The King's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page B

innumerable services.
    She asked that all the sick be grouped together in the same place. Then she went to see them. Realizing she alone would not be equal to the task, she called the energetic, courageous Jeanne to her side.
    The two women spent several days and nights caring for the unfortunate men, wiping the sweat from their feverish brows, making them swallow teas and concoctions of medicinal herbs. Sister Bourgeoys always carried ample supplies of them with her.
    After five days of exhausting efforts, the sick men recovered and were declared out of danger—except for one: François Legrand.
    The young seventeen-year-old Norman was growing weaker by the hour, and soon he lapsed into a fatal coma. Nothing more could be done for him, and Sister Bourgeoys, worn out by her long vigils, was forced to take some rest. Jeanne had just slept for a few hours, and she replaced her at the dying boy’s bedside.
    Crouched on a stool by the narrow bunk, the helpless girl watched his gaunt face and listened to his gasping breath. She asked that a lantern be lit in the dark cubbyhole, for she felt herself transported back to that night long ago when her grandfather lay on his deathbed.
    Perhaps it was he in the end who hadn’t wanted to meet his death in darkness? François must be reassured in the same way, Jeanne reasoned.
    As she was putting a damp towel on his feverish forehead, the boy opened his eyes. For the first time in two days, he regained consciousness. With a claw-like hand, he grasped his nurse’s fingers.
    â€œMiss, I’m going to die. I’m afraid of dying all alone at sea. I’m afraid.”
    â€œYou’re not alone, François. I’m right beside you. I won’t leave you.”
    Gently she led him to recite his act of contrition. The priest had given him last rites a few hours earlier.
    Jeanne spoke of the Virgin and God’s goodness, as she knew Sister Bourgeoys would have. But the boy didn’t let go of her hand, and she could see the terror in his dark eyes.
    Then, in a gentle, even voice, Jeanne Chatel told the little sailor from Normandy who didn’t want to die the beautiful version of death that her grandfather had handed down to her.
    â€œYou’ll go to a big garden of dreams where you’ll meet all the people you’ve ever loved in your life. Even your dogs. Did you ever have a dog, François?”
    â€œYes. When I was a little boy. A big dog with curly hair who used to sleep with me. His name was Miraud.”
    â€œWell, then, François, Miraud is waiting for you and he’ll welcome you with a wag of his tail. You’ll do everything you liked to do on earth.”
    â€œWill I play my flute?”
    Like a trusting child—as Jeanne once had been—François became a willing partner in the game they were playing.
    Jeanne was not sure whether Marguerite Bourgeoys or the priest would approve of her own private version of paradise, but if God was good as she believed he was, he wouldn’t disappoint a simple, naive sailor. For a long time they plotted in low tones.
    Reassured, the dying boy shut his eyes, and a smile played at his pale lips. He was preparing his own paradise. Jeanne prayed beside him, asking her grandfather to take in this poor abandoned child.
    â€œMiss,” François breathed, “look in my trunk. I want to give you a present.”
    â€œThat’s not necessary,” Jeanne protested, though she was deeply moved. But seeing her patient grow restless, she opened the old trunk that had been pulled next to the bed.
    â€œThere at the bottom, in my clean shirt. The Spanish shawl...it’s for you. I bought it in port to give to a girl back home, the one I would have married.”
    â€œIf you want to tell me her name, I’ll send it to her for you.”
    François smiled sadly. “She has no name. I haven’t chosen her yet. Take it. I’ll look down upon you from paradise and