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On December 19, shortly after noon, François was in his office at Fort Bourbon.
A stack of reports occupied a good portion of his desk, covering a wide range of subjects: the state of the food and powder reserves, repairs that needed to be carried out, equipment requests, and movements observed on the British side.
The major had just finished reading a particularly tedious document when someone knocked on his door.
Three quick knocks.
Then the door opened before he even had time to answer.
François looked up and frowned. He immediately recognized Sergeant Gaspard Rosec.
The moment he saw the serious look on the sergeant's face, the major felt his stomach tighten and his throat constrict.
"What is it, Sergeant?"
"Sir..."
The man snapped off a quick salute and tried to catch his breath.
"A young man from your seigneury has just arrived at the fort. He... he ran all the way here to tell you that your wife has gone into labor."
François shot to his feet, sending his chair crashing backward, and hurriedly grabbed his coat and tricorne.
"How long ago?"
"A little over an hour."
He did not even listen to the rest. His work, Sergeant Rosec—nothing seemed to matter anymore. In a few long strides, he left the office as though it were on fire and headed straight for Colonel de Faudoas's office.
François entered without waiting for permission and hurriedly repeated what he had just been told. His tone made it sound less like he was asking permission to leave the fort than informing the colonel that he had to go to his wife immediately.
Yet requesting leave was the proper procedure, for paternity leave simply did not exist in those days.
And in the army, his request could very well have been denied. François almost forgot that leave was rarely granted. A marriage earned only a few days away from duty, while the birth of a child entitled a soldier to nothing at all. It was entirely at the discretion of the commanding officer.
Fortunately, they were at peace, and Colonel de Faudoas was not so hard-hearted as to refuse his major's exceptional request. Partly because François was far too valuable to jeopardize their relationship, partly because his wife held a unique status. And if another reason were needed, the colonel himself was the father of a boy who must have been fifteen by now and had remained in France with his mother.
François immediately hurried to the stables through a light snowfall and mounted Carmène as soon as she had been saddled. He rode past Alexis Madec without stopping until he reached the entrance to his estate.
He paid no attention whatsoever to the snow-covered landscape rushing past him. Every minute, every second, felt like an eternity. All he could think about was his wife, confined to bed and suffering without him at her side to support her. He dreaded arriving too late.
And yet he knew childbirth took time.
Expecting to see his lord return to the manor, Yann Madec was already waiting at the entrance. He took hold of Carmène's reins and stepped aside to let François pass.
The snow was now falling more heavily. The surrounding trees looked like ominous shadows, and the manor resembled a haunted house. The candlelight glowing through the windows was barely visible. Thin streams of smoke drifted lazily from its two chimneys.
Only at the last moment did François notice several sets of footprints in the snow, all leading in the same direction as he was.
Many people had come to the manor to help the Lady of Montrouge.
He threw the front door open and nearly collided with Jeanne, who was carrying a basin of hot water and clean linens.
"How is she?" he asked abruptly, without slowing or stopping.
"She's doing well, sir. The contractions are strong, but everything seems to be progressing normally."
The answer did little to reassure him. This century was far from the safest in which to give birth. Even a perfectly normal delivery could turn into tragedy in a matter of moments.
He headed for the staircase leading upstairs without waiting for Jeanne. Their bedroom door was closed, and muffled voices reached him from inside.
The children were probably in their own room so as not to disturb the adults.
The moment he entered, every woman in the room looked up and turned toward him. Some clearly looked surprised, while others appeared mildly displeased.
Onatah, however, seemed relieved between contractions.
"François... you're here..."
Madame Gagnon, the midwife, placed her hands on her hips.
"My lord, what are you doing here?"
François turned toward the woman. She was in her fifties, with a round face. She knew her trade well; this was far from her first delivery. She had helped several women in Montrouge bring their children into the world and had given birth to eight children herself. She had also delivered Pierre and Louis.
"I came as soon as I heard. I'm here to support my wife."
"You may see her once everything is over."
"I'm staying."
Silence followed.
Madame Gagnon stared at him as though he had just announced his intention to deliver the baby himself. Her frown deepened.
"Men have no place here."
She was not wrong. Among both Europeans and the Iroquois, childbirth was considered women's work. Men were expected to stay away so they would not interfere.
But François was an unusual man.
He had remained by his wife's side during both of her previous deliveries.
Onatah's face tightened as another contraction swept through her. She closed her eyes and pushed. Her body was telling her—commanding her—to do so. She clung to anything she could.
"St-stay."
Her voice was weak, yet resolute.
François stepped forward, and no one objected any longer. Even the midwife eventually shook her head in resignation.
He pulled over a chair and placed it beside the bed, taking a seat where he would not get in anyone's way. He reached out his hand, and Onatah immediately grasped it, squeezing with all her strength.
And she had plenty of it. Not enough to crush his hand, but close. François said nothing. Instead, he gently stroked her hand.
"Everything is going to be alright... Everything will be fine."
For several hours, there was little progress. She could feel the baby moving, slowly descending, but her waters had not yet broken. The women did everything they could to help the Lady of Montrouge endure the pain, talking to her about all sorts of things to keep her mind occupied.
François spoke to her as well, massaging her gently, which seemed to ease her discomfort somewhat. He also helped her change positions. She lay on her side with one leg raised to help the baby descend.
There was little else he could do, but it was better than waiting helplessly outside.
Then, at around half past two, the amniotic sac finally burst, and warm fluid spread across the sheets.
"H-huh?"
The sensation startled her.
"Good. It's beginning now. Madame, you'll have to be strong."
Onatah nodded several times before they adjusted her position once again. This time both of her legs were raised. François turned pale. Onatah released his hand and gripped her own thighs instead. Her face was twisted with effort.
Without anesthesia, the pain was beyond words.
"G-guuuuh..."
A sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp escaped her lips as she began to push. Powerless, François could do nothing except whisper encouragement, much like the other women, who sounded almost like passionate supporters cheering her on.
"H-haaaaaa!"
"Very good! Keep going!"
"H-ha... Haaaaaaaa!"
"One more push!"
"I-I can't... Ah..."
"Relax. You're doing wonderfully. Catch your breath, then we'll try again."
Onatah swallowed hard, her face flushed purple and drenched in sweat.
François felt his heart tighten. Although this was not her first childbirth, the ordeal was no less difficult. And yet, he felt utterly useless.
He no longer knew what to do with his hands.
Of course, Onatah would have disagreed. She would have said that his mere presence gave her all the courage she needed.
"Alright, here we go again. Take a deep breath... and hold it."
"H-huh..."
"Push!"
"Raaaaaaaaaah!"
Onatah's agonizing cry pierced François more deeply than any wound ever had. He trembled as his eyes darted between his wife and the midwife, watching every movement, every expression. So far, everything was unfolding exactly as it had during her previous two deliveries.
He lost all sense of time, yet suddenly everything seemed to accelerate.
And finally, after another half hour...
"I can see the head! Keep pushing! You're almost there!"
François felt tears welling up in his eyes.
"This baby has lots of hair!"
His lips quivered.
"One more time!"
Then, suddenly, a different cry filled the room.
"Waaaaah!"
High-pitched. Powerful. Alive.
Onatah felt her body suddenly relax, and completely exhausted, she let her head fall back onto the pillow behind her.
"Congratulations! It's a girl!"
François could no longer hold back his tears. He began to cry with joy.
"I... I have a daughter..."
He could see her now, cradled securely in the midwife's capable arms. Jeanne stepped forward with a clean cloth and gently wrapped the newborn.
Onatah was crying as well. She wanted to lift her head to see her daughter, but she no longer had the strength to move.
After a quick examination, counting her fingers and toes among other things, the umbilical cord was cut. The midwife then walked around the bed and gently placed the baby into her mother's arms.
She was so tiny... so fragile.
"My baby," Onatah whispered in Iroquois as she received her. "Hello, my darling."
The newborn's skin was slightly darker than François's, though a little lighter than her mother's. She had the same silky hair—but her eyes remained closed.
With a trembling finger, François gently stroked the top of his daughter's head as she nestled against her mother. Her tiny face was turned toward him.
"Hello there, my little princess... Welcome."
Then, for the briefest moment, the newborn opened her eyes.
Their gazes met.
She made a tiny little face.
Her small, wrinkled lips stretched ever so slightly.
"S-she smiled at me..."
He started crying all over again.
The delivery, however, was not quite over. Onatah still had to deliver the placenta. Fortunately, that stage passed without any complications.
The more difficult part was caring for Onatah afterward. There had been tearing and considerable blood loss. Beneath her, the white sheet had turned crimson.
François noticed it immediately, but he also noticed that none of the women appeared alarmed or surprised. They carefully cleaned Onatah and replaced the blood-soaked sheets. To François, the amount of blood was still deeply unsettling.
Madame Gagnon examined her thoroughly before announcing that everything looked fine and that the young woman would recover without difficulty.
François let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Only then was Onatah finally able to rest.
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The night was still dark when François awoke.
For several seconds, he lay perfectly still beneath the blankets, unable to understand what had pulled him from sleep.
Outside, the wind lashed against the walls and windows. It found its way through every flaw in the walls and roof, and with every gust came long, high-pitched whistles that made it sound as though the roof might be torn away and the manor collapse upon its occupants.
The timbers creaked, and the shutters rattled.
Then a gentle melody reached his ears.
Slow. Melancholy.
It took him another second or two to recognize it. It was an Iroquois lullaby his wife had often sung to Pierre, then later to Louis, to help them fall asleep—or simply to soothe them. A song about a young girl who had fallen in love with the wind.
Still half asleep, François turned his head slightly.
Despite the darkness, he could make out Onatah's silhouette. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to him.
Though he could not see clearly, he guessed she was holding Angélique against her chest, perhaps nursing her.
Angélique.
That was the Christian name they had chosen for their daughter. And like her brothers before her, she also bore an Iroquois name, though it would rarely be used: Kaniehti:io, meaning Beautiful Snow.
The tiny bundle, wrapped snugly in a thick blanket, was being gently rocked from side to side.
François couldn't help but smile.
A daughter.
Onatah had been right. Perhaps it was a mother's intuition.
The previous day had been exhausting for everyone. Onatah and Angélique had slept for much of it. The fort's priest had come to baptize the child, as such a ceremony could not be delayed. The sooner, the better.
Afterward, François had signed her birth record.
The song continued.
"Is little mademoiselle refusing to sleep?" he murmured from his side of the bed.
Onatah did not answer and simply continued humming.
He wondered whether she had not heard him, or whether she herself was only half awake. After all, rocking a baby had a way of making one sleepy. Or perhaps she simply didn't want to interrupt the lullaby.
François sighed softly, turned toward his wife, and slowly moved closer while remaining beneath the warmth of the heavy blankets.
Onatah did not move.
He rested his cheek against her back and cautiously reached out to stroke their daughter. His fingers almost immediately found a tiny head covered in long hair. He never grew tired of caressing it; it was unbelievably soft.
With infinite care, he brushed aside a small lock.
Pierre and Louis had not had nearly so much hair at birth. Angélique seemed months ahead of them, even though she would likely lose some of it from always sleeping on one side or the other.
His smile widened.
"So then, my little princess... You were hungry, and now you don't want to go back to sleep?"
His index finger drifted down to her cheek, barely grazing her delicate skin, as though she were as fragile as a soap bubble.
Then his hand stopped.
His smile slowly faded.
A doubt crept into his mind.
Hmm...? Is it just me, or...
He placed his finger against the baby's cheek again.
This time, he held it there longer.
More deliberately.
His breath caught.
Her skin... It's so cold!
Not simply cool, like that of a baby who had been outside the blankets for too long.
Cold.
Unnaturally cold.
His heart skipped a beat.
Still lying beneath the covers, he abruptly lifted his head and slid his finger across her forehead... then her neck.
There was no difference.
No...
He swallowed hard and suddenly sat upright in bed.
His stomach tightened.
No. That's impossible.
"Onatah..."
His voice was barely audible.
His throat had tightened so much that even breathing had become difficult.
The lullaby continued for a few more seconds.
Then, as François searched beneath the blanket for Angélique's tiny hand, Onatah fell silent.
A dreadful silence filled the room.
To François, however, it was louder than a battlefield. All he could hear were the frantic beats of his own heart. He could no longer focus on the baby.
"Onatah... She..."
Something warm landed on the back of his hand.
A tear.
Then another.
And another.
Onatah was crying.
No... Anything but this... Dear God, please...
He tried to speak, but his shattered voice died in his throat.
Another tear rolled down Onatah's cheek before she slowly shook her head.
Just once.
For François, it was as though the world collapsed.
There was a blank.
Before he realized it, he was sitting beside his wife on the edge of the bed. He repeatedly nudged Angélique's tiny hand with his index finger, desperately hoping she would reflexively curl her little wrinkled fingers around his.
Nothing.
The more he tried, the more he felt himself drowning.
He gathered the baby into his arms.
His daughter.
She was so small.
So light.
He searched for a breath.
A heartbeat.
A movement.
Nothing.
There was nothing left.
"No..."
His voice no longer sounded like his own.
"No... no..."
He rubbed her gently.
Then harder.
As though that alone might be enough.
"Wake up, sweetheart... Wake up... Come on..."
Tears began streaming uncontrollably down his face, twisted with grief and despair.
"I'm begging you... Wake up... Please..."
He knew she would never open her eyes again.
But he refused to accept it.
That a child who had cried so powerfully only hours earlier could already be gone.
That such a tiny life could have ended while he slept peacefully beside her.
François would have given everything, absolutely everything, to see her open her eyes one last time, or hear her cry as she had when she entered the world.
Slowly, he lowered his head.
And broke into sobs.
Beside him, Onatah wept in silence.
They remained that way for what felt like an eternity.
At last, François stood, still holding his daughter's lifeless body, and gently laid her in her cradle—the very one he had built with his own hands for Pierre while Onatah had still been carrying him.
He lit two candles and stood motionless before the cradle.
Fresh tears ran down his cheeks.
Angélique's face looked so peaceful. She resembled a porcelain doll.
His gaze lingered on her tiny, pale lips. They truly did not move anymore.
The corners were slightly raised, giving the impression that she was smiling softly, as though she were having a pleasant dream.
With a trembling hand, he pulled the blanket up beneath her chin, exactly as he would have done to keep her warm.
His vision blurred, and almost blindly he made his way to Jeanne's room.
He knocked several times until the young servant awoke.
The moment she saw her lord's face, she knew something terrible had happened.
"Please," François whispered, "go fetch Madame Gagnon. Tell her... the little one didn't survive."
He fought back tears as he forced out the painful words.
Now fully awake, Jeanne hurried out of the manor despite the freezing cold and the late hour, making straight for Madame Gagnon's home.
Not long afterward, the midwife arrived, her face drawn with concern.
She found the Lady of Montrouge sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her baby's face.
She barely reacted when Jeanne and the midwife entered.
Madame Gagnon examined the little body and confirmed the child's death.
It was a tragedy. Unfortunately, one that was all too common in those days.
She had witnessed it far too many times. Experience, however, did nothing to lessen the pain.
Slowly straightening up, she looked sadly at the devastated mother before turning to the lord of the manor to offer her condolences.
She gently suggested washing the child's body and preparing the burial without delay. Her neighbor, a carpenter, could build a small coffin before the day was over.
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The day passed like a dream.
A dream from which François longed to awaken and find his daughter perfectly healthy.
He and Onatah barely spoke.
The fort's priest, who also served Montrouge, arrived early that morning and recited the appropriate prayers, since Angélique had been baptized.
His spiritual comfort, however, brought them little peace.
In his parish register, directly beside Angélique's baptismal record, he carefully wrote her death certificate in his finest handwriting.
The tiny coffin was ordered.
Within a few hours, it had been built and delivered to the manor. Technically, François could have made it himself. But he simply hadn't had the strength.
It was remarkably plain.
Had it not been for the small cross carved into its lid, François might have mistaken it for an ordinary wooden box meant to store tools.
He carefully laid a clean white sheet inside, white as the snow outside.
Now they had to place the little body within it.
Slowly, he climbed the wooden staircase, which seemed endless. He set the coffin beside the cradle.
Onatah was still watching over her daughter, as though she feared someone might come and take her away.
Sadly...
That was exactly what François had come to do.
"We have to..."
His voice faltered.
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Onatah's eyes fell upon the tiny coffin before returning to Angélique's face.
She held her daughter's stiff little body a little tighter.
François waited patiently until she was ready.
Minutes passed.
Neither of them moved.
Finally, he gently rested a hand upon her shoulder.
"I'll take care of her," he said quietly.
Onatah, who had believed she had no tears left to shed, began crying once more.
Her arms slowly loosened.
With infinite tenderness, François lifted Angélique into his arms and laid her with the greatest reverence into her final resting place.
The coffin, though so very small, still seemed far too large for her.
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The funeral took place the following day in Montrouge's cemetery, behind the little church they had built, as maintaining both church and cemetery was among the lord's responsibilities.
Several wooden crosses already stood there, carefully aligned.
The grave had been dug the previous day by Yann Madec and Ronan Rosec, a difficult task at that time of year.
The procession was a modest one.
The priest, François, Onatah, Pierre, Louis, and Jeanne walked at the front to bid little Angélique one final farewell.
No one spoke.
Snow fell quietly around them.
Still exhausted from childbirth, Onatah leaned heavily on Jeanne for support, while Yann Madec remained close by in case she faltered.
François carried the tiny coffin in his arms.
He struggled to comprehend what had happened.
Part of him understood. Another part simply refused to believe that once this was over, he would never see his daughter again.
Nothing felt real.
The ceremony changed nothing.
It was only when the terrible moment came to lower the tiny coffin into the earth that reality finally struck him.
Angélique was gone.
Yann Madec began filling the grave.
The earth was black.
The snow was white.
The sky was gray.
His heart was dry.