Le Colonial by Kien Nguyen Read Free Book Online Page B

“there is more. You will be taught to act the dissembler: among the Roman Catholics you are to be a Roman Catholic. Among the Reformers, to be a Reformer; among the Calvinists, to be a Calvinist; among the Protestants, generally, to be a Protestant. You must obtain their confidence to gather information for the benefit of our order as a faithful soldier of the pope. For without the shedding of blood no man can be saved.”
    The severity of his words dampened François’s enthusiasm. “But would God desire bloodshed?” he asked, sniffing.
    “The pope is the vicar of Christ—the purest form of the divine in human flesh. A true gentleman needs nothing more but to give his word. You have shown your sincerity. Now it is my turn to show mine. I have a good friend who is the captain of a sailing ship called the
Wanderer
. It is now January 1771. You have much to do to prepare yourself to leave France. You must be in Marseille by May of 1773 to embark on this ship. I will arrange for everything, including your passage. I need new missionaries. You have a choice, my son, either to join us in an adventure that few have dared to dream of in an unexplored world, or to return to the streets and paint your insignificant pictures. The next time we meet, I hope it will be in Pondicherry, India. That will be our intermediate stop on our way to our holy mission in Annam.”
    And so, on the moss-covered path that led to Villaume, François surrendered himself to God.

CHAPTER SIX
    Paris,
1772
    A t the age of thirteen, Henri Jacques Monange had already acquired the habit of looking back at his life. In a few short years, he had accumulated more experience than many could in a lifetime. Often, his memories were saturated with despair, but he had learned that the best way to overcome his disappointments was simply to accept his fate.
    The decision to entrust himself to destiny had proven its merit, considering that the events of his life had always seemed beyond his power to change. Like many before him, he had been preordained to a lifetime of destitution. Born in Geneva as the oldest of seven children, he became the only surviving child at the age of ten. None of his siblings lived beyond a few years.
    Henri’s family descended from the Auvergnats, who originated in the volcanic mountains known as Plomb du Cantal. His father, Maurice Monange, devoted his life to the occupation he had learned from his forebears, that of a coal merchant. When Henri was still a young boy, he too was taught the skills of the trade.
    The sole possessions of his family consisted of a farm cart harnessed to a horse and a barrel in which to store coal. From these meager tools they earned a living, coming to Paris by way of the Allier River and the Briare Canal to sell wood as well as coal. Afterward, they would return home to begin the migration all over again. The difficult journeys wore away at his father’s health, like the rust that ate through the yoke of his family’s cart.
    One night, as they entered the city, the temperature had dropped more steeply than usual. The winter came early that year. The winds, blustery and penetrating, whipped at their tattered figures, searching for what little skin was exposed through the holes in their cloaks. Henri, then twelve, walked between his parents behind the wagon, their bodies shielding him from the squall. His frozen fingers gripped the cart’s handles, and he let himself be drawn along by the weary horse. The streets were so rough that wooden planks had been thrown down to provide smoother access. Far away in the mist, their destination, the boulevard du Temple, was dusted with snow, silent and empty except for a few passing beggars.
    In a small clearing outside the Hôtel Dieu, the hospice for the poor, a man sat on a bundle of rags near a small torch, a heavy club in his hand. He stood up to search their faces, lingering on Henri’s mother’s. Henri watched as she sank farther into the shadow of her