As François stepped down from the hired carriage in front of the Auberge du Dauphin—the very same inn where he had stayed upon his arrival the previous summer—he was immediately seized by a wave of odors rising from the port. They were far from pleasant.

He would have much preferred the clean, salty scent of the sea.

Above him, several seagulls wheeled and cried out in sharp, piercing tones, as if quarreling—or mocking those who could not fly like them.

In the street, sailors and carters went back and forth, trading coarse words in what, to his ears, sounded like an imaginary language designed to unsettle outsiders.

Women, dressed in traditional Breton fashion, proudly displayed their tall, hand-embroidered headdresses as they bustled around the market stalls.

Yann Madec climbed down behind him and quickly began unloading his employer's luggage.

Normally not a talkative or cheerful man, the Breton's face was even more closed than usual. His movements remained precise, but his gaze was distant.

François watched him in silence for a moment. He recognized that expression—the look of a man about to unburden himself of a heavy secret or confess a fault.

As they crossed the threshold of the inn together, the major placed a hand on his servant's shoulder.

"Is something wrong, sir?" asked Madec, turning around, slightly surprised.

François did not answer immediately. The silence lasted only the time of a breath.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he said quietly. "You seem… thoughtful, more than usual."

The Breton shrugged and gave a faint, hollow smile that quickly vanished from his dry, chapped lips.

"It's just… I've been thinking. It's been eight months now since I entered your service. And now that we're back in Brest, I realize our paths will soon part."

"You're not glad to be home?" François asked gently. "I thought Bretons were deeply attached to their land. And you have a wife and two children, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes, of course," Madec replied, eyes downcast. "But… serving under you hasn't been unpleasant. And, truth be told, I earned more with you than I ever could at the port. You've been fair with me, and I'll admit, I'm a bit sad to see it end."

François studied the man who had been like his shadow these past months, discovering in him a sensitivity he hadn't suspected. Until now, their exchanges had been brief, almost strictly practical.

He remembered only a few confidences about the wife and children left behind in Brest, living modestly thanks to the advances on wages and the money François had sent them throughout the autumn and winter.

But never had Madec said—or even hinted—that he enjoyed working for him.

"Sir…" Madec began again after a short hesitation. "I've been thinking. You've often mentioned the land you own in New France—a seigneury, you called it. Would it be possible… for my family and me to settle there? I could remain in your service, and perhaps cultivate a small plot of land."

François's eyes widened, genuinely surprised.

"You would want to go to the New World?"

"I wouldn't mind," Madec replied in a steady, determined voice. "And I don't think my wife would either."

François frowned slightly, studying the Breton who, quite clearly, had no idea what awaited him there.

"This isn't a decision to take lightly, believe me. Life there is harsh: the winters are long, the snow can isolate you for weeks, the clearing work is exhausting, and almost everything still needs to be built. You must understand that, even in Quebec, you won't find the same comforts as in France. You'd be giving up quite a lot."

"I'm aware of that," Madec said, lifting his chin.

François smiled inwardly.

No, you're not. No one can be, until they've lived it.

"Sir, I'm willing to work hard and endure whatever comes. If you'll have me, I'll have land, food for my family, and maybe something to pass on to my children. Isn't that so?"

The major nodded slowly.

"That's true," he admitted. "But I fear you might be disappointed—and come to regret your decision later."

Madec shook his head.

"I won't regret it. I'd rather work hard in a new country than rot here on these docks."

François sighed, realizing there was no point insisting further.

"Very well. I'll keep your wish in mind—and I won't stand in your way. But first, you should speak with your wife. Help me carry up the luggage, then go see her. Tell her the truth about the country—don't embellish it. Take all the time you need. If you or she have any doubts or questions, I'll do my best to answer them. I'd hate for you to feel deceived later on."

Madec's face lit up at those words.

"Thank you, sir! I'll take care of your things, then I'll go to her right away!"

Thanks to the documents provided by the intendant, François had no trouble obtaining a room. It wasn't the same one he had stayed in before, but it was almost identical—clean, airy, simple, and well-furnished.

He would sleep there alone, since Madec had his home in Brest. The Breton could stay with his family and simply report to the inn each morning until the day of embarkation.

***

While François was writing a letter to his family to inform them of his arrival in Brest, Yann Madec was climbing a steep, narrow street at a brisk pace, in what was both the oldest and perhaps the dirtiest quarter of the city.

Here, the air hardly moved. Despite fines and repeated warnings, the state of the neighborhood never seemed to improve.

He sidestepped a large brown puddle and passed the abandoned church of the Seven Saints, whose grimy stained-glass windows barely let any light through. Finally, Yann entered a house with a cracked and joyless façade.

On the second floor, a door suddenly burst open. A man in a long dark coat and a wide-brimmed, worn-out hat stepped into a shabby room that reeked of damp and mold. The water stain on the ceiling opposite the entrance had spread and darkened.

The intrusion made a woman in her early thirties startle and clutch her chest. Simply dressed, her hair was disheveled, and her eyes were hollow with fatigue. At first, she thought it was a break-in—or that her husband had hidden a debt, and the collector had come to demand payment.

But when she recognized her husband's face, fear gave way to a tumult of emotion and anger.

"Marie-Louise! It's me—I'm home!"

Alexis, their eldest son, sprang to his feet and ran toward his father. He wrapped his small arms around his waist and held him tight.

"Papa!"

The cry snapped Marie-Louise out of her daze. It was the first time he had been gone so long. Even though he had written and sent money, the months had felt endless. She hastily fixed her hair and her clothes, then came closer—torn between the urge to strike him and to kiss him.

"You're finally back! I was starting to think you'd never return—that you'd forgotten you had a wife and children waiting for you!"

Yann froze as he saw tears welling up in his wife's large eyes. She had always been emotional, but this time, her anger was well deserved.

Eight months—it was a long time. Especially since they had just had a second child.

Antoine, sitting on the floor, stared at him curiously, as if studying a stranger. He had grown so much in his father's absence.

"I'm sorry," Yann said, stepping closer and drawing his wife into his arms.

Though he didn't smell particularly good, Marie-Louise didn't push him away. On the contrary, she nestled closer into his embrace. There, against him, she felt safe again.

"I know it hasn't been easy," he murmured. "Did you get the money I sent?"

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"It's not about the money," she answered, her voice muffled against his chest—he was much taller than she was. "I was alone with our children. If it hadn't been for my mother and sister, I don't know what I would have done…"

Yann said nothing and gently stroked her hair.

"You're home for good, then?"

"Yes," he breathed, before pausing briefly. "But… there's another possibility for us."

He felt her body tense in his arms. She lifted her head, suspicion flaring in her eyes.

"You're not thinking of following that officer again, are you? For how long this time—one year? Two? Do you want our children to forget what their father looks like?"

Yann stepped back slightly, hesitated, then placed both hands gently on her shoulders.

"I received an offer… well, it's something I asked for myself. But I wanted to talk to you first."

"You!"

The Breton saw anger rising in her eyes, so he didn't waste a moment. He gestured for her to sit down on the wooden bench in the small kitchen.

"The major—Major de Montrouge, the one I've been serving these past months—he's leaving soon for New France. He owns land there, and apparently there's no shortage of work."

"You can't be serious…"

"Please, let me finish. He told me he'd allow me to settle there, to keep working for him. We could all go together. It would be hard, yes—but we'd have land of our own. A house of our own. Something that belongs to us and no one else."

Marie-Louise remained silent for a long moment, stunned. Only the cries of seagulls outside and the wind rattling the shutters broke the silence. It seeped through every crack, like the damp.

"You're serious?" she finally whispered. "You'd really have us go that far away? I've heard the winters there are terrible—much worse than here. That the forests are full of wild beasts and savages. And you'd take the boys?"

"Yes," Yann replied, suddenly very calm. "The country is vast, and so little of it is used. You only have to reach out to seize an opportunity. Just imagine—all the land we could have. What we could leave to our children. It's a better life than what they'd have here. I don't want them breaking their backs on these docks for a handful of coins."

He leaned a little closer to her, took her hands gently in his, and gazed at his wife with quiet determination—almost pleading.

"We'll never have all that here. But over there, we'll have our chance. They don't call it the New World for nothing."

Marie-Louise lowered her eyes to her husband's rough hands covering her own. Hers looked fragile beside them, yet just as worn.

Her features remained closed, but in her eyes flickered doubt—and a faint glimmer of hope.

She looked around their home.

Small, dirty, dark, noisy; walls cracked and damp, blotched with black mold.

The Brest penal labor camp, she thought bitterly, must be in better condition than this building.

The fact that it had been built only twenty years earlier changed nothing—their living conditions were worse than those of a thief locked away there for his crime.

Her gaze dropped back to her hands. Life had been so hard that one would scarcely believe she was only thirty.

Her fingers, thin and shriveled like apples left too long in a corner, tightened around Yann's calloused palms before letting go. She finally let out a long sigh.

"I don't know…" she murmured.

Her eyes fell then on little Antoine, still sitting on the floor, tapping a wooden spoon as if it were a fascinating toy, and on Alexis, leaning over the table.

"To leave everything… my mother, my sister, Brest… Even if I complain about this house, about this city, it's still our home. If we go there, we'll have to start all over again."

Yann simply nodded.

"Isn't that a good thing? I don't mean your family, of course. But starting over might be the best thing we could do—for ours. Here, what can we hope for? To work ourselves to death just to pay rent and taxes, day after day? We have to think about our future—about the life we want for our children."

Marie-Louise met Yann's gaze, and for a brief instant, she saw again the man she had married—the one who spoke of tomorrow with eyes full of promise and hope.

Her expression softened, though worry still lingered.

"And if one of us falls ill? Over there… or during the crossing?"

"We fall ill here too," Yann answered softly. "Look at this house. This city. I nearly died during the epidemic of '57. We're no safer here."

"Maybe… But at least there are no savages," she whispered. "And then there's the war. Do you even know if that land is safe from the English?"

This time, Madec had no answer—he hadn't thought to ask such an important question.

"There are risks, yes," he admitted at last. "But the major is an honorable man. He'll treat us fairly, I'm sure of it. And it's his seigneury—it's protected, of course. There are already families living there, so we won't be alone."

Marie-Louise bit her lower lip gently.

"I really don't know, Yann. I just don't know anymore."

He gave a faint smile and tightened his grip on her hands. Seeing her less hostile to the idea brought him some relief, but he knew she still needed time.

"We don't have to decide tonight. The major leaves in ten days. Think about it—that's all I'm asking. I just wanted you to know there might be a future waiting for us elsewhere."

She nodded without replying.

"And if you have questions," he added, "we can go see him together. He said he'd answer everything honestly."

She nodded again and finally stood.

"All right. I'll think about it."

She went to the kitchen and began preparing the evening soup with the vegetables she had bought at the market earlier that day.

Soon, the small home was filled with the gentle scent of carrots, leeks, potatoes, and cabbage.

Yann stayed seated for a while, watching her in silence, deeper in thought than ever.

***

The next morning, the port city was shrouded in a thick, clinging mist. The houses, the castle, and the ships at anchor all looked like gray specters.

François, seated at the table by the window of his inn room, was rereading a letter to Martin, making sure it contained no mistakes in French.

Once, when he had still been simply Adam, he used to make plenty of them—and couldn't have cared less; a spellchecker had always been enough.

But here and now, a man was judged by his handwriting as much as by his manners or his clothes.

How could anyone take seriously a person who didn't even master the rules of his own language?

Three knocks at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Come in."

It must be Madec.

It was indeed him.

The Breton, who had hastily wiped his boots before entering, was holding his hat under his arm. He seemed a little nervous.

"Good morning, sir. Please forgive me for calling so early," he said, bowing slightly.

"Good morning, Mr. Madec. No problem," François replied, setting his letter aside. "Were you able to speak with your wife?"

"Yes. She… would like to speak with you, if possible. She has some questions."

François nodded without showing the slightest irritation.

"That is perfectly natural. Is she here?"

"She's downstairs, sir."

"Very well. Have her come up. It would be best for the three of us to talk together before you make such an important decision."

"Thank you very much," said Madec, bowing again before stepping out.

A few moments later, there was another knock at the door. François rose to welcome the couple.

Marie-Louise entered timidly behind her husband. She had put on her finest cap and a clean dress, carefully chosen so as not to appear neglectful in front of an officer.

Her eyes betrayed her worry.

"Good morning, Madame Madec. Please, have a seat. You too, sir. Your husband told me you wished to ask me some questions."

"Y-yes, s-sir," she stammered. "My husband told me yesterday that you would agree to take us all with you, to settle on your lands in New France. I must admit… the idea frightens me. We know so little about that country."

François inclined his head slightly, a reassuring smile on his lips.

"That is an understandable fear. There are many rumors, and the unknown is always daunting. I will do my best to answer each of your questions honestly. What would you like to know?"

Marie-Louise exchanged a brief glance with her husband, who gave her a discreet nod of encouragement.

"In truth, I have so many questions that I hardly know where to begin. Forgive me, sir, if I ramble a little. F-for starters: how does the journey go? How long does the crossing take, and is it dangerous? And… could we meet pirates on the way?"

François couldn't help but laugh softly.

"No, madame. There have been no pirates in those waters for a long time. Our ships—and those of every major European empire—have seen to that and still do. The real danger lies in the sea itself: storms, illness. The ship I'm to embark on is a large warship. We passed by it on our way to the Intendance. It's sturdy and, of course, well-commanded. It will not fear rough winds, though no one can truly claim to tame the ocean. The crossing lasts between one and two months, depending on the winds."

"S-so long?" she gasped. "I… We have two children, one of them still very young. I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"I have two children myself," François said gently. "Had they been older, I would have taken them with me to discover France. It will indeed be a difficult ordeal for them, if you decide to follow me. But other families have done so before you."

The woman nodded faintly, and little by little she regained some composure. She began asking, one by one, all the questions she had thought of since the previous evening.

She questioned François about the climate, the quality of the soil, wild animals, the Indians and the potential danger they might represent, about work and wages, the cost of goods and provisions, the quality of the harvests, what was lacking, the presence of churches, fairs, and markets.

She also wanted to know how they would be welcomed—whether they would be left to their own devices—what the colonists were like, whether people prayed there as in France, and of course, whether they would be safe.

François answered each patiently, with the quiet confidence of a man who knew his subject.

"Madame," he said at last, "I own a vast estate on the frontier, on land taken from the English during the last war. They will no doubt try to seize it again, but you must understand that their ambitions go far beyond this single territory. Their eyes are set on all of New France. That is why His Majesty and his officers are doing everything they can to fortify and secure the region."

His gaze moved from Yann to Marie-Louise.

"Just a few minutes' walk away stands one of the strongest forts on the continent: Fort Bourbon. It houses a full regiment made up of locals determined not to let a single Englishman through. They've already paid the price for that resolve. With so many men and so much equipment, we have little to fear from a sudden attack."

"But our house won't be behind those walls, will it?" asked Marie-Louise, with a touch of anxiety.

"No, madame," replied the major honestly. "At least, not to my knowledge. There are no plans to fortify the area."

He saw the disappointment darken her expression and quickly added:

"However, in case of any threat, civilians will always be sheltered and protected within the fort. And if there were any damages, I would personally make sure you were compensated. Monsieur de Vaudreuil, the governor of the province, is a just man. He would never leave anyone without help."

Marie-Louise nodded slowly, somewhat reassured. Her hands, resting on her knees, gradually relaxed.

She looked for another question but found none.

She hadn't realized how time had passed. More than an hour had gone by.

"Would you like to know anything else?" François asked softly.

"N-no… I-I think I've asked everything."

"Do you feel a little more at ease?" he asked again, with a polite smile.

"Not entirely," she admitted in a whisper, avoiding the major's gaze. "The journey still frightens me. And the winters too, if they're as harsh as you say."

"They are demanding, certainly, but not insurmountable, madame. Some might even say they build character. Perhaps that is why the people over there are so warm-hearted?"

Marie-Louise smiled for the first time, a genuine smile, and rose, followed by her husband.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you for receiving us and for taking the time to answer."

"You're most welcome. I should be the one thanking you, madame. You asked the right questions."

She bowed respectfully, and as they left his room, François had a thought—a future task.

Perhaps it would be worth writing a book about New France one day. After all, people knew almost nothing about it. They might see it as more than just a cold country covered in trees.

He gently touched the string of beads he always kept in his pocket and rolled them between his fingers, thoughtful.

Maybe I should dedicate a whole section to the different Indian tribes. Not just the Haudenosaunee. Perhaps then they'll stop calling them "savages."

For now, he didn't yet know how to go about it, but the idea was there. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed worth pursuing.

Perhaps it might even make others want to try their luck over there.

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