“As for your brother, he is a man who needs an outlet for his anger. That is essential; otherwise he may act upon it unwisely.”
Benjamin interjected into the conversation as a means of defusing the emotions surrounding Uncle’s revelation.
“Thank you, Grandfather, for entrusting us with your secret. We may not completely comprehend this business you have had with the French, but we respect your judgment in these affairs and hope in time we are able to grasp what you have done.”
Uncle responded by kissing Benjamin on the forehead and patting me gently on the back.
“Thank you, Benjamin. You are very gracious to respond as you have. And Piau, may you continue to contemplate these things so you can truly understand the workings of the people around you. Bless you both.”
During my Grand Pré years I witnessed the wedding of my brother Charles to Marguerite Granger. He was nine years my senior, and because of this and my frequent absences from Port Royal, our relationship only grew as I advanced into adulthood. Since he had witnessed the death of our father and the brutality of the British in 1706, he was never inclined to embrace his English side, except when it was useful for him to do so. In fact, he had a benign contempt for my English education and he disapproved of my associations with the officers at Annapolis. This was so, even though his wife was the granddaughter of Lawrence Granger, a sailor from Plymouth, England.
Following the marriage of Charles and Marguerite, my mother decided that, as the firstborn, Charles was to inherit the family farm. My grandmother Marie lived alone in her homestead at Melanson Village, and since my brother Jean was still unmarried, as was my seventeen-year-old sister, Madeleine, we all moved in with my grandmother to start a new life. My mother was to live with her mother for the remainder of her life.
My grandmother was elated that we were coming to live with her. Our relationship blossomed because she had many life lessons to teach me and she had many stories to relate about my forefathers both in Acadia and France.
Often she spoke about her father, Abraham Dugas, who was a man of great importance when France governed Acadia in the century before. He was a gunsmith by trade, and she prided herself in commenting that his title while in France was Gunsmith to His Majesty the King. The Dugases were from Vaucluse in Haute Provence. Abraham’s parents moved to Toulouse just before he was born; there he was educated and trained as an armourer.
One day after our arrival at my grandmother’s house, she caught me in a pensive moment. “Piau, you know that your great-grandfather, Abraham Dugas, was an eminent man here in Acadia and in France. He was sent here by the king of France to Port Royal, and he held the position of lieutenant-general and armourer of Acadia.”
“I know all of this, Grandmama,” I said, feeling a little frustrated thinking that my grandmother would be repeating an oft-told tale to me.
“Of course you do, my dear,” she replied. “And you know that he met my mother here and married her not long after. And not long after that, I was born. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you today. What I wanted to share with you is one of the stories that my father shared with us when I was young.
“My father often spoke of his days in Toulouse and especially relished telling us stories of the family’s ancestral home, Fontaine de Vaucluse, in Provence. He told us how he and his family travelled over a great distance every summer to Vaucluse, which was at the foothills of the Alps, to escape the crippling heat of the city. He referred to it as a pilgrimage to his ancestral home.
“Now, Fontaine de Vaucluse is famous for these things: the presence of the famous Italian poet Petrarch centuries before, and its miraculous fountain in the hills above the town.”
Having caught my imagination, I inquired, “Grandmama, what was magical about this fountain? Did it shoot water into the air?”
“In answer to your question, no. What is special about this fountain is that no one knows its source and no waterfall provides its deep pool. The mystery lies in the fact that the pool high on the mountainside forever remains filled and yet perfectly still. From this still pool come a hundred waterfalls that flow down through the town into the Sorgue River and ultimately into the mighty Rhone. The waterfalls fall fiercely, never running out of water.”
I responded with disbelief. “But how is that possible? Every deep pool must be fed by a waterfall, and no spring could provide such great amounts of water.”
“The fountain gathers its strength from within,” Grandmama assured me, “and its power only shows itself in the hundreds of waterfalls that fall from its still pool. Have you never heard the old saying ‘still waters run deep’? Remember, Piau, that the strength of your character, like that of the water, gathers itself from within, and you draw your power from it in times of trouble. My father told me this when I was a little girl, and this lesson has served me well throughout my life in Acadia.”
I pondered this awhile. Over time I have come to see the true wisdom of her words.
Grandmama and I had many other conversations over the next few months. Always curious about our family history, I inquired one day, “How was it that you came to marry an Englishman? There are those who have said that my grandfather Charles Melanson was an English spy, which is quite impossible, given that I am certain his brother, Uncle Pierre, spies for the French.”
“And how would you know these things?” she declared, surprised.
“I have witnessed Uncle passing documents to the French each fall on our arrival at Grand Pré.”
“You cannot be certain of the contents of these documents.”
“I have only come to this conclusion because of the manner in which they have been delivered and the veil of secrecy surrounding how they are received. The exchange always occurs out of the sight of people.” I deliberately withheld the details regarding the knowledge I already had of the contents of these documents out of respect for Uncle Pierre.
“But not out of your sight. You are truly an observant young man, Piau.
“Well, all I can tell you is that when my husband, Charles, was alive, whatever his dealings with the English may have been he kept them to himself. I always respected his privacy as you must do with your Uncle Pierre. He is a wise man and much respected by both the English and the French in Acadia.
“And to answer your first question, many English settlers arrived when the English Crown took over Acadia in 1657. At that time, the new settlers fit in quite nicely with the French-speaking Acadians. And, of course, your great-grandfather, my father-in-law, Pierre Laverdure Senior, was raised in France but moved to England to avoid persecution because he was a French Protestant.”
“Were they known as the Huguenots, Grandmama?”
“Yes, your great-grandfather was a Huguenot and he continued to practise his religion throughout his life. When the English left Port Royal in 1667, he moved to Boston so he could continue to live amongst the Protestants of the colonies to the south. He never returned to Acadia. He, your great-grandmother Priscilla, and your great-uncle John remained in the English colonies.”
“And grandfather and Uncle Pierre remained behind in Acadia.”
“Yes, Piau, they both married French Acadians, adopted the Catholic religion, and raised their children here. Your grandfather Charles, my husband, also changed the family name to Melanson, which was the family name of his English mother.”