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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 3-Book 2

The Survivors by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One -- Unexpected Trouble

    Michel stared at the naked girl before him.  His eyes scanned her face, her slim neck, her small molded breasts and came to rest on the large upthrust nipples.  His blood rushed through him, and he enjoyed it.
    She beckoned to him as she lay supine on the narrow bed.  Her slender arms and her fingers, slim and graceful, moved like willows in a gentle breeze.  She thrust herself forward.
    As he stood rooted, taking in her femininity, he took a deep breath, yet did not look away.  Her pale torso, slim, smooth, and sleek, extended to her flat stomach down to the dark tufted of light brown hair at her groin.  She shifted her hips slowly, stretched her legs deliberately, lifting first one and then the other, to point her toes at him.
    He gulped as his eyes moved to her crotch and the cleft between her legs.  His breathing deepened, his limbs felt numb, but the pleasure in his groin filled him with excitement.
    She whispered huskily, "Michel, make love to me."  She leaned back on her left elbow and beckoned with her right hand.
    He shook his head.  "I...I...I mustn't.  You're my cousin."
    She laughed, a tinkling musical giggle.  "Does that matter?  Don't you like what you see?"
    She moved toward him sinuously.  He stood frozen as she crawled toward him.  Her hand reached his and grasped it.  It was warm and soft, smooth and feminine.  She drew him toward her.  He could not resist; he tried to pull away, but his mind and muscles would not let him.  Her nakedness, her beautiful, her sensuality, her promised passion drew him like a hummingbird drawn to nectar.
    He did not resist as she removed his shirt and then his breeches.  His hand clung to hers as she drew him down beside her, as she guided his hand to her breasts, to the full nipples.  Then she drew his face toward hers, and her lips touched his, hot and moist.
    For a brief moment he struggled against what he was about to do.  Marie-Anne was his second-cousin--his cousin, Pierre Louis's daughter, he who had been his benefactor since the conquest of New France by the English and his father's death.  And now he was betraying that charity; he was about to desecrate this girl whom he liked.  But his passion overcame his morality, and his lips sought hers, searching for her tongue, her lips, her moisture.
    She moaned and wriggled beneath him as his hands explored her body, its warmth, its smoothness, its softness, its desire, its passion.  As they melded together, he was astonished at the effectiveness of their union, the ease with which their bodies joined, the facility and collusion of their movements.  Her hips synchronized with his; she moaned in unison with their movement as passion built to a climax.  When the explosion came, it surprised and delighted him; she gasped, moaned and went limp; her eyes closed, and she breathed in deep surges.
    She appeared unconscious; a shiver of fear shook his body.  What had happened to her?  Had he hurt her?  Had she succumbed to some God- delivered punishment?
    His voice quiverd.  "Marie-Anne, are you all right?"
    He shook her, but she only sighed and moaned.  Her eyelids fluttered but did not open.
    He rose to his knees, shaking.  He wasn't sure if it was from his passion or his fear.  What had happened to his cousin?  Her breathing was deep and even.  Her eyelids flickerd, her nostrils quivered, her lips trembled, a spot on her neck pulsed, and her breasts rose with her breathing.
    He leaned forward and place his hand on her chest below her left breast.  Her heart throbbed strongly.
    He gathered her in his arms and cradled her against his bare chest.  Her eyes fluttered open, moist and dreamy, and she smiled up at him.  Her full lips moved slowly.  She whispered, "I love you, Michel."  She raised her left hand to his cheek and stroked it gently.  "That was...Heaven!"
    He gulped and tried to say something, but no words came.  His mind would not function.  He stared at her blankly.  What had he done?
    She struggled to her knees and took his face in her hands.  Her mouth found his lips, and she kissed him tenderly, almost angelically.  She clung to him, her arms encircling his neck.  She whispered in his ear.  "Have you ever felt so wonderful?  I'm still on a cloud."
    "But...but..."
    She smiled.  "I lost all sense of time, of place, of feeling.  It was marvelous."
    He felt satisfied, but he had not lost all his senses.  He looked around him.  They were naked on her narrow bed in the upper room over the living quarters.  They were alone in the house, but someone might come at any time.
    She clung to him.  "Let's do it again.  I want that feeling again.  Don't you?"
    He sprang to his knees. He shook his head.  "Marie-Anne, we can't.  We can't do that ever again.  You're my cousin.  Your father would kill me.  You might become pregnant.  We can't do it again...ever!"  Guilt engulfed him and he pushed her away.
    He crawled away from her, as if she was repulsive, yet he could not take his eyes off her sleek, slender body.

    Remorse and anxiety filled Michel's next days.  He'd made love to his cousin, not because he wanted to, but because she had desired it.  It was wrong, it was evil, it was unclean.  His Aunt Madeleine--his father's sister, who had been his guardian when he was a youngster at Louisbourg--had taught him that; the nuns--at the school in Louisbourg--had taught him that; the Church--through the priests at Louisbourg--had taught him that, but he had let his passion overwhelm him.  As well, he worried that Marie-Anne might be pregnant.  What would happen to her...and to him if that happened?  He couldn't marry his cousin...and he didn't want to?  He didn't love her, although the thought of their coition renewed the thrill and exhilaration.
    Each time he looked at her, he saw her again naked on the bed, her undulating body beckoning him.  His pulse quickened, and he felt a tingle surge through him.  Then he forced his eyes away.  But he noticed that she tried to catch his eye.  She knew that he desired her.  What was he to do?
    His cousin, Pierre-Louis, and his wife, Genevieve, seemed oblivious to the tension that existed between Marie-Anne and him. Marie-Anne's two younger sisters were too busy with their own lives: Elisabeth,--thirteen, just entering her womanhood--made no pretense as she flirted with him openly, testing and tuning her womanly wiles; Marie-Francoise--the youngest, ten years old--was too busy trying to impress her parents, to seek their approval, to compete with her older sisters, to notice anyone but herself.
    Each day as the spring days lengthened, his uncle left for work in the blacksmith shop on Market Street, and his aunt went to the market to find food which was becoming more scarce as fewer farmers came with the meagre remains of their produce left over from the long winter.  Elisabeth and Marie-Francoise went to the convent for their daily lessons, so he and Marie-Anne were left at home to do the chores assigned by Marie-Anne's mother.  He dreaded these times.
    Two days later, as soon as they were alone, Marie-Anne came to him.  She smiled coquettishly and crooned, "Michel, make love to me."  Her eyes roved  over his body to his crotch, and he felt the heat rise to his face.
    He tried to ignore her and jest.  "I can't, cousin.  I have no feeling for you."
    She threw back her head and laughed. She seized her full skirt and flung it over her head.  She wore nothing beneath it, and her slender body flashed ivory and pink, the shadows moving in the depressions of her stomach and thighs.  She laughed again as she drew it down to cover her nakedness.
    "I've a nice body...don't you think, Michel?"
    He closed his eyes, trying to erase the vision of her smooth skin.  He pleaded, "Marie-Anne, don't do that!"
    She laughed again, and slid the neck of her loose blouse down.  The soft curve of her shoulder melded into the rise of her breast.  Then she pulled it lower revealing the mound topped by a bright pink nipple, erect and pointed.  "Nice...isn't it?"
    He tried to turn away, but his eyes would not obey.
    She shook her light hair and tilted her chin upward emphasizing her slender throat.  Then she slipped the sleeves of the blouse over her arms and draped it across her back exposing both breasts.
    His eyes clung to them, admiring them.  They mounted into two smooth mounds topped by pink peaks, small, delicate, and erect.  "Please, Marie-Anne, don't do this!"
    She glared at him.  "Don't you want me?"  Her voice hardened, and her pale blue eyes crystalized into into icy orbs. She dropped her skirt to the floor and lowered her arms.  The blouse slid down.  She wriggled her arms and it joined the skirt at her feet.  She tilted her head and slid her hands down along her thighs and held the pose.
    Michel had never seen anything so beautiful.  Her light brown hair, almost golden in the subdued light of the dim room, framed her slender face.  Tendrils fell over her forehead to her thin eyebrows which arched in perfect crescents over her pale blue eyes framed by long lashes. Her heart-shaped lips, pink and moist, beneath her pert nose, glistened as the morning sun illuminated the room.  Her delicate chin flowed to her gracile neck.
    Her slim body matched her narrow face emphasizing her cambered breasts, that were neither too large or too small.  Her flat stomach, rippled as she moved slightly, the muscles quivering beneath the velvet smoothness of her white skin.
    He gasped and tried to turn away.
    She stepped toward him her arms raised.  "Take me, Michel.  I'm yours"
    He stood frozen.  His mind seemed separated from his body.  A tingling sensation passed through him, making him numb and insensitive.
    She took another step, stopping before him.  Her arms moved around his neck sending a shiver through his body.  Her hands touched the nape of his neck, warm and soft.  Her fingers slid through his thick rusty hair, gliding like warm water.  "Make love to me," she whispered hoarsely.
    He looked into her eyes.  They were glazed and misty.  She closed them slowly and moved closer to him, her arms tightening around his neck, her head tilted upward, her lips open and quivering.
    He stood rigid.  Her nipples brushed against his coarse shirt and he felt the movement through it.  He tried to drive the sensation from his mind, but the joy of it swept his body.
    Her hands slid off his neck to the buttons of his shirt.  He felt her struggling to undo them, but he couldn't move.  He wanted to fling her aside, to force her away from him, but his muscles would not obey his thoughts.
    Her fingers stroked his chest sending ripples of delight through his body.  She drew his shirt back off his shoulders and down over his arms.  He could not move.  He felt imprisoned by her sensuality.  His hands touched the soft roundness of her buttocks; his fingertips moved involuntarily over her velvet skin enjoying its softness and texture.
    He stiffed and cried out, "No!"

    Michel wriggled to a more comfortable position on the straw pallet that served as his mattress.  He didn't know how long it was since he had awakened, but deep darkness filled the small house and small noises seemed magnified in the stillness.  The rustle of mice or rats, the deep breathing and the snores of the other sleeping inhabitants seemed to fill the main room that served as kitchen and living room where lay beside the small stone fireplace.
    Off to his left he could hear the sound of his sleeping cousin, Pierre-Louis, and his wife, Genevieve.  Pierre-Louis wasn't really his cousin, but his father's.  His father had accidentally shot himself with his own pistol while arguing with Pierre-Louis.  As he lay dying in Michels's arms he asked Pierre-Louis to be his guardian.
    In the days that followed, he lived in a daze of grief and confusion.  He learned that his father had been friendly to the English conquerors of New France almost to the point of treachery.  His father's company, Mason Merchants of Boston and Louisbourg, were major suppliers to the military of both England and France.  That's what his father, Francois-Louis Marin, and Pierre-Louis Marin had been arguing about when the accident occured.
    He was greatful that Pierre-Louis had welcomed him into his home and treated him like the son he'd lost in the last days of the conflict at the battle of Ste. Foy.  Following his father's burial in the cemetery behind the parish church he returned to this small square log house on Recollet Street.  Only then did he realize that all his second-cousins were girls:  Marie-Anne, a slender young woman of seventeen with light golden hair; Elisabeth, a dark-haired thirteen year old, with the first budding of womanhood showing in her newly developed breasts; and Marie-Francoise, ten years old, a quiet, introspective girl, with a pensive air.
    They had welcomed him and made him feel at home.  Genevieve, their mother, was especially solicitous, as if he could replace their son, Etienne, who would have been a few years older than him.  She fussed over him, making the dishes that he liked, seeing that his clothes were clean and mended, that his bed was comfortable, that he was never forgotten in the family conversations.
    Even his cousin, Pierre-Louis, seemed quilt-ridden by the fact that his quarrel with his father had resulted in the fatal accident.  He missed his father, but they had never been really close.  Most of the time his father had been away on business--to Boston where his partner, a woman by the name of Shirley Mason, maintained the headquarters of the firm, or to many other settlements in New England, Nova Scotia, and Acadia.
    He sighed.  What would become of him now?  New France was ruled by the English military commanded by James Murray, governor of Quebec, Ralph Burton, governor of Three Rivers, and Thomas Gage, governor of Montreal.  Although his father had many friends among the English, they seemed to have abandoned him; they didn't want to be associated with him for fear it would stir up the newly conquered French habitants.
    And now he had the problem of Marie-Anne.  That morning he had threatened to reveal their relationship to her parents and she had laughed at him.
    "Michel, do you think they'll believe you?"  Her eyes twinkled icily as she faced him, her slender body rigid and unremorseful.  "Do you think they'd believe that their daughter is now a woman?"
    His eyes rivetted on her.  Yes, she was a woman, and a very attractive one at that.
    "They will...I'll convince them."  But his voice lacked conviction.  Would they believe the son of a man who had betrayed his country, who had sold war goods to the enemy?
    "So you see, Michel, you must do as I want...and I want you to make love to me...now!"
    "No, Marie-Anne, I can not and I will not."
    She extended her arms out from her body and thrust her hips forward.  "How can you refuse me?"
    Her body filled him with a tension that he tried to control.  Slowly he stepped back from her.  He shrugged his shoulders, and adjusted his collar.
    "Marie-Anne, you're a beautiful woman, and any man would find you desirable.  I find you desirable...but you're my cousin.  As well, I owe your family...your father, your mother.  Where can this go?  I don't love you.  I can't marry..."
    "Michel, you can learn to love me...as I love you."
    "Marie-Anne, that's not love, that's lust.  You're a beautiful young woman...I'm a man.  That's all there is to it."
    "Michel, you must make love to me.  I want you...and I know you want me.  I can feel it...I can sense it.  You're attracted to me...aren't you?"
    He looked at the attractive woman before him.  She was desirable,  she was available, she wanted him...and he wanted her.  He could feel  desire in his whole body.  He remembered the ectasy of their first union, and his heartbeat quickened.  Why shouldn't he fulfill her wish and his desire?  Why shouldn't he make love to her?  He dropped his hands to his side.
    She smiled and stepped toward him, flinging her arms about his neck.  Her lips found his, her tongue entwined with his, moist, warm, sensuous.
    His arms came about her; his hands stroked her back feeling the smooth satin warmth of her skin through her thin blouse.
    She wriggled her hips against him, and the movement filled him with a warmth that overwhelmed him.  As he returned her moist kiss, his mind drummed, Lust is such a pleasant emotion.  Then he shook his head.
    A sound registered in his ears.  He tensed.  Was someone at the door?  He heard footsteps.  He stiffened and stepped back.  "Someone is coming!  Quick!  Leave me alone!"
    Her face blanched, and she stepped back; her eyes darted to the heavy plank door with its forged latch.  "See who it is," she murmured as she turned away and hurried to the steep narrow stairs that lead to the sleeping loft.
    The door rattled and squealed on its unoiled hinges.
    Elisabeth sidle through it and raised her dark brown eyes to his.  "Sister Terese sent me home; I'm not feeling well.  Where's Marie-Anne?"  Her voice was matter-of-fact, conversational.
    He tried to hide his fluster, and hoped that she would not notice his flushed face.  "She upstairs...making the beds.  Are you ill?"
    Elisabeth bowed her head, appearing embarassed.  "Oh, it's nothing."  Then she whispered, "A woman's illness.  I'll be all right."
    She moved to the center of the room.  The morning light struck her dark hair picking up highlights.  Her hair was thick and long, falling in a heavy mass past her shoulders.  She was as tall as Marie-Anne and thicker; her body filled the coarse-spun bodice and skirt of her dress giving her a bulk that she did not possess.
    She smiled at Michel, and for the first time he noticed her full lips and large brown eyes.  "What have you and Marie-Anne been doing?"
    The question startled him.  Guilt swept over him.  Did Elisabeth know about Marie-Anne and him?  He stammered, "We...we've just started the...the chores."
    "Where is she?"  She didn't seem to notice his fluster. "Oh...I thought she might be out."  Her voice now held a hint of suspicion.
    What did she mean?  "Why do you say that?"   He had recovered from his initial fluster.
    She smiled enigmatically.  "I thought she might be seeing her English soldier."
    He stared at her.  What did she mean?  The shock of her disclosure must show on his face.
    She stepped toward him.  She whispered, "Don't you know about her English boy friend?  She's been seeing this...enemy...for some time."
    How could that be?  When did she get the opportunity?  Where was she meeting him?  Who was he?  A surge of jealousy flowed over him.  She was his.  He had made love to her.  Why would she want another man?  A flush of anger seized him.  She had betrayed him.
    "Who is this man?"  He hardly believed the sound of his own voice.  It was hard and brittle, full of anger and bewilderment.  He thought he was the only man she knew.  What kind of a wanton was his cousin?  Did she give herself to any man who desired her?  Did she desire any man who wanted her?
    "I don't know.  But I know she sees him quite often."
    "How do you know that?"  He tried to control his emotions, to be curious but indifferent.
    "I lie for her.  I go with her and wait for her while she sees him."
    "Do your parents know about this?"
    She shook her head vehemently, tossing her long hair as she did so.  "No...no!  Papa would kill her if he knew.  He doesn't like the English...he hates them."  She turned away and hurried to the steep stairs that led to the upper loft.  As she reached them, she turned back to him.  "You'll keep her secret?"  Her voice was low and conspiratorial.  And before he could answer, she hurried up the stairs.
    Michel smiled to himself.  Now he had a way to control Marie-Anne.  Now he knew something about her that would allow him to hold the power.  Elisabeth, you don't know how you have helped me.

    The next morning, as Michel helped Marie-Anne air the straw mattresses in the bright spring sunshine, he remarked casually, "When will you be seeing your soldier friend?"  He studied her carefully, waiting for her reaction.
    All day yesterday, he observed her carefully to see if what Ellisabeth said was true.  Last night he was convinced that such a liason was taking place.
    After the evening meal and all the chores were finished, Marie-Anne turned to Elisabeth.  "Little sister, it's such a nice evening I think we should go for a walk."
    Michel noticed that Elisabeth fidgeted as she hung a dish towel on a peg beside the open cupboard where the heavy ceramic dishes were stored.  She nodded her head.
    She doesn't want to go, he thought.  "I'll go with you, Marie-Anne."
    Marie-Anne tossed her head.  "I want to talk to my sister...woman talk you know."  She laughed.  "You want to go, don't you, Elisabeth?"
    They were gone over an hour.  Now he was sure that Elisabeth had told him the truth.
    She shook the pallet, to loosen the straw and hung it over the low sapling fence that protected the small garden area from marauding rodents, dogs, and cats.  Then she straightened up.  "I don't know what you're talking about, Michel."  Her voice was even and controlled.
    "Marie-Anne, I know about your soldier friend...your English soldier friend."
    She laughed, a tinkling, irritating giggle that re-inforced her self-assurance.  "I would never have an English friend...they're the enemy.  Where did you get such an idea?"
    "Marie-Anne, I know.  And I know that your father would be furious if he knew."
    "And, Michel, you're going to tell him?"  Her voice was flat and challenging.
    "Are you in love with him?"  Jealousy pulled the question from him.
    She laughed again, soft and low.  "Are you jealous, my sweet cousin?"
    The accuracy of her question unnerved him.  He didn't want her, but he didn't want anyone else to have her.  He didn't want another man to know her passion and lust, her inhibition and desire.  He wanted that for himself, yet he didn't want it.  He was afraid of it.  He was afraid of her, of her insatiable sexuality.
    "I'll tell your father...your mother."  He sounded like a child threatening a playmate.  He felt foolish and immature--a child not a man.
    "You won't tell my parents anything."  Her was sharp, commanding, and in control.  "Michel, I love you and I want you for my husband.  I please you, don't I?"
    Michel shook his head in bewilderment.  Yes, she pleased him, but he was sure he didn't love her.  He was sure that love was more than the satisfaction of his body functions.  It was mutual respect and a willingness to share--their thoughts, their dreams, their aspirations, their life.  And he knew that he and Marie-Anne shared none of these things.  He hardly knew her: she was a pleasant girl with a ready smile, but a shallow mind.  She didn't seem interested in too much outside her family--except for men.
    He wondered if the English soldier had made love to her.  "How can you say that, Marie-Anne, when you're seeing another man?"
    She laughed.  "What has Elisabeth been telling you?  Yes, I see this soldier, but it's only to know what is going on...what the English are planning...to help my family."
    He shook his straw pallet vigorously too fluff up the packed straw.  Why would Elisabeth lie to him?  Why would she tell him that Marie-Anne was involved with an English soldier?  Why?  His brow wrinkled.
    "Ah, I see I've struck the truth.  You're such a naive person, Michel.  You don't know what's going on about you."
    He tensed.  He gritted his teeth.  Why was she accusing him of being insensitive, when it was she who was unfeeling.  She made love to him and said she loved him yet she was seeing someone else.  "You don't love me.  You love yourself!"  His voice quivered and he clenched his fists.
    Carefuly, she folded a thin straw tick over the low sapling fence.  Then she turned toward him and took a step.  "Michel, you don't know how much I love you.  I would do anything for you.  I've given you my body...now I give you my pledge.  I will never betray you.  I will never make love to another man...and I never have."
    Her face was sober; her voice earnest.  He had never seen her so serious.
    "But you don't believe me; you believe Elisabeth.  Don't you see?  Elisabeth wants you too."
    He wasn't sure he heard the words correctly.  Did he understand what she had said?  Was she trying to confuse him?
    "Yes, you dummy, Elisabeth is also in love with you.  She adores you, but she's too young to know how to get you."
    His mouth dropped open.  He visualized his contacts with Elisabeth trying to find clues that would support what Marie-Anne was saying, but none came to mind.  Marie-Anne was lying.  Elisabeth had never given any indication that she was interested in him.
    "But she can't have you, Michel.  You're mine."  She sounded triumphant.
    "Marie-Anne, be reasonable.  You can't love me, and I don't love you."
    Her eyes sparkled brightly like sunlight reflecting off clear ice.  "Then why did you make love to me?"
    He shook his head.  "Marie-Anne, you made love to me.  You forced me to make love to you.  I didn't want to, but you made it impossible for me to refuse."
    "I didn't see you struggle too much."
    He shivered.  She was right.  He had tried to refuse her in his mind, but his body had accepted her invitation, almost eagerly.  "But...but..."
    "You see, Michel, I'm right.  We were meant for each other.  We belong together.  I love you...and you love me.  We must be married...soon."
    His mind cleared.  He did not love her, and he wasn't ready to be married.  His future was too uncertain.  He had nothing to offer a woman.  He had no prospects.  He was too young.
    He stepped toward her and grasped her by the shoulders.  He shook her gently.  "Marie-Anne, you must stop this foolishness.  What we did was unplanned and accidental.  I did not mean to take you and I'm sure you did not mean to have me.  We let our passions run away on us.  It's over.  You must forget what happened...and so must I."
    She stiffened.  He dropped his hands to his sides.
    Her voice was slow and measured.  "You're wrong, Michel.  It's not over.  You will be my husband...and I will be your wife.  You know it...and I know it.  We're right for each other."
    "No, Marie-Anne.  That can never be."
    "It will!"  Her voice vibrated like a cymbal.  "I will tell my father that you forced me to make love to me.  That you took me against my will.  Then you will have to marry me."
    Michel blanched.  What kind of a woman was she?  What was she capable of?  He was confused and bewildered.  Why did she want him so when she could probably get any man she wanted?  She already had an English lover, yet she wanted him.  Or did she, really?  Was she just trying to manipulate and control him?  For what reason?  He had no power, no position, no wealth, no prospects, nothing.  He turned and walked away.

    During the next three weeks, Michel spent as much time as possible away from the house, away from Marie-Anne, away from the family, with the pretext that he was looking for a job.  He frequented the taverns and the waterfront hoping to find work of any kind.  But jobs were scarce.  Most went to demobilized soldiers.
    Late one evening as the full moon brightened the dark streets he sauntered casually toward the small log home.  He heard someone call his name from the shadows of a clump of shrubbery.  He stopped.
    "Michel, come here.  I must talk to you."
    He recognized Marie-Anne's voice.  He approached the shrubbery, and she drew him into the shadows.
    "Why are you avoiding me, Michel?  Please kiss me."  She tilted her head back and the moonlight glistened off her moist lips.
    "Marie-Anne, stop it!  What do you want?"
    "Michel, my darling, I have something very important to tell you."
    "Well, what is it?"
    "I'm going to have our baby."

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