Chapter 30
The village simmered with anticipation. Marthe watched with growing unease as her neighbours cast about, looking for the queen witch of the Normandy coven at every turn.
A man had been bewitched to death. Such wickedness would not go unpunished.
They put their faith in the magnificent witch hunter, Onésime Gaudin de Sancy, and the widow Poulin, who spared no details in her telling of the story to her customers.
They lingered in the bakery, getting in Marthe’s way as she tried to sweep up flour and mop down bread baskets, hanging on the widow’s words: There he was!
Hands raised, mouth agape, a tableau of horror, pointing at the space where the witch had stood as she cast her evil spell.
Some said they would make the trek all the way to élisabeth’s house to see the frozen corpse in the cowshed, though if they did, they never came back to counter the accuracy of the tale the widow wove.
Marthe hung her cloak on the peg as she stepped inside the bakery.
Her walks were no longer as soothing as they once had been.
Now when she pounded the dirt paths of Ville-Marie, forcing the earth to absorb her fury, she met simpletons in wide-eyed agreement with the widow—that a witch was to blame for a man’s death—all while the brutal governor of Montréal attacked women and girls without censure.
The sharp clatter of Barbe Poulin’s voice rang out from the front room, admonishing élisabeth what to do and what to think.
Marthe stood apart, watching them from the doorway, unwilling to sit at the table no matter how much the weight she carried made her groin ache.
élisabeth’s feet were up on a trunk, her head in her hand.
Barbe Poulin had stuffed a morsel of bread into her mouth and was chewing with her mouth open, her tongue forcing the sop of bread forward and back until it was the consistency of porridge.
Marthe did not like to bother God with much, but she could not help saying a small prayer for the widow to swallow her food.
God paid no heed.
“Well then, little mistress, bring us the news,” Barbe Poulin trilled. The mashed sop was visible for a moment, then disappeared again behind her tongue. “We all know how you like to get about.”
“Did you cross anyone’s path?” élisabeth loosened her hood and pulled it off her head.
“There was no one out but me,” Marthe mumbled, eyeing the brandy between them on the table.
The widow had first opened one of her diluted bottles after they had returned from their grim discovery.
A little something to calm their nerves.
Now it was becoming habit. But the drink did not seem to have steadied them much, for the alarm Marthe saw on the streets of Ville-Marie was fourfold in her own home.
“What drives you out to walk the streets,” Barbe Poulin said snidely, “I can’t imagine. There is a witch afoot, for goodness’ sake. Use your head.”
“Chérie, won’t you stay inside?” élisabeth pleaded, a crease in her brow.
Marthe beckoned for her sister to join her in the hallway. She would not step foot inside the widow’s web.
“I won’t forget what I saw for the rest of my days,” Barbe Poulin said as élisabeth rose. “Eh? Lili? Do you recall? The poor soul’s hands raised, like so, trying to shield himself from the spell that took him?”
“Yes, Maman,” élisabeth said as she crossed the room. “What is it?” she said to Marthe.
“Must you sit and drink with her all day while she embellishes her tale?”
“I have done nothing of the sort,” élisabeth said, though her face was flushed. “Perhaps only a little sip or two. You know how the demon torments me, even more so now. Brandy helps Marcosi sleep.”
“Eh? What’s that? Who is Marcosi?” the widow called from her salon.
Marthe threw a glance to élisabeth. Barbe Poulin lurked at every corner, sniffing out her words like a bitch after another dog’s urine.
“No one, Maman,” élisabeth said, blushing. “I said the brandy makes my toes sleep.”
“Ah, mine too, child, mine too.” The widow put her feet up on the trunk.
Marthe lowered her voice. “Take care, Lili. If you are drinking to tame your worries, you are headed for ruin.”
élisabeth steepled her hands in prayer. “You do not understand my suffering.”
Marthe could not bite her tongue any longer. “Oh, but Maman Poulin does?”
“Marthe, I have been thinking. Given Dufossé’s death, I do not believe I should deceive Maman Poulin any longer. I must tell her about Rémy, the demon, Jeanne, all of it—”
“No! You mustn’t. Jeanne had nothing to do with that man’s death, as you well know. And if you tell Barbe Poulin about the demon, how long do you think it would take for the widow to betray you to the priest? She will see you accused of both fornication and witchcraft before the day is out.”
élisabeth frowned at the reminder of her past sins. “Marthe, listen to me. I know what I risk, but I am possessed. I must conquer my fear and tell Maman Poulin. She cares for me; I know she does. She will help give me the strength to go to the priest to be exorcised, now before matters worsen—”
“Lili, do you not see that all the blame that widow has whipped up will land on you? You could be accused of causing Dufossé’s death!”
“But what can I do? What in Heaven’s name can I do? The demon writhes in my entrails and squeezes my heart. It is so angry. One day soon, this unholy spirit will surely command me to howl like a wolf in public or force me into contorted leaps across the Place Royale—”
The bakery door opened and a gust of cold air swept the floor. Marthe watched the colour drain from élisabeth’s face, then turned to the figure filling the doorway.
Francoeur.
His beard was bushy and his clothes filthy. Nights of poor sleep were written in the lines on his face. Behind him grinned her two best friends in the whole world, Rose and Lou.
Marthe ran towards them and threw herself into their arms.
“Thank God. Thank God in Heaven and the Blessed Virgin and all the saints. You are here. Thank God, you are here.” She did not dare ask how or why they were here, or if Francoeur had been successful in his petition against the governor.
Rose kissed her cheeks once, then twice, then all over again for luck, while Lou’s laughter filled the hallway.
“Our husbands collected us from our farms on their way back from seeing the intendant in Québec,” Rose explained, gesturing behind her at Jambon and Lajeunesse.
“It was on the way.” The men crowded through the door so that the small space filled with the smell of tobacco and tired travellers.
“They have the petition, and a decision. They said they were exhausted and wanted nothing more but to collapse into bed, but we said, ‘No chance, take us to Ville-Marie!’ And so we happened upon the idea of all coming together.”
“Francoeur?” élisabeth wobbled towards the door. She stumbled, reaching for him through the crowd. Francoeur caught her by the arm and a tentative smile spread across his face.
“I’ve got you.”
He bent down to kiss her on the cheek as élisabeth turned her face towards him.
Their lips met. She put her arms around his neck and closed her eyes, pulling him closer.
They didn’t break away until the widow pushed herself into the hallway and declared, “Oh, there will be a rumpus in bed tonight if I’m not very much mistaken! ”
élisabeth pulled back and blushed. Francoeur’s ears were as pink as her cheeks. “Forgive me. I am not… myself,” she told him.
Marthe rolled her eyes at her sister. “You are fine, Lili.”
But Francoeur gave élisabeth such a tender look that Marthe felt instantly rebuked. In the small, crowded hallway, he saw no one but his wife.
“Come in, come in,” Barbe Poulin said, ushering the group into her salon.
“You were gone ever such a long time, Francoeur.” Barbe Poulin turned to the travellers to take their cloaks and hats.
“I am not complaining. It has been a delight to have my chère Lili here. But what on earth kept you so long?”
“I’ll keep my hat,” Francoeur said, shaking his head at the widow. His eyes took in the bottle of brandy on the table. “Before I collect élisabeth, I must speak with my sister-in-law. Marthe, may we talk alone?”
“Francoeur?” élisabeth’s voice shook. “What is it?”
Marthe felt another stab of frustration with her sister. If élisabeth had stopped wringing her hands about her own woes to listen to Marthe’s, she’d have known the truth of Francoeur’s mission. That she, Marthe, had suffered a true demon, rather than élisabeth’s imagined one.
“Follow me,” she said to Francoeur, aware of élisabeth’s eyes on her back as she crossed the hallway to Verger’s workroom and shut the door.
Marthe braced herself. “How was the petition received?”
Francoeur’s expression softened.
“We accomplished what we set out to do,” he said, but when her face lit up, he held up his hand.
“It is not entirely a success. Lafredière will be recalled to France. He’ll be sent to Québec immediately to await the spring ships.
He’ll be dispatched on the first to return to France and the colony will be rid of him.
But there will be no investigation into the missing slaves.
And no record of what he did to you. He will only be written up for debauchery and selling liquor to the natives. ”
Marthe put a hand to her neck. No one would ever know what he had done. He would be gone, but he would never be guilty. The weight of disappointment was so heavy she thought she might slump to the floor.
“Marthe, I’m sorry. It was the best we could do.
Lafred’s uncle is the Marquis de Salières.
He argued for him, and it is hard to counter the commander of the regiment.
Take heart that although Lafredière will not have to account for what he did to you and the Panis girls, he will be gone from the island of Montréal before the roads melt. ”
“How long will that be?”
“The intendant sent his soldiers and his sleigh with us. They’ll collect Lafredière and leave as soon as the horses have rested.”
“What if he doesn’t agree to go?”
“The intendant’s men have the authority to take him by force. He can leave as a bandit in chains or as a nobleman with footmen to wait on him. It will be his choice.”
“I expect he’ll leave as a lord, which is more than he deserves,” Marthe said bitterly.
“I should say so. Now, I will speak with your husband. I will pay him for any costs he’s incurred for boarding élisabeth, and take her with us to the inn—”
“Francoeur, wait. I must speak with you about Lili.”
Marthe hesitated, struggling to put into words what she could not understand.
“Jeanne Roy came by the bakery some while back. She said that… rather, I believe how she explained it is… élisabeth has too much black bile. She is off-balance.” When Francoeur gave her a puzzled look, Marthe blurted out the rest. “élisabeth suffers from melancholy.”
Marthe could tell he was not wholly surprised. “Melancholy,” he said, and stroked his bushy beard. “I knew that she found our life on the farm difficult. She was often… distressed, I think, by being so far away from you. I had hoped this time with you would have soothed her nerves.”
“I’m afraid that dreadful widow has upset her nerves even more.
Barbe Poulin has thrown Ville-Marie into the grip of a witch hunt.
” Marthe’s temper flared momentarily, thinking of the poison that had been poured into all their ears.
“Jeanne says the only cure is to open Lili’s vein with a lancet or a fleam.
” She shook her head mournfully. “Bloodletting.”
Francoeur nodded, a tight military movement. “Good. Bloodletting is not such a burden to bear. If it cures her of the sadness in her soul, then we shall try it immediately.”
“Oh, Francoeur. You do not know. Our father… we tried to bleed him to cure his fever.” How could she explain to Francoeur how appalling their father’s end had been? She looked at the floor. “I cannot imagine Lili would ever let a lancet near her.”
The hessian curtain separating the rooms moved and Verger appeared, his face crumpled with sleep. He looked shocked to see Francoeur in his workroom.
“Welcome back, brother.” His face was neutral as he put his arm around Marthe’s shoulder. “I hope you have made a safe journey.”
“It was a success,” Francoeur said.
Marthe shook Verger off, stepping out of his reach.
“Why then, you are my wife’s saviour,” Verger said, his voice both flat and forlorn, his arm left hanging by his side. “The saviour of Ville-Marie.”
“I’m no saviour,” Francoeur said sharply. Then he took a breath. “It is not very late in the day. I will ask Jambon or Lajeunesse to take a skiff across the Saint-Laurent to fetch Jeanne Roy. We will see her before we return home to our c?te.”
“No!” Marthe cried. “You mustn’t bring Jeanne to Ville-Marie!”
“Whyever not?” Francoeur looked puzzled.
Marthe glanced back and forth at each of them.
What could she say? They had found no book of spells, no magic wand in Jeanne’s cabin.
But every one of the brides on the Saint-Jean-Baptiste knew what she was: a cunning woman, an enchantress, a sea serpent in female form.
With confession on the tip of élisabeth’s tongue, if Jeanne returned to the village now, the flint would surely strike the steel and she would be named as the witch they were hungry to set aflame.
“Lili will not want to be bled” was all Marthe could think to say.
Francoeur gave her a patient smile. “If élisabeth is unwell, as you say she is, then we must look for a cure. I will send for Jeanne straightaway.”
Marthe could not return his smile.