Hello! Here is a new chapter! It's quite long, but I'm sure you won't see that as a problem.
Here is a map of the region where the seigneury of Montrouge, before its expansion (green zone), is located: https://postimg.cc/PNYwLqZ0
In light green is François's personal domain.
Enjoy!
Thank you Porthos10, Yako_3972, Alan_Morvan, Mium, Elios_Kari, Ponnu_Samy_2279, Galan05, AlexZero12, , Ic2096, and Microraptor for the support!
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This Friday, October 12th, 1770, was an especially rainy day.
Heavy drops hammered against the tall windows of Governor Vaudreuil's study before quickly streaming down the glass like long vertical rivers. At times, the downpour intensified so suddenly that one could almost mistake it for a burst of hail.
Outside, everything was gray. The sky, the walls of the fort, the soldiers, the Saint Lawrence. It was so dark that one could almost forget it was only the beginning of the afternoon.
Moisture seeped everywhere despite the thickness of the stone walls, creeping in insidiously. It clung to fabrics, polished woodwork, and gave the air an unpleasant heaviness.
And yet, a large fire had been burning for hours in an imposing fireplace adorned with magnificent gilded moldings. The flames slowly devoured recently added logs of dry wood, spreading a constant warmth accompanied by an irregular and strangely soothing crackling.
Standing near the stone mantel, Pierre de Rigaud de Vaudreuil silently watched the blaze while Marshal de Contades, seated in a deep red-and-gold armchair, finished reading the letter the governor had just handed him. The message came from Versailles and bore the signature of Louis XV himself.
This time, the governor wore a fine duck-blue coat delicately embroidered with silver trim. The marshal, meanwhile, was dressed in a steel-blue ensemble heavily decorated with golden embroidery, over which he wore a thick fur-lined cloak.
At last, the marshal set the letter down upon the heavy desk and let out a quiet sigh before pouring himself some wine. The soft clink of glass brought the governor back to reality.
"I see," murmured Contades. "But what can we realistically do?"
He took a sip before raising his eyes toward the old governor. Vaudreuil turned away from the fireplace and slowly shook his head.
"Unfortunately, very little. His Majesty's request cannot be fulfilled without endangering the colony's own supply."
"It is true that while this year's wheat harvest was not poor… it was not exceptional either."
Vaudreuil finally stepped away from the fireplace and slowly returned to the desk. He lowered himself into his armchair, already regretting the warmth of the fire. It had taken only two steps for him to feel as though the flames had suddenly gone out.
"In truth, it was rather good, Marshal," he replied. "We shall pass the winter without difficulty. Above all, our fields produced enormous quantities of potatoes."
"But that is not what His Majesty requires," Contades answered with a somewhat weary smile. "He needs flour to compensate for the catastrophic wheat harvest in the kingdom, and thus limit the rise in the price of bread. Ah, if only it were possible to make bread from those potatoes…"
Old Governor Vaudreuil gave a slight shrug.
"I am certain the brightest minds in the kingdom are working on it… though is it even possible? Ah… Even after the large influx of settlers following the last war, even after obtaining vast stretches of land in the south, nothing has truly changed: New France still produces only enough grain for its own subsistence."
His gaze drifted toward a corner of the room.
"We can send a few shipments of flour, but not enough to provide lasting relief to the kingdom. I am not even convinced they would survive the voyage."
A large log burst apart in the fireplace, scattering a whirl of glowing sparks.
The marshal released another sigh.
"Let us hope they find solutions quickly. And that the winter remains mild. The price of bread has always been a sensitive matter."
More often than not, it provoked unrest—sometimes as severe as the troubles currently shaking the British colonies.
The two men could only thank Heaven that such things were not happening in New France. Life there was so difficult that the inhabitants had neither the time nor the energy to spend expressing anger or frustration. They also had fewer reasons to do so, since their living conditions had noticeably improved since the end of the war.
The two men remained silent for a moment. Only the sound of rain and the crackling fire could be heard.
Then someone knocked at the door.
Knock, knock.
"Enter," said the governor.
An officer opened the door and saluted.
"Governor. Marshal. Major de Montrouge is here and requests an audience."
At once, both men straightened. They exchanged a brief glance filled with anticipation. Contades set down his wineglass and rose from his chair.
"At last," Vaudreuil murmured. "Send him in immediately."
"Yes, sir."
The officer bowed respectfully and stepped aside to let François enter.
The major was alone, visibly exhausted from his journey. He had not even taken the time to change clothes, making him look almost like a vagabond. His outfit was so drenched by the rain that one might have thought he had decided to bathe in a river.
François Boucher de Montrouge gave a proper military salute, dripping water all over the polished wooden floor. Vaudreuil and Contades paid it no attention.
"Governor. Marshal."
Vaudreuil frowned slightly upon seeing his condition.
"Good God, Major… come closer to the fire. You will make yourself ill."
François hesitated for a fraction of a second before obeying. He truly was soaked to the bone and freezing.
Slowly, he walked toward the great fireplace, leaving a long wet trail behind him.
The warmth gradually reached him, but it was not enough to truly warm him. His clothes clung to him like a second skin.
Vaudreuil and Contades observed him carefully. They thought they noticed a change in the young man—something difficult to define. Perhaps a newfound hardness. Or simply the quiet confidence of men returned from a dangerous mission.
Contades slowly nodded, satisfied with the transformation.
He was the first to question him.
"Major de Montrouge. Did your return proceed without any major incident?"
"None, Marshal," François answered calmly. "The arrangements prepared before my departure worked as intended, and thanks to my guide, I was able to reach Québec without losing my way."
He still knew nothing about that man—not even his name.
Whether on the narrow trails leading to Fort Carillon or aboard the canoe that had allowed them to reach the Saint Lawrence very quickly through Lake Champlain, the man had spoken very little. As though every word carried a price.
François did not consider it necessary to mention his mistake with the rented horse here and now. In any case, it had been corrected. The smugglers had taken the gray mare with instructions to return her to her rightful owner in New York, and to ensure that happened, François had allowed them to keep the deposit—far greater than the horse's true value.
There would be no consequences.
"Excellent," the marshal said almost in a whisper, slowly nodding.
He gestured toward an armchair near the desk.
"In that case, sit down and tell us everything you saw in New York."
François looked from the marshal to the governor before taking his seat with outward calm in a magnificent scarlet-and-gold armchair. Soaked as he was, he had the unpleasant feeling that he was ruining everything he touched.
"I am at your service, my lord."
With those words, he hoped to shield himself from any possible future reproach.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, recalling the restless streets of the great city, the crowded taverns, the wary looks of the inhabitants, the heated debates. Then he raised his eyes again toward the two great men before him, who were now watching him with absolute attention.
"The city of New York continues to function almost normally despite the economic difficulties affecting Great Britain," François began, as though reciting a lesson. "The port remains active, the taverns full, and merchants continue to conduct business… but that normality is deceptive. One only needs to scratch the surface to see that beneath it lies a deep anger toward London. And during the few months I spent there, I was able to witness how quickly it is growing and spreading."
He paused briefly.
"The most interesting thing is that it now affects every layer of society: small craftsmen, printers, wealthy merchants, landowners, sailors, clerks…"
He hesitated before adding:
"It has even begun to spread within the army."
The marshal's thick black eyebrows drew together in surprise.
"The army as well?"
"To a lesser extent than among civilians, certainly. The officers remain loyal to the Crown in their overwhelming majority, but ordinary soldiers also suffer from rising prices. Their pay is not keeping pace."
He thought back to the soldier from whom he had obtained this information in exchange for a little laudanum.
"A certain portion of the garrison stationed in the city is made up of men born in the colonies. They are not immune to the atmosphere there and sometimes have families suffering from the decisions made in London. They also hear the same speeches as everyone else."
The marshal slowly nodded, thoughtful. Vaudreuil, meanwhile, stared pensively at the gray weather outside.
"So… the anger has continued to grow," he murmured, almost to himself. "What about the elites? The colonial authorities?"
François immediately thought of the two great families competing for control of New York: the DeLanceys and the Livingstons. Wealthy and influential men trying to maintain their position amid the storm.
"Some are beginning to seriously view Parliament as a direct threat to their interests. Shortly before my departure, the provincial assembly debated a new tax voted in London. From what I was told, the discussions became extremely violent. The most radical and the most loyal nearly came to blows."
Contades displayed a strange expression, no doubt imagining the disgraceful scene.
"To that extent?"
"Yes, my lord. And between the two camps, there are still moderates—men who refuse to take sides. But their position is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain."
He thought of the Sons of Liberty, of their growing determination to force change, then discreetly drew a breath.
"They are accused of weakness by one side, and cowardice by the other."
Vaudreuil swallowed as he imagined what such a climate would produce in New France. Fortunately, the French colony was very different. The territory was immense but sparsely populated, and it was not administered in the same way. Above all, it relied heavily upon locals such as himself.
He knew that meant a great deal to the inhabitants. And that was certainly why His Majesty would never recall him.
Marshal de Contades narrowed his eyes and absentmindedly stroked his chin, as though playing with an invisible beard.
"To hear you speak, Major, the British colonies seem to be approaching a breaking point."
"That is my impression, my lord," François replied after a few seconds. "And many colonists are aware of it themselves."
His voice grew deeper.
"Their anger did not begin yesterday. It has been building for years. Every new tax, every commercial restriction, every decision imposed from London without approval from the assemblies only deepens the resentment."
He carefully weighed his words.
"For a growing part of the population, it is only a matter of time before the storm breaks. They truly feel they are being treated as second-class subjects."
Contades simply nodded.
"In one of your previous reports, you mentioned Parliament as the designated culprit behind the colonists' grievances. But what about the king?"
François reflected for a moment. This time, his thoughts returned to the Queen's Head Tavern and the John Simmons Tavern. In both of those important establishments, the portraits of King George had remained untouched. But he had not forgotten what was destined to happen in America.
"For now, they still accept the authority of His British Majesty, my lord. What they are growing less and less willing to tolerate are the decisions made in London without consulting the colonial assemblies. To them, even if they do not view their province as an independent state, it should be natural for Parliament to turn to those assemblies to determine what can be done, and how it can be done without violating their charters—or whatever regulations they invoke."
"Hm… We know they are attached to the autonomy the Crown granted them because of the distance separating them from the mother country. What we wish to know, Major, is whether their anger runs deep enough that one day they might turn away from their king."
Major de Montrouge took his time before answering. He knew that this would eventually happen and needed to make his superior understand it without making it obvious. He chose his words carefully.
"For the moment, that does not appear to be the case. Their attacks are aimed primarily at government representatives, tax collectors, and official buildings. But portraits of His Majesty are spared. They do not tear down Union flags either."
A darker expression crossed his face.
"However, if the army were to commit grave errors in judgment, or if tragedies similar to the New York Massacre were to occur again, then things could change very quickly."
Those words reminded Contades of a report that had arrived from France the previous month, forwarded by the Ministry of the Navy.
"While you were in the colonies, did you hear anything about significant troop movements? A squadron, for instance?"
François raised an eyebrow and looked at the marshal.
"No, I heard nothing of the sort. Why?"
He immediately sensed that the question had not been asked at random—that something had happened.
Marshal de Contades had no obligation to explain everything he knew, but because it could have consequences for the colonies, he decided to elaborate.
"Last month, we received a dispatch informing us that a squadron had reportedly departed from the Isle of Wight with nearly two thousand men bound for the New World."
François flinched. His stomach tightened at once.
Two thousand men. Far too few to reclaim what Britain had lost in the last war, but more than enough to restore order in a restless city.
"If those troops are sent to New York… the Sons of Liberty will use it as proof that London intends to rule the colonies by force. It could persuade the undecided to join them."
Naturally, Vaudreuil and Contades were already familiar with that name. What they expected from François was fresh intelligence about the political movement itself.
"What are they truly worth?" Vaudreuil asked bluntly.
"What are they worth…"
François hesitated for a few seconds before answering with greater confidence.
"They are not merely troublemakers. They possess networks, contacts in taverns, among certain printers, within the merchant class. They meet regularly, exchange information, and know how to mobilize crowds quickly."
"But?" the marshal interrupted.
"But they are not soldiers."
He shook his head and wore the same expression he had displayed upon discovering the composition of the New Aquitaine Regiment.
"The movement still lacks structure. Opinions frequently differ regarding the methods that should be employed. Some wish to push the confrontation further, while others prefer caution."
Naturally, he was thinking of Isaac Sears and Alexander McDougall.
"There are several influential figures… but no true hierarchy."
"That is a problem. How can they fight effectively without a leader?"
He made no effort to conceal his disdain.
"They must have no discipline."
"The relatively limited size of the movement reduces the negative effects of their lack of organization. Nevertheless, personal initiatives do occur. And the absence of a central leader also makes the movement difficult to decapitate."
"I see," the marshal murmured, a faint smile on his lips. "Interesting. Continue."
François nodded once and went on:
"They have begun encouraging closer cooperation between the colonies in order to better defend their rights against Parliament. I participated in a propaganda poster campaign. The operation was not an unqualified success, but part of the population proved… receptive."
Vaudreuil and Contades exchanged surprised glances. They had hoped François would take the initiative to approach those agitators, but they had not expected him to infiltrate them so successfully in such a short time.
As for cooperation between the British colonies, they were not surprised. Vaudreuil especially had already seen, years earlier, the famous poster depicting a severed snake alongside the words: "Join, or Die." At the time, the British colonists had viewed France as their primary threat.
"The British Crown will always seek to prevent the colonies from uniting," he said calmly. "Divided provinces are easier to govern. If they succeed in coming together, it will benefit us."
But Contades seemed less convinced.
"Perhaps in the short term," the marshal conceded as he picked up his glass of wine again. "But unified colonies would eventually become a genuine threat to our own possessions. Their numerical superiority on this continent is a reality we cannot ignore. If they succeed in resisting British military power, there is no doubt they would also be capable of dragging us into a ruinously expensive war."
After a moment's reflection, Vaudreuil slowly nodded.
He knew the weaknesses of New France all too well.
His Majesty had certainly spent vast sums strengthening the colony, but that alone might not be enough to stop the British colonies if they ever united all their forces against them.
François, however, reassured the two men.
"The idea of unified colonies is still far from reaching a consensus, Marshal," François replied. "I have seen the extent of their distrust firsthand. As you said, they are deeply attached to their autonomy—to their charters, their assemblies, and their local privileges. It would be as if, in our own kingdom, someone proposed applying the exact same taxation everywhere."
Put that way, the marshal immediately understood the difficulty of such an undertaking. In France, every province had its own system and advantages, acquired over time and shaped by geography.
"Unification," François continued, "means to many of them the certainty of exchanging one dependency for another. They do not wish to chain themselves to colonies whose interests may not align with their own."
Contades took a sip of wine before raising his eyes slightly.
"Hm. So these Sons of Liberty seek only cooperation in order to pressure Parliament. Is that correct?"
"Yes, my lord."
After that clarification, which noticeably eased the tension in the office, the marshal and the governor asked François to recount in precise detail everything that had happened in New York—everything he had seen and heard over the past three months. Even if some matters had already appeared in written reports, nothing could ever be as detailed as hearing it directly from him.
Here, he had no constraints.
François answered every question honestly. The discussion lasted more than two and a half hours. Throughout it all, the rain never ceased for a single moment.
When he finished, a long silence settled over the room. Only the rain hammering against the windows and the fire in the hearth could be heard, the latter having long since consumed all the wood placed within it.
The marshal slowly straightened in his seat and fixed the young officer with his large dark eyes, his expression grave.
"Major, your testimony has provided us with invaluable information. You will remain in Québec long enough to draft a complete report compiling all of your observations. You will ensure that it is clear, organized, and precise, as it shall be sent to Versailles to inform His Majesty of the evolving situation in New York."
François inclined his head slightly.
"Yes, my lord."
Contades exchanged a brief glance with Vaudreuil before turning his attention back to the young man, who still looked like a wandering stray dog.
"But before we dismiss you, I would like to know your personal opinion… In your estimation, how much time remains before the British colonies erupt into open rebellion?"
This time, he no longer spoke of a possibility, but of a timetable.
François bit his lower lip slightly. He did not know in what year the War of Independence was truly supposed to begin, but everything pointed toward it happening very soon.
"I do not believe it will occur within the coming months. The anger is immense, but those who seek change—without necessarily desiring a general uprising—still need time to convince the hesitant. They also understand the necessity of organizing themselves more effectively if they wish to avoid ending up like those farmers in Carolina. What happened there taught them several lessons."
He looked from Marshal de Contades to Governor Vaudreuil.
"A few years at most, I would say. Perhaps fewer than five."
The expression on Contades' face was unreadable. Vaudreuil, meanwhile, had visibly paled. Fewer than five years. On the scale of a kingdom, that was nothing.
"One final question," the marshal resumed. "In your opinion, what would their chances of success be?"
Glups.
François felt his heart tighten, then suddenly race. His hands grew damp, and not because of the rain.
He had the strange impression that his next words might alter the course of history.
He lowered his eyes to his hands clenched tightly on his knees and remained silent for a long moment. Contades did not rush him.
"That depends on too many factors, my lord," François finally answered. "A great many things may happen before the first shot is fired."
The marshal remained silent, allowing the young major to continue.
"If the conflict begins too early, the colonies will be crushed quickly, even if part of the British army is occupied elsewhere. Some colonies might even reconsider at the decisive moment and bend the knee. The British army, though weakened and humiliated by the last war, remains a formidable force."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"Time would likely become the colonists' greatest ally, because the kingdom's finances would probably not sustain a prolonged conflict. The first months would be decisive. The rebels would require rapid victories—not necessarily major battles, but successes sufficient to convince more colonists to take up arms in turn."
The marshal folded his hands together.
"And if the colonies were to receive outside assistance?"
François immediately understood that he meant aid from France intended to further weaken Great Britain.
"Their chances would improve considerably. But even with discreet support, they would first need to survive the opening months of the conflict on their own."
François watched the two men for any sign of surprise or doubt, but found none. Only confirmation.
"They possess the advantage of terrain. With such a vast hinterland, supply lines would quickly become overstretched and vulnerable. The redcoats would no longer know whom to trust and would exhaust themselves remaining constantly on guard. Many smaller forts serving as depots or relay posts are only lightly defended simply because they are not on the frontier. Determined militiamen could seize them and strip them of supplies very quickly."
"And when the Crown finally intervenes," Contades concluded gravely, "those rebels will already be armed, organized… and above all convinced that they can resist."
François nodded silently.
The silence that followed was a strange one. The sound of rain striking the windows of the vast office seemed to carry the echo of future battles. War drums beating rapidly before an assault. The crackling of the fire in the hearth resembled volleys of musket fire.
Marshal de Contades exchanged another glance with Governor Vaudreuil before slowly stepping around the desk. The governor imitated him. Major Boucher de Montrouge understood that the meeting was drawing to a close.
He quickly rose from the armchair, leaving behind a large dark stain on the scarlet velvet. His damp uniform still clung to his skin.
Contades stopped before him.
"Major Boucher de Montrouge, you have rendered a great service to the kingdom."
His deep voice echoed through the room.
"Your mission was dangerous. You spent several months among a hostile population, under a false identity, without direct support, under the constant threat of discovery."
François straightened proudly, like a victorious soldier.
"Your work will be of immense value to us. And it will also be of value to His Majesty when he receives your complete report."
François felt his heart beat faster and his cheeks warm with excitement.
Finally.
He had awaited this moment eagerly—almost as eagerly as the moment he would step through the doors of his manor.
The marshal continued:
"Unfortunately, the unofficial nature of your mission prevents us from granting you public honors."
Those words created a subtle tension within François. But he sensed what was coming next.
He bowed very deeply and replied with great humility:
"I serve the Crown. I merely fulfilled my duty."
Naturally, he kept to himself the fact that he had not truly been given much choice when entrusted with this mission. Contades ignored the expected remark and continued:
"Nevertheless, we may reward you in other ways. You departed Québec at the beginning of June, and we are now in October. Although the kingdom is not at war with Great Britain, we consider your service equivalent to a wartime assignment. Your pay shall therefore be issued accordingly."
François suppressed a slight smile. That meant he would receive double pay.
It was what he had expected. He remained silent and waited.
But Contades added nothing further.
No promotion. No promise. No recommendation.
The warmth that had risen in his chest to his cheeks quickly turned unpleasant. He had hoped for more.
François discreetly clenched his fists and jaw, concealed his frustration, and bowed before the marshal.
"Thank you, my lord."
He used those few seconds to regain control of his emotions, and his face became once more as calm as the surface of a lake.
After all, it made sense. He had spied on the English, but that was hardly reason enough to overlook his lack of experience for a second time. He was still young and lacked the seniority necessary for promotion to the next rank: lieutenant-colonel. Moreover, there was already a lieutenant-colonel in the New Aquitaine Regiment.
Marshal de Contades watched him, no doubt imagining his disappointment. But he remained silent.
Old Governor Vaudreuil cleared his throat, drawing François' attention.
"That is not all. In my capacity as Governor of New France… I too wish to reward you personally for your services to the colony."
This time, François saw a glimmer of hope. The governor had always been generous toward him. A small shiver ran through him.
"Your seigneury of Montrouge shall be expanded."
He paused briefly.
"Unless, of course, you would prefer another estate in a more favorable location."
François calculated quickly.
More land meant more responsibilities, but also more habitants, therefore greater income, greater local influence, greater political weight… and above all a better future for his children.
That was worth more than the double pay granted by Contades.
He bowed even lower than he had before the marshal and thanked the old man with such genuine sincerity that it brought a warm smile to Vaudreuil's face.
"It is a tremendous honor, Governor! I gratefully accept the expansion of my seigneury of Montrouge!"
Vaudreuil stepped closer to François and placed a wrinkled yet still sturdy hand upon the major's shoulder.
"You have served New France well, my boy. It is only natural that she remember it."
He cast a quick glance toward Contades.
"And perhaps His Majesty will remember as well. Continue working hard."