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I’ll think how beautiful you are.”
    He fell silent, exhausted, and Jeanne, with her instinctive knowledge of what gives pleasure to others, draped the magnificent red and green flowered shawl over her grey dress. The long silky fringe glistened in the lamplight, and her grey eyes, wet with tears, were soft and tender. François gazed at her for a long time.
    Suddenly he squeezed her hand and in a calm voice said, “Goodnight, miss. I’m going now.”
    His curly head fell back. Jeanne gently pulled up the sheet to cover his relaxed, peaceful face. “Bon voyage, François. Say hello to my grandfather. And wait for me there, both of you,” she murmured softly.
    The next day, before the assembled crew and passengers, the slender body, sewn into a large sail, was cast into the sea. Instead of her usual coif, Jeanne Chatel was wrapped in a gaudy shawl whose iridescent colours stood out from the group’s dark clothing. Disapproving eyes turned towards her. But Marguerite Bourgeoys, who had been entrusted with the story, had given her approval with the open-mindedness that put her far ahead of her time.
    Under the cold sun of the Atlantic, on that little vessel that was but a tiny dot on the grey ocean, all the lights seemed to gather on the Spanish shawl. Jeanne clasped the gold medal that hung around her neck. She was sure that François Legrand and Honoré Chatel were watching her with pleasure from their paradise. She felt the warmth of their presence all around her; of all the passengers, she alone watched with dry eyes as the waves closed over the corpse of the seventeen-year-old boy.
    A few days later, when a rope gave way, pitching two sailors from the main mast, it seemed quite natural to call on Marguerite Bourgeoys and her appointed assistant. With the help of three strong men who held down the injured, the nun reset the broken bones and sewed up the wounds. Pale with compassion, Jeanne helped as best she knew how.
    Fighting nausea as she held the unfortunate sailors’ heads, she slipped a piece of wood between their clenched teeth in order to muffle their cries of pain.
    When the brutal surgery was over and the sailors were finally unconscious and as comfortable as possible, Jeanne ran to the rail of the ship. At last she could succumb to her nausea and sink to her knees. Sister Bourgeoys came to her side and gently offered her a damp cloth to wipe her sweaty face.
    â€œI’m sorry for this weakness,” murmured Jeanne, ashamed.
    â€œOn the contrary, my child. You were admirable when you were needed. This is the perfectly human reaction of a sensitive person. Already I can foresee the generous contribution you’ll make to our colony. It’s souls like yours that we need the most.”
    â€œI’m not very adept at prayer,” admitted Jeanne frankly.
    â€œYou’re a good girl. You’ll help others. That will be your way of praying. Some people’s devotion is more useful than others’. You will be one of those.”
    Sister Bourgeoys retired, leaving Jeanne to contemplate the surging waves and low sky.
    Jeanne was happy that someone had confidence in her at last. If it wasn’t for her enthusiasm and natural light-heartedness, she would have given in to frustration long ago. With the exception of Sister Berthelet, the good nuns of the congregation had never been entirely satisfied with her efforts. All her life, her character had been unfavourably compared to Marie’s gentleness, Anne’s piety, Geneviève’s industriousness and the modesty of all the others.
    Fortunately, ten years of security with her grandfather had given her a store of optimism and a reserve of warmth that had sustained her in the dark hours when the convent routine threatened to crush her spirit.
    6
    ONE DAY , the look-out sighted land at last. The travellers were a little disappointed to spot only a thin dark line on the horizon, but soon the ship