.
They would marvel at the luxurious first-class lounges, fall in love with Rose, be stunned by the appearance of the iceberg, horrified by the speed with which events unraveled, and pray for rescue to arrive before it was too late.
François quickly immersed himself in his work and failed to notice the hours slipping away. His writing flowed effortlessly, encountering almost no obstacles.
Meanwhile, his wife awoke and resumed her duties around the estate.
It was not until supper time that he finally paused. Straightening in his chair, he looked over what he had accomplished.
Very pleased by the sight before him, he estimated that by the end of the week he would have written at least half of the story, and that before the end of the month he would be sending the manuscript to Paris for review.