it seems like evening. Clinging, cold, damp fog enshrouds everything: passersby, stone houses, slippery sidewalks. Greyness. A man hurries his horse along. And yet he is accustomed to the cold! New France appears in his thoughts, luminous beneath the biting January cold. Snow and bright sky. To infinity. This country lives within him constantly, even though they have been separated by an ocean for several months now. How many times, and again today, will he have to describe to the Court of the King the riches of this immense land and the urgent need to provide the necessary amounts to establish a lasting colony?
He pictures the scene awaiting him in a few moments. He, Samuel de Champlain, pleading his life's cause before His Majesty Louis XIII and his counsellors. His audience listening to him, at times distracted, irritated at still having to discuss France in America.
It is 1619. Champlain is approaching fifty and has spent half his life navigating. In the past fifteen years, he has gone back and forth between France and Canada, seeking brave men to establish a new country across the Atlantic and financial backing for his plans of colonization. Eleven years earlier, in 1608, he had carefully selected a piece of land and some cliffs jutting out into the St. Lawrence River. There he had founded an establishment that was not a city or even a village. For the moment it remains a starting point whose importance he has to defend constantly.
Approaching the Louvre Palace, the horseman stops in the rain and hears himself express aloud the profound hope that has motivated him for so long. “Sir, forests as far as the eye can see, fertile land and an abundance of furs await. An enormous river carries its waves right up to you. Now it is up to you to pass it on to God and to France.”
“Quebec has existed for over ten years, Monsieur de Champlain. Well, when I say existed…”
Once again the King was reducing an impressive undertaking to something very small. The vague dream of a madman. For what really existed over there? Quebec saw the light of day with a handful of men and the construction of a fort. Today, eighty people at most survived in this new land in pain and misery, hounded by inhuman temperatures and scurvy in winter, hordes of mosquitoes in summer, and tribes of savages all year long! A fine state of affairs! How could France imagine that part of its glory resided in this remote corner of the world that didn't even seem to lead to China, and where the hoped-for gold turned out to be beaver pelts?
“My King…”
Champlain took a deep breath. He had to convert an unloved colony into a source of national pride.
“Among the powerful of this world, you reign over a kingdom built up by centuries worth of history. As you yourself so aptly point out, Quebec and New France have existed for only a few short years. A country must grow just like a man; New France is in its childhood!”
The navigator insisted that at any cost such a far-reaching ambition had to be given time. Wasn't this about linking France and America?
The King responded to this exuberance by consulting his ledger. To date, the profits had scarcely justified the investments.
So much for that. Barely having seen the light of day and perceived as a rock in the middle of a glacier, the little point on the river had to fill the coffers…
At that time France was fobbing off the colony's expenses to merchants who'd merged to form a company. These people obtained the King's official assurance that they enjoyed a monopoly, the exclusive right to carry out the fur trade in Canada, and almost all profits from the resale of pelts in Europe. Barely one-tenth of the profits went to the King. In exchange for this privilege, the merchants were responsible for the cost of the crossings, providing settlers with food supplies, and recruiting individuals and families who desired to settle over there. But in reality the investors were clearly more interested in turning a profit than in respecting the contract. The amounts they had to pay came late or not at all. During his stays in France, Champlain had to make the same speech time and again to the partners, reiterating that the real profits would come from a solidly anchored colony and not a precarious trading post. But for the merchants, the nature of the undertaking was altogether different: once unloaded from the ships, the beavers of the forest became, among other things, hats. These felt hats in various forms were particularly prized by high society. A flourishing business! Having influence with the King and those close to him, the merchants asked him to reduce their contribution or even abolish the constricting rules of the monopoly to provide unlimited access to the extraordinary hunting territory.
“Considerable progress has been made in very little time,” Champlain added.
“Really?”
The King was doubtful. But his servant had long been accustomed to sceptical reactions. Of course the colony was progressing! Alliances with First Nations ensured better collaboration with the indigenous people, helpful not only for the fur trade, but also for teaching the French how to live in this extreme climate and cover new ground to the west of the continent. The West! The very word opened up a vista of miraculous prospecting: hopes of finding mining deposits, a passage to Asia, gold and spices. Each exploration was bringing them closer. Perhaps.
What else could he add?
“Our Récollet fathers evangelize indigenous families and each day lead new souls to the word of Christ. We are spreading the symbol of the cross and the glory of your Crown far and wide!”
On this passionate note, the interview came to an end.
“Monsieur de Champlain, I have other business awaiting me this morning.”
Champlain wondered if he had managed to convey to the powerful men in this elegant sitting room the harsh strength of life in the forest, the roaring rivers, the wide-open spaces, the enormous expanse that was New France… Did they realize how greatly the future would open up to them if France were to embrace such an undertaking?
A few weeks later, the Duke of Montmorency, in charge of the kingdom's colonial affairs, informed him of the King's support, and the associated merchants finally allowed him to arrange his next sailing for Quebec in May of the following year.
“I am told that this time you intend to bring your wife?” the Duke inquired courteously.
“Madame de Champlain has expressed interest in my journeys.”
Cautious interest. His wife, Hélène Boullé, was a dyed-in-the-wool Parisian. Until now, she had never accompanied her husband on his expeditions. When invited to take part in the crossing, she summed up her feelings in a few words.
“It is not for me, my friend.”
But in those days men decided and women obeyed. While he would build forts, descend rapids in a canoe, or battle the Iroquois, his wife, Champlain told himself, would plant gardens. On May 20th, they set sail from Honfleur, in Normandy. Their ship reached its destination after two months of storms and terror for the passenger.
Finally landing on solid ground, Hélène froze. Behind her still hovered the nightmare possibility of their ship sinking, which had nearly happened more than once. She had barely survived the voyage through the help of prayer. Before her, she did not see the Quebec her husband had described as a velvet green jetty in the gentle summer. Instead, she witnessed a handful of scrawny men, a cloud of flies and a dilapidated structure meant to serve as their home, and nothing else.
Champlain read dismay in the eyes of Hélène.
And in fact, despite the years sunk into this project,
