Madeleine, Daughter of the King: Traumas of a Contract Bride

By Danny B. Butler

Madeleine, a beautiful peasant girl, cannot resist the charms of Jean, a handsome champion of the upper class. She surrenders to her hearts desires, and their love sweetens into something amazing. But when her father is murdered, her dreams of marriage collapse before the impenetrable wall of class prejudice. With her grim new prospects restricted to life as a beggar or a whore, Madeleine grasps at the only escape she can: a new life in the New World. She signs a contract to emigrate to Qubecwhere shell marry a stranger and bear many children to help populate the New France colony.

Madeleines experience quickly turns bitter as she struggles to overcome the frigid Canadian winters, the constant threat of Iroquois attack, wild animals, and the soul-eroding abuse of her husband. Isolation and crushing homesickness set in.

Worse, just as she comes to feel she cannot go on, the real nightmare begins: she discovers that the very man who murdered her father is living on her farm.

Her struggle for survival of body and soul are set against the expansive panorama of colonial Qubec, a place of awesome beauty and lethal danger. As Madeleines extraordinary love story unfolds, real historical characters and authentic cultural details weave seamlessly into a rich tapestry of courageous pursuit of love and dreams.

Can her spirit resist defeat under extreme tribulation and deprivation of emotional support?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475912579

Danny B. Butler

For thirty-five years, Dan Butler made his living as a high school music teacher and member of both the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra and Pro Coro Canada, a professional chamber choir. He holds a bachelor’s degree in music education from the University of Alberta and a master of arts degree in musicology from BYU. He and his wife, Jan, eight children, and twenty grandchildren live in Alberta, Canada.

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Copyright © 2012 by Danny B. Butler

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-1256-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-1258-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-1257-9 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012909272

iUniverse rev. date: 5/22/2012

Contents

CHAPTER ONE THE EVENT

CHAPTER TWO MELODY

CHAPTER THREE THE BRIDGE

CHAPTER FOUR TURNINGS

CHAPTER FIVE THE JUNCTURE

CHAPTER SIX LOVE’S AGONY

CHAPTER SEVEN GULF

CHAPTER EIGHT UNDULATIONS

CHAPTER NINE HOPE

CHAPTER TEN RELUCTANCE

CHAPTER ELEVEN FATE TO THE WIND

CHAPTER TWELVE ENCOUNTER

CHAPTER THIRTEEN EXCURSION

CHAPTER FOURTEEN TRAPPED

CHAPTER FIFTEEN DECEPTION

CHAPTER SIXTEEN EVIDENCE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN DOMINION

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN DREAMS

CHAPTER NINETEEN JUSTICE

CHAPTER TWENTY DEVOTION

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE DETOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO JUNCTURE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE FORTUNE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE TURNING

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE REMEMBERING

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX REVERSAL

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN TENSION

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT WINTER 1671-‘72

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE DUNGEON

CHAPTER THIRTY SOLSTICE

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO ATTACK

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE VISIT

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR TERROR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE JUSTICE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX PARTING

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN INTRUSION

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT FAITH

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE ANXIETY

CHAPTER FORTY PERIL

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE BACKLASH

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO TIDES

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE NEGOTIATION

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR FREEDOM

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE INTERCESSION

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX ESCAPE

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN PREPARATION

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT UNTHINKABLE

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE FUGITIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY PURSUIT

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE JUDGMENT

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO GOODBYE

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE SEPARATION

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR THE RECKONING

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE FAREWELL

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX RULING

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN ADIEU

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT THE LETTER

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE VOYAGE

CHAPTER SIXTY TEMPEST

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE DECISION

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO SURVIVAL

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE STRUGGLE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR FORGIVENESS

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE CHOICE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX DELIVERANCE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN THE PIER

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT ODD

EPILOGUE

HISTORICAL NOTES*

Thanks to my wife, Janis Butler,

and friend, Myrna Hart.

Chapter One

The Event

Paris 1672

Dawn labored to emerge that autumn morning on Ile de la Cité (Island of the City). The island was grey with a dense fog more characteristic of the great channel than of Paris. Consequently, the sun struggled to penetrate the shroud without success and then abandoned hope for the day. The market to the northeast of the Palais de Justice (Court House) was not yet open and, due to the early hour, few souls had ventured onto the streets. A small number of peasants had gathered in the open space to the southeast of the venders’ booths. These few miserable souls, drab of countenance and ragged in spirit, had assembled to witness the only entertainment they could afford.

Within the gathering stood a gnarled woman whose expression revealed little interest in life and bore the deep imprint of decades of pain, even despair. The skin of her cheeks was splayed with miniscule red veins that resembled the splatter of spilt red dye. Her forehead was excessively wrinkled, like a weathered leather harness and deep creases fanned outward from the corners of her mouth and eyes leaving little doubt about the burden of her hard life. Hollow though her eyes were, they at least implied a trace of curiosity about the event that was to follow. The woman, having been treated with little compassion, displayed no trace of benevolence toward the fortuneless player on the stage she was about to observe. But her face exposed that minute trace of curiosity.

Similar were the expressions of the others in the square who stood awaiting the event. Their dreary and tattered clothing mirrored their countenances. The exception was in the faces of the few children who were there gathered with their parents. These expressions reflected only a portion of the misery of the older ones and a certain reticence and nervousness in the young eyes replaced the curiosity that was in the adult eyes. The youngsters did not understand the reason they had been brought to observe the event. They were confused by it; their innocent, youthful natures rebelled against what they were about to see. They longed for immunity from the harsh world this event represented and yearned for nothing more than carefree, happy play. One such little boy was busy kicking a half-rotten apple around the stone pavement to the rear of the adults but when it fell into tiny foul-smelling chunks, he stomped on them, then made his way back through a small forest of adult legs to his mother. He leaned against her thigh, trying to feel comforted in the discomfiture of the situation. The expression on his nervous face remained distant, tense and agitated.

Presently, there came the clamor of wooden wheels and horses’ hooves against cobblestones in the street leading north, then east from the Palais de Justice and the Concièrgerie (prison and former residence of caretakers of the Louvre Palace). As the short procession rounded the corner and came into view, that which had become a slightly more substantial crowd murmured in anticipation. There were few in the throng who were reflecting upon the disquieting notion that the next victim might well be one of them.

Leading the procession was a pompous sheriff and to his side was the baron attached to the district, both on horseback and both arrayed in finery. The sheriff wore a dark narrow beard and a black leather tunic, both projecting ruthlessness. A sword and dagger hung at his side, augmenting the ominous nature of his aura. The baron was flamboyantly clad in a tunic and knee-length pantaloons of red fabric and gold braiding with ample pleating at the shoulders and hips. Slung about his waist was a sword and scabbard of fine workmanship, both encrusted with jewels. In the choice of their costumes the sheriff and the baron reflected perfectly the nature of their stations in life.

Behind these two intimidating officials rumbled a one-horse cart to which was bound with heavy cords, a prisoner in stooped standing position. He could not hold himself erect because his hands were tied too low on the cart to allow it. The expression on his grimy face betrayed the infinite agony of having just been convicted of murder and of being led shamefully into the place of his execution to see, for the first time, the awful instrument of his imminent torture and death. His nightmare was intensified by having to endure it all completely alone and far from his home across the sea, with not a single familiar or sympathetic face to look upon. His only friend, though dubious as a friend he was, had betrayed him in an effort to save himself and regardless, had already been shut away in an oubliette in the medieval Bastille prison. He had been convicted as an accomplice to the murderer. His experience of nearly two years in the dark, dank, and horrific confines of the oubliette had caused him to yearn for his own execution and he begged the guards for it whenever they came near.

To augment the condemned man’s wretched misery, as the cart drew near the throng, certain sadistic souls began to spit and throw decaying foodstuffs upon him. Furiously, he cursed in a vile manner and tried to spit back but his mouth was dry from terror and he could produce no spittle. The throng sensed the sport in this and only amplified its cruelty, so the doomed one quickly became despondent. Groaning, with tears in his eyes, he withdrew into himself and resolved to endure the abuse in silence.

Behind the cart marched two prison guards, detached and disinterested, having been conditioned that way by participating in such events far too many times before. Suddenly, the cart jerked to a stop. The prisoner lurched forward. Turning his gaze upward toward the ghastly noose, the blood drained from his head and his clammy, sallow skin took on a grisly appearance. The prominent scar on his right cheek, obviously the outcome of a vicious slashing, paled to ashen white.

A few observant spectators, who were closest to the cart, noticed a puddle forming between the feet of the victim. They pointed and laughed. He wiggled his knees to try to stop the flow but his efforts to control his bladder were in vain. After a few seconds he just succumbed to the urge and let go with a whimper of humiliation.

The two guards leaped onto the cart and speedily, as if anxious to go home, positioned and tightened the knot of the noose at the side of the prisoner’s neck and placed a black hood over his head. They released the cord from the cart, retying his wrists behind his back.

There was given no opportunity for the doomed to speak but, as the guards abandoned the cart, he began to sob pitifully. This cowardice served only to increase the interest of the crowd and many laughed and jeered.

Without ceremony the sheriff jerked on the short rope attached to the carthorse’s bridle and the cart lunged forward leaving the prisoner’s feet flailing in mid air. As the tortured gyrations slowly subsided, the throng turned away reluctantly and dissipated in different directions, disappointed that the entertainment had come to an end. Far away in the victim’s home across the sea, no one knew, nor would they have cared, except perhaps, one.

Chapter Two

Melody

Paris 1670 (Two years before the event)

The cheerful orb awoke early that spring morning. It rose eagerly from its bed beyond the horizon and the mists cleared easily under the warm glow, granting its rays safe passage into her world. The day seemed full of hope. Madeleine’s father had awakened her early because he knew she had to go to the flower garden behind their rented cottage and collect a new inventory of blooms to take to the market before it opened. She was aware of her good fortune to have a plot of ground for growing flowers. The baron, who owned and rented out the cottage, had reminded her several times that a garden was, typically, a possession of the wealthy or the nobility. Yet it was not large and didn’t have the space or enough light down at ground level to grow vegetables. These they purchased at the market.

As usual, Madeleine was jaunty as she clipped the colorful posies, mostly spring tulips and daffodils, and hummed pleasantly no particular tune. Soon her baskets were brimming and she started on her way, positive about the day and the prospects of garnering some income to add to that of her father. This was a difficult living and time consuming but she loved her work, made even more pleasant by the affable relationships she enjoyed with her customers. Most of those who knew her best adored her and often came to buy flowers just to see her whether they wanted flowers or not.

Her father was a boat terminal operator on the shore of the Seine River and did not earn a plenteous income but together they managed. Her mother had died of the occasionally reappearing bubonic or black plague before Madeleine had reached the age of recollection. Thus, she had no memory of her mother nor did she realize how closely she resembled her, though her still grieving father had mentioned it often, especially when she laughed.

She crossed Pont St. Louis, a wood and stone bridge leading from her cottage on Ile St. Louis to Ile de la Cité. Three or four minutes later, as she passed before the great façade of Notre Dame Cathedral giving onto the immense square, she altered her course to the northwest in a diagonal direction toward the Marché aux fleurs (Flower Market). As she approached the northwest corner of the esplanade she could see the Palais de Justice and Concièrgerie up the street. She felt so exhilarated she almost involuntarily skipped from foot to foot and chirped ‘salut’ to the surprised pilgrims on their solemn path from Notre Dame to Sainte Chapelle (Holy Chapel) immediately south of the Palais de Justice. It did not occur to her that many a wretched soul had been condemned to death behind the doors of the Palais de Justice. Nor was she aware that there was some useful function in its role of maintaining order and justice in society, though that justice was usually administered to the advantage of the first two estates (the royalty/nobility and the clergy). She did not think about or even know any of this.

Neither was she aware that, not too deep in the ground beneath her feet, the remains of the huts of an ancient fishing village of the Parisii tribe were slowly crumbling back to mother earth and the stone structures of the ancient Roman city of Lutetia were reposing in eternal slumber. On this day, it was not in her nature to reflect upon any of this. It was spring and the sweet scents of spring flowers and fresh dew-laden verdure seemed to render her delirious and incapable of any serious thought. She was drunk with joy, inspiring her to fall in love indiscriminately with every person she passed. She was intrigued particularly by the allure of the youthful males. And she was, for her part, intoxicating to them. As she swayed gently past them, mostly oblivious to her enticing demeanor, their admiration awoke and each longed for her attentions.

Though strikingly beautiful, she was not perfect due to a small mole under her left ear and slightly non-symmetrical eyebrows. Still, her other delicate features were well balanced and in proportion and her luxuriant dark auburn hair shone in the sun revealing highlights of burgundy. There was a charming glow in her vivid blue eyes. A shining smile revealed attractive teeth and drew in with potent magnetism the vulnerable hearts and minds around her. Her movements and mannerisms conveyed graciousness and charm; above all, her communication was friendly and inviting. Everyone seemed to feel she was uniquely fond of him.

As Madeleine entered the flower market square, she was unaware of the grim events that had taken place there and those which surely would come to pass. She had no inkling of her connection to such events in the future. Her father, gentle soul that he was, had never permitted her to attend those gruesome spectacles. So, her drawing board of worldly wariness had rarely been written upon and she remained mostly innocent up to this, her sixteenth year.

As a strong fifteen-year-old Madeleine had a naturally energetic gait. Toting the two hefty baskets of blooms left her feeling fresh but with no trace of fatigue. She vigorously hoisted her merchandise up onto the rustic counter and began enthusiastically arranging it according to type and color.

Just then, wafting on the warm spring air, drifted sweet tones from a wooden block-flute. They originated from across the isle and two stalls down. The melody was familiar yet fresh like the exhilarating spring morning and after placing the last flower, she turned to see from whence the tones were emanating.

At that moment, the first direct rays of the rising sun and the enticements of nature conspired to render her helpless to resist the disarming statuesque image and noble spirit of a robust young man. His strong features and gentle expression locked instantly into her soul. She was aware she was gawking but she could not pull her gaze away. He too, had become fixated upon her. The femininity of her enticing physicality and shining spirit was irresistible like the sirens of Ulysses’ odyssey and Jean had quickly become bereft of even the very desire to resist. So he abandoned himself to her and stared right back. After a few moments of surrender to their overwhelming and sudden mutual attraction, the faint tracings of smiles simultaneously broke onto their lips and joy flooded through their bodies. Slowly and shamelessly, they took one step then another until they were separated by only two arm-lengths.

He timidly but pleasantly said, I’m Jean; I work here in the market. I have a stall right there. He motioned behind him.

She returned simply and coyly, Madeleine – I’m here too. I vend flowers – there.

Jean replied with a hint of shyness, They are lovely, like you! He smiled at his awkward compliment.

Then they resumed staring unabashedly, both so transfixed on the other they were almost unaware they were not talking. Nor was there any awkwardness due to inobservance of the usual make-conversation convention. Mere polite conversation or even the understanding that comes with thorough familiarity could not have achieved their at-ease disposition toward each other. It was possible only because there was empathy of souls seen, mysteriously, through the window of their eyes and faces. Perhaps it was an enigmatic perception, spirit to kindred spirit, through some profound concord beyond the limiting realm of senses or words. Regardless of how it came to be, it was real and, at once, overwhelming and joyful.

That morning and afternoon, as the two distracted young vendors gazed longingly across the isle toward each other, they could not have known how powerful and enduring was the bond that was forming.

Chapter Three

The Bridge

In the weeks that followed, Madeleine and Jean became increasingly devoted to each other. As both enjoyed repeatedly the kindness and tenderness of the other, their infatuation deepened into a richer love. Jean experienced, for the first time in his life, unselfishness so detached from motive he astonished himself. He realized he would far sooner suffer rejection from her than to cause her the pain of rejection. He was unable to conceive of creating any discomfort for her, not to mention, hurt. She had the same feelings and, additionally, a deep-rooted confidence he would never hurt but only protect.

As often as possible, they strolled arm in arm to a secluded grove called Le Parc du Gallant-vert, referring to the name of an equestrian statue of King Henri IV. It was situated at the western tip of Ile de la Cité just beyond the Pont Neuf (New Bridge). They often lingered on the bridge itself, looking down at their favorite grove and the Seine River. One evening, while on the north section of the bridge during the fading moments of twilight, they watched the soft halos of candlelight from the chandeliers in the Louvre Palace mirroring toward them across the smooth ripples of the Seine’s current. The changing reflections bathed their faces in a warm glow as they talked dreamily of the inhabitants of the Palace. They must be just ordinary humans, though born to privilege, suggested Madeleine.

The conversation began with a serious tone and then evolved. Beneath the gold threads and ermine furs, their bodies must have aches and sores and have to be washed, Jean deduced. If they have rashes and disease and have to sleep and eat they must be humanly constituted, the same as we are.

This led to the idea that the royalty had to perform bodily functions and were therefore precisely of the same ilk as the commoner. They laughed at this notion and began to create improvised mini-plays initiating, with hilarity, impolite conversations between themselves playing the roles of the king and queen.

I wish you wouldn’t belch so. And particularly, I don’t like it when you pick your nose, yuk! Madeleine as Queen said, disrespectfully and haughtily. She could barely hold back a giggle. And I noticed the other day that you ate the gross harvest like a little child. The laughter gushed forth like spray from a newly uncorked bottle.

Well, I find it rather nutritious to do so. There is no wisdom in wasting delicious food, now is there? Jean retorted in a lofty and pompous manner befitting the king.

Gales of laughter erupted every minute or so during this irreverent role-playing.

Jean came from a much wealthier family than Madeleine but one of the things he admired most about her was her unaffected manner and uninhibited daring in speaking of things somewhat taboo in polite society. Her laugh invariably invoked his giggle response because it was so spontaneous and full of robust yet feminine tones. It was like a consort of soft instruments to him but he wondered occasionally if it might be considered raucous dissonance to his prudish parents and their prissy friends. He loved it so greatly, however, that he didn’t care much or think often about the issue. He simply enjoyed her delightfully effervescent personality. He reflected occasionally that her father must have nurtured her with devoted love to engender such poise, self-assurance and freedom in her character.

One evening, while lingering on the Pont Neuf, the couple was listening to a group of musicians playing just outside the grand eastern façade of the Louvre Palace. They were playing loud outdoor instruments including cornetts, rauschfeifs, serpents, sackbuts, an assortment of timpani and side drums as well as some other instruments that Madeleine had never seen before.

Jean explained, They are shawms and they have two reeds fitted back to back against each other, unlike my block-flute. I once tried playing a shawm. It has basically the same fingerings as the block-flute but the double reeds are difficult to control. With my untrained embouchure it sounded like a sow giving birth to piglets and I have since decided to avoid pain to others by staying with my own instrument.

This consort music is delightful to me, Madeleine declared. It seems to caress my ears like a mother’s gentle touch. I love it! Don’t you think it has a stately quality Jean? You know, it makes me realize the members of royalty have some respectable things about them as well as faults.

The two were enchanted and listened until the performance had come completely to an end and the sun’s last vestiges of crimson and purple were reclining on the horizon. After that, they remained yet a little longer enjoying the lingering effect of the music’s soothing embrace, the sky’s quiet tones, and each other’s comforting arms.

Being a member of a less privileged class than Jean, Madeleine had not often heard music while growing up but on this evening she found that she had a powerful affinity for it. It came close to mesmerizing her. As the musicians were gathering up their instruments she snuggled closer to Jean. He put both his arms around her but otherwise did not move. He did not wish to disturb the moment.

This experience engendered a desire to linger longer into the night, both craving to be near the other. With her head resting against Jean’s shoulder Madeleine unexpectedly observed, What short-termed thinking on the part of those who came up with the appellation, ‘New Bridge’!

He drew back to look at her and exclaimed with an admiring grin, Where did you suddenly come up with that?

She ignored his question and went on, This name is becoming more obsolete with the passing of every minute and one day will be considered ridiculous when the New Bridge has become the oldest bridge in Paris.

Jean chuckled at her practical wit. She continued, Who is responsible for this sturdy, fortress-like bridge? She did not know because her father was not inclined to discuss such lofty topics as architecture and history.

Jean, who grew up with such discussions, was delighted to inform her. It was the beloved King Henri IV who commissioned at least the bridge completion and, for this reason, he erected the equestrian statue of himself beside the bridge in what is now our favorite grove.

Madeleine asked, What signifies the name ‘Gallant-vert’?

The expression refers to the rumor that Henri IV maintained relationships with an unusually large number of mistresses well into his old age. ‘Gallant-vert’ implies basically ‘go-getter’, he stated with a wink. Grasping the innuendo, she laughed coyly and could not prevent her cheeks from turning charmingly rosy.

Jean also explained, Henri converted to Catholicism.

Madeleine had heard this before, perhaps during a sermon at mass. She was Catholic and was vaguely proud that King Henri IV had turned away from the Protestantism of his Bourbon-Capetian background when he married into the Catholic family of Catherine de Medici. Jean did not mention Henri later reconverted to Protestantism after his Edict of Nantes in 1598.

He clarified, Henri became Catholic in order to become the King and the husband of Princess Marguerite de Valois. This did not diminish Madeleine’s enjoyment of the fact. She was saddened however when Jean told of the fanatical Catholic assassin François Ravaillac. He leaped onto Henri’s carriage and stabbed him with a butcher knife causing the king’s death the next day and his own death by horrific torture a few days later. After he was finally dead the people took chunks of his body home and burned them in their fireplaces.

The conflict embodied in a loyalty based on these kinds of religious criteria did not occur to her. Neither did she know anything about the bloody Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of Huguenot Protestants ordered by Catholic Queen Catherine de Médici at the time of Henri IV’s marriage to Marguerite. Nor was she aware that Catherine had launched the massacre by the ringing of the bells of the Catholic Cathedral St.-Germain l’Auxerrois, just across the river from where they then stood. In ignorance of the total picture she became fiercely indignant at Henri’s unjust death. The far-reaching implications of the atrocities of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre did not seem to register on her either. Though quick and intelligent, she was not trained in critical thinking. Thus, the dichotomies of all this troublesome history largely passed her by and a new loyalty crept into her emotions concerning the Catholic Church.

There was an incompatibility between the two arising from a different view of Catholic morality. Though Jean and Madeleine shared many sweet kisses and passionate embraces, Jean longed for more. Just when he supposed she was caught up in passion, she would back off and gently push him away, dowsing the hotly burning flames of his desire. It drove him to distraction but when back in emotional control he was happy to have honored her conscience – glad he hadn’t tried to circumvent her will or force her. He had been baptized a Catholic but his parents had never pressed religion with him. Consequently, he had never developed much attachment to the church and was not strongly motivated by Catholic teachings on chastity, as was Madeleine. It was not that she was unaffected by passion; she simply wished to save complete intimacy to be enjoyed within the setting of a divinely sanctioned marriage. Jean soon came to understand.

One of the couple’s fondest activities was to set off with a picnic basket and walk along the Seine River in search of an enchanting place to put down their little table cover and lay out the delectable morsels they had lovingly prepared for each other. Jean delighted in surprising her with new pastry he had learned to bake from the chef of the Dion household. Madeleine, having neither a mother nor a household chef, was forever asking her friends at the market to write down or recite recipes for her use in pleasing Jean. She would watch him carefully to see if her gastronomic creations were satisfying him.

One sunny picnic afternoon, she revealed, I can tell you don’t like the casserole I have made for you. Jean immediately pretended, Oh, mercy! I am sick. I’m going to lose this food. Here it comes! Madeleine laughed in her melodiously feminine manner and pushed him playfully on the chest. This caused Jean to make-believe he was too ill to sit up and tumbled over backwards in feigned agony. She responded by leaping onto him and restraining his hands against the ground, making him promise to do the next outrageous thing she was about to demand. Tell me you will take me to London; and then to Rome. Promise me, Jean. Come on, promise me or I won’t let you up! Maddeningly, he pretended to go to sleep and began snoring.

These playful charades often ended in exhaustion from laughter followed by the resignation of a sigh and the savoring of a long kiss. The two adored their every moment as companions. They made a variety of excuses to extend their time together as long as they possibly could; however, Madeleine was often the one who first bid goodbye because she hated to worry her cherished father by staying out too late.

Jean loved to surprise Madeleine with little presents. Obviously he could not gift a flower vendor with flowers and still retain his dignity. Neither could he give expensive presents with money begged from his parents. He was too self-respecting for that. So, he would save modest amounts of cash from his sales at the booth until, over time, he had accumulated enough to purchase a gift that showed appropriately his extraordinary love for her. On one special occasion, he presented her with a ring consisting of a blue-green opal set in silver. It was outrageously expensive for him. She knew it and cherished it.

More often, Jean would make gifts for