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The dining room of the townhouse was bathed in a muted glow. The flickering candlelight shimmered softly against the gilded frames that enclosed the paintings, arranged with taste along the wide walls of the room.
Under the golden gleam, the painted scenes seemed to stir, as if the figures within them were discreetly observing the family and their guest.
At the center of the room, the long oval table was covered with a spotless cloth, smooth as freshly fallen snow. Crystal glasses and fine porcelain plates edged in blue and gold gleamed upon it, while the silverware, engraved with the master's initials, cast shimmering reflections upon the ceiling.
A comforting fragrance, a mingling of warm bread and a steaming soup of deep orange hue, filled the space with gentle warmth.
Little by little, François felt the weariness of travel slip away from him, like a heavy shell peeling off his body, finally allowing him to relax and appreciate the moment. Yet, despite the warm welcome, he could not feel entirely at ease in such a rigidly codified setting.
Determined not to embarrass his host—and to set a good example for the children—he was careful to follow etiquette. This required constant attention to every detail.
There were rules for everything, and the slightest mistake could betray one's lack of refinement. Children of noble families were taught from the youngest age how to behave properly at table.
François, of humble origin both in this life and in the other world he once came from, had never received such training. He had been forced to learn everything through his readings and his observations. Among his bedside books, there was one—almost as thick as an encyclopedia—dedicated entirely to conventions and the art of living in society.
Across from him, Martin savored each bite with evident delight, his eyes gleaming with friendship, happy to share this meal with his former brother-in-arms.
The children, exceptionally allowed to join the adults at table, brought a lively energy to the supper. Normally, they ate earlier, before their parents.
Jacques, six years old, his hair neatly combed back, was the perfect image of his father. François could not help but be impressed by his efforts to make his father proud.
Beside him, his sister Charlotte, four years old, spirited and mischievous, watched François with barely disguised curiosity, while little Louise, only two, struggled against the urge to fidget on her mother's lap. Both girls, Charlotte and Louise alike, had inherited everything from their mother.
"M-Monsieur," Louise piped up in a timid, flute-like voice, not daring to meet François's eyes, "is it true that, in the New World… there are Savages everywhere? That they live in the forest like animals? And… that they're all naked?"
"Charlotte!"
Martin and Ryckje nearly choked, while the governess, standing at the back, flushed crimson with anger. Jacques raised a napkin to his mouth to conceal a mocking smile, though his shaking shoulders betrayed that he was holding back laughter.
François, slightly embarrassed, smiled calmly and turned to the little girl, who lowered her head. He answered gently, in a pedagogical tone:
"We call them Indians. 'Savage' is not a very kind word, do you understand? They are peoples different from us, with their own customs and traditions, but they are not animals. They live in great houses, they hunt, they fish, they farm the land—just like us."
"Indians?" she repeated innocently.
"That's right. Where I live, there are Indian nations called the Iroquois. But their true name is Haudenosaunee."
"Odéno…sonnet?" Charlotte repeated, frowning.
"A bit hard to pronounce, isn't it?" he admitted with a light laugh. "Among them are many clans, and the Mohawks—our neighbors—are famous for being great warriors."
"Are they mean?" the little girl asked cautiously.
"Only if you are their enemy. Today, we are friends. And no," he added with a laugh, "they are not naked. Like us, they wear coats, hats, jewelry, and shoes."
Charlotte nodded thoughtfully. Jacques then seized the moment to ask his own question:
"Do the Indians have games? Do they play rugby?"
François smiled and exchanged an amused look with Martin.
"They prefer other games, but yes, sometimes they do play rugby with us. And they are formidable. Once they have the ball, they run like the wind, and it's almost impossible to stop them. My wife's brother, Tayohseron, once crossed our line with three of our men hanging onto him."
"T-three?!" Martin sputtered in disbelief.
Rugby had once been presented before His Majesty and the Court, but it had been judged too brutal and unworthy of a gentleman. Had it not amused the Dauphin's first two sons—the Duke of Burgundy and the Duke of Berry—this unusual pastime would likely have vanished as soon as it arrived on the continent.
Much to the dismay of the clergy and the more conservative nobility, matches were sometimes organized at Versailles. Martin Morrel de Lusernes, entrusted with training a team, had yet to find players of such caliber.
Murmuring to himself, he said:
"Three men… He's a monster. I need someone like that."
The young man knew full well that the survival of his team—and of this sport he had come to love in America—depended entirely on the princes' whims. So long as they laughed and were entertained, rugby would endure.
In the salons, Martin never ceased to extol the virtues of this activity, yet many nobles continued to dismiss rugby as a barbaric diversion, fit at best for the common folk.
The children, however, were delighted and bombarded François with questions. The meal thus continued in a lighthearted and warm atmosphere.
After the dessert of candied fruits and a few pieces of marzipan, they were invited to rise.
With some reluctance, they left the table, yielding it to the adults. Ryckje entrusted Louise to the nurse, and the door closed softly behind them. A hushed, almost solemn silence settled in the great hall, subtly illuminated by an imposing gilded chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Napkins were folded away, and a servant approached with a carafe of wine that was clearly no ordinary vintage.
The ruby liquid glowed under the candlelight as he filled the glasses one by one. François lifted his own, turning it slowly, admiring its deep, scarlet reflections.
From its sheen and its brilliant hue alone, he could already tell it was an exceptional wine. Its fragrance filled the room and teased his nostrils.
"One of the bottles gifted by my father," Martin explained, raising his own glass to his nose, "upon Louise's birth. I've shared some with a few friends. It's a remarkable Bordeaux. I think you'll like it."
"I'm no connoisseur, but it certainly smells wonderful."
Martin gave a faintly amused smile and took a sip. He closed his eyes as if to savor it more fully, inhaling slowly while keeping the wine on his tongue.
"Ah…" he sighed with evident satisfaction.
François imitated him, letting the alcohol roll over his tongue.
"Wow…"
His reaction was almost childlike. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
It's truly excellent! I think this might be the best wine I've ever had!
For a brief instant, it felt as though he were walking through an ancient vineyard just after a storm, the earth still damp, while the warmth of the sun broke through the clouds, bathing in light a landscape too beautiful to be real.
"Well?" Martin asked, though he already knew the answer from the dreamy look on his friend's face.
"It's a marvel," François replied simply, still lost in his imagination.
"Isn't it? I once had the honor of drinking one from a nearby vineyard, a few years older. Believe it or not, it was even better. I nearly fell out of my chair."
The three adults — including Ryckje, though she was pregnant, for at the time physicians did not forbid wine, only excess — savored their glasses in silence.
At last, Martin set down his glass and turned to his friend.
"I hope our children didn't trouble you too much with their questions?"
"Not at all. On the contrary, it shows they are curious, that they take interest in the world. I think that's an excellent thing."
"Perhaps," Martin admitted in a thoughtful tone. "Now that we're among ourselves, perhaps we should turn to the serious matters we touched upon when you first arrived?"
François lowered his glass slowly. There was a subtle shift in his eyes. In that moment, he was no longer just Martin's friend, but Major Boucher de Montrouge.
"I am worried," he said in a low voice.
Martin pressed his lips together and exchanged a brief glance with his wife before returning to him.
"You too? How much so?"
"I think… we have only a few years left before another war breaks out."
Ryckje paled, and with a slightly trembling hand, she brought a white napkin embroidered with her husband's initials to her crimson lips.
"A few years," Martin repeated, his gaze darkening. "I fear you may be right. I've heard rumors, and some say we might be the ones to set it off. But tell me… what signs have you seen in the New World? Are the English acting unusually?"
"For the moment, nothing concrete," François admitted honestly. "It's more of a feeling. But there is a tension in the air that I do not like. As I mentioned before dinner, colonists still try to settle discreetly on our lands and those of the Iroquois nations. The British authorities do nothing to stop them — sometimes they even encourage them."
Martin drummed nervously on the table beside his half-empty glass.
"So, no suspicious movements? No calls to arms, no troop deployments?"
"There are, yes," François conceded firmly, "but they are mostly tied to the state of the British colonies themselves. It is a powder keg. The cities especially."
He cast a glance at Martin's wife and hesitated for a moment.
"The colonists are furious and frequently take action against their government's representatives. More often than not, they resort to violence, so much so that the authorities no longer know where to turn or how to react. The firmer they try to be, the greater the colonists' anger grows."
A shadow crossed Ryckje's face, for even if she was now French, part of her remained bound to the colonies. She did not wish to see those lands of her childhood consumed by flames.
Martin gave his wife a sympathetic look, though his own thoughts could not linger on these strangers. His family was here at his side, and his in-laws were safe in New France.
He folded his hands on the table.
"So then… they wouldn't be in any condition to wage war against us?"
François paused to think, and answered with as much coherence as he could muster.
"Hard to say, my friend. If war breaks out between our two kingdoms, the Redcoats would have to fight against us while still keeping order at home by force. Since we pose a real threat, the colonists might quiet down for a while—but I believe the unrest would soon return. Almost immediately, perhaps. It all depends, I suppose, on the conduct of their administrators. From the colonists' point of view, the tax burden is already very heavy. Demanding even the slightest additional effort could ignite the flames across all the colonies."
He paused briefly to gather his thoughts.
"From what I know, His Majesty's intent is to avoid this war. To let the colonists and the Redcoats tear each other apart."
Martin nodded.
"I've heard the same whispers. But others argue that we should strike before Britain is ready to wage another war against us and our allies."
"Let us pray His Majesty does not give in. A large-scale revolt could break out. Very soon."
I don't know exactly when the American War of Independence will begin, François thought, but I can feel we are very close.
"You have many friends in Paris, don't you? Surely there is much talk. Have you heard anything interesting on this subject?"
Martin nodded slowly.
"Paris is a place where news travels fast. From salon to salon, into the cafés. Foreigners who come to pry into our affairs are talkative too. It's no secret anymore that Britain has begun to rearm. God be thanked, it still lacks the necessary funds. It borrows to pay its debts, for taxes are not enough. It will take a few more years at least, especially if it must spend more to keep order in its colonies. But war seems inevitable to me."
"What would its priorities be?" François asked nervously, eager to prepare for what lay ahead.
"I suspect its ambitions lie in the East Indies. The loss of its Indian outposts cost it dearly, and now it must trade with the Chinese through the Portuguese, who grow ever more greedy. And then there are the sugar islands—Jamaica above all."
"Truly? Did it not offer it once in exchange for regaining control of the Strait of Gibraltar?"
"Jamaica was unstable at the time and forced His Britannic Majesty to station a strong garrison there. But I believe he regrets that choice now. The island brought in vast sums through its plantations. They say it yields a fortune today to the Spaniards, despite their freeing several thousand slaves. The young king will certainly want it back—and seize all the neighboring islands as well, to better stamp out smuggling."
François nodded, but his unease grew. His family and lands lay on the frontier. He had taken a great risk choosing that place to build his estate.
"And the colonies Britain lost in America? Do you think he'll give them up?"
"The lost territories… I suppose they yielded less profit to the Crown. But give them up? Certainly not. They are no mere backlands: they open trade routes and grant access to precious resources. North or south, so long as London nurtures the hope of reclaiming them, she will not renounce them. More than resources, it is a matter of prestige and honor. A king may forgive the loss of money—but rarely an insult."
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
"If I were King George, I would seek to prevent our ships from leaving port, to isolate our trading posts and colonies, and make them fall one by one."
François clenched his jaw in silence, picturing what might become of a conflict in North America without support from the mother country. Even with a few regiments and fortified strongholds, it might not suffice against densely populated colonies backed by a vengeful government.
If powder and arms ran short, the Redcoats would need only to extend their hand to reclaim the lost territories. The rest would soon follow, allies or no allies among the native nations.
"And France?" François asked with an eerie calm. "Are we preparing for war?"
"Even as we strive for peace, no one is under any illusion. Since the signing of the Treaty of London, we have been preparing, my friend. But our finances weigh us down. Victory brought us much, yet we emerged from that war greatly weakened. The investments required drained our coffers further still. There is, however, a glimmer of hope. Thanks to our trade with the East Indies and China, our revenues have doubled within a few years."
A proud smile lit Martin's face.
"Like my father and uncle before me, I invested heavily there. And as you can see, it has enriched me greatly."
His smile quickly faded. He set his glass turning between his fingers, making the wine shimmer.
"The State also reaps immense profit, yet the situation remains precarious. His Majesty attempts reforms, but meets resistance. The clergy and nobility cling to their privileges."
"Sooner or later, they must realize their fate is bound to that of the kingdom. If France loses the next war—their lands, their incomes, their rank—everything will be at stake."
"One can understand them. It is natural to want to preserve one's interests. The high nobility, for example, gained their privileges as compensation for their complete submission to His Majesty in the days of the Sun King."
"And the people?" François asked with unusual intensity. "How do they respond? Are there… revolts?"
Martin raised a brow, then shrugged with mild indifference.
"They tighten their belts. For now. They have endured worse. They grumble at times, rise up now and then—but that is all."
"Be careful, Martin. When the people are hungry, they do not only grumble. They bite. Look at what is happening in the British colonies."
But Martin shook his head sharply.
"It is not the same," he retorted firmly. "The colonies are colonies. Here, the people love their king."
"But their love is not unconditional," François replied, with a strange conviction that startled both Martin and Ryckje. "And the same holds true in Britain's colonies toward George III. A king has duties. If the people tighten their belts, it is because they already suffer. But if it lasts too long… If they see that life is no longer possible, that survival itself grows too hard, they may react in ways… unexpected. And violent. Across all of France—and even beneath the windows of Versailles."
The silence that followed weighed heavily, glacial, as though all the windows in the room had suddenly been thrown open in the middle of winter.
François, uneasy at this sudden shift in atmosphere, drained his glass in one go.
The only sound that lingered was the steady ticking of a magnificent wall clock, perfectly in tune with the rest of the decor and furnishings.
Ryckje, troubled by this declaration that sounded almost like a premonition, brought her hand to her rounded belly, gently caressing the child yet to be born.
Martin offered a smile that wasn't truly a smile when he saw his wife's worry.
"You worry too much. Our economy isn't that bad. With a bit of time, things will improve and we'll be able to ease the taxes. The situation is under control."
François, far from convinced—and understandably so, since he knew, at least in broad strokes, what was to come—did not relent.
"Is it? Or is it only the illusion of control? The awakening might be brutal."
Ryckje shifted slightly as she felt the baby pressing against her belly. She stroked it softly, as though to soothe the little being who, with luck, would be born under good conditions in a month's time.
"Gentlemen, enough of these worries for tonight."
She exchanged an affectionate glance with her husband, then added:
"While I think of it, my husband has something else to tell you."
François looked at Ryckje and Martin in puzzlement.
"Something else?"
Martin nodded and pulled from his coat pocket a small golden locket that François recognized instantly. It had belonged to their dear friend, alas fallen during the Six Years' War—Albert Fontaine.
"I finally found him," Martin said with emotion. "Albert's son. I was waiting for your arrival so that we could go see him together."
François started. For all these years, Martin had been the keeper of this precious memento, which contained two locks of hair—one belonging to Albert's wife, the other to his son.
"You… you really found him? Are you certain?" he asked in a trembling voice.
"There can be no mistake. He's the right age, was raised by his maternal grandparents, and his mother married—against their wishes—a man of low standing. The father vanished after entrusting him to his grandparents."
"Did you… did you speak to him?"
"No. As I said, I waited for you. But I saw him from a distance. He looks very much like him."
A wave of emotion swept over François. Memories of their camaraderie at Fort Bourbon, their fireside conversations, all came rushing back.
In recent years, he had been so busy, with so much to handle, that to his great shame he had scarcely spared him a thought.
"Where does he live?" he whispered.
"In Amiens."
François's eyes widened. Thanks to his absorbed memories and his previous stay in France, he knew where that city was.
"Amiens? But that's right next to my home!"
Martin nodded.
"Yes. I suggest we go together in two days, after your stay in Paris. Then I'll return here, and you can go on to Corbie."