The whole continent lay ripe for

The whole continent lay ripe for exploitation. There was enough for everyone, and yet some are never happy unless they have it all. If my Uncle Chevet couldn't have it all then he would lay snares to make sure nobody had any, at all. Those nursing hatreds as he did will always be heir to tattlers bent on fanning the flames. It must have been early autumn when Monsieur Cassion came with his own embers of hatred for the clusters of grapes above me were already purple, and the forest leaves were already tinged with reds turning almost a smudgy black. The air was still softly sighing in the boughs of the tallest trees, and the golden spears of sunlight flickered down on the work in my lap through the laced branches of the trellis.

The work before me was just a pretense, for I had fled the house to escape the splintered voices that snapped and cracked through the closed door like broken glass as my crochety uncle and Monsieur Cassion sparred about Uncle Chevet joining Monsieur on his journey into the wilderness. I knew that they sat in the great room before the fireplace, drinking. I had heard enough before I fled to tell me there was more treachery on foot against the Sieur de la Salle. To be sure it was nothing to me, a mere girl knowing naught of such intrigue, yet I had not forgotten the day, three years before, when this La Salle, with others of his company, had halted before the Ursuline convent, and the sisters bade them welcome for the night. It was my part to help serve, and La Salle had stroked my hair in tenderness. I had sung to them, and watched his face in the firelight as he listened. Never would I forget that face, nor believe evil of such a man. No! not from the lips of a dozen Cassions nor even from our governor, La Barre.

I recalled all that event now, as I sat there in the silence, pretending to work. I remembered how we had watched them embark in their canoes and disappear, the Indian paddlers bending to their task, and Monsieur la Salle, standing, bareheaded as he waved farewell. Beyond him was the dark face of one they called De Tonty, and in the first boat a mere boy lifted his ragged hat. I know not why, but the memory of that lad was clearer than all those others, for he had met me in the hall and we had talked long in the great window ere the sister came, and took me away. So I remembered him, and his name, ringing like sweet poetry: Rene, Rene de Artigny. And in all those years I heard no more of him. On into the black wilderness they had swept and my vision of them was like the darkness of our forested night before the stars come out and they were lost to those of us left at home in New France.

No doubt there were those who knew -- Frontenac perhaps, and Bigot for sure, those who ruled over us at Quebec -- but 'twas not a matter supposed to interest a mere girl, and so no word came to me though I waited with careful ears. Once I was brave enough to ask my Uncle Chevet, and he had replied in a ripped explosion of anger that was clipped together with only a few sentences, bidding me hold my tongue; yet he had said enough so that I knew the Sieur de la Salle still lived and had built a fort far away, and was buying furs from the Indians and paying them more than my uncle would. It was this that had brought my uncle's jealousy, and hatred to the boiling point. Once Monsieur Cassion came and stopped with us, and, as I waited on him and Uncle Chevet, I caught words which told me that Frontenac was La Salle's friend, and would listen to no charges brought against him. They talked of a new governor; yet I learned but little, for Cassion attempted to kiss me, and I would wait on him no more.

Frontier Intrigue