Hello!
Enjoy the new chapter and thank you for the support, Mium, Ranger_Red, AlexZero12, Historyman_84, Dekol347, George_Bush_2910, Microraptor, Shingle_Top, Porthos10 and The_Humble_Dogge!
-----------------------------------------
"T-thieves… All of them, thieves…"
Adam's barely audible voice vanished into the silence of his room.
Lying on his small bed, hardly more comfortable than a rough wooden plank, he stared at the cracked ceiling, stained with moisture, yet subtly illuminated by the soft rays of sunlight filtering through the four grimy panes of the room's only window.
Small, square, and framed by two old curtains that were supposed to be white, it let in just enough light to make out everything in the room.
How dare she call this a room? It's a disgrace!
The space was tiny, barely a few square meters. The bed alone took up nearly half of it.
A corner served as a kitchen, though that was a generous term. His only consolation was that he didn't have to share it with anyone.
Apparently, it was common for entire families to live in such cramped spaces. Compared to that, a prison cell might've seemed more comfortable.
The landlady, Madame Boileau, rented out each room in the building for outrageous prices, keeping the largest one for herself. Some tenants, to help cover costs, even sublet their space. This was a common practice, especially in major European cities, starting with Paris.
Despite the extortionate prices, there was no shortage of takers: land wasn't lacking in Montreal, but buildings were. And so, absurd situations like this one arose.
The ground floor was occupied by the shop Madame Boileau ran. To help her, she had an apprentice who didn't even have a room of his own. The boy, who looked about fourteen or fifteen, slept at the back of the shop among the goods.
Above the shop was Madame Boileau's lodging, and an officer who had at his disposal a bedroom, a kitchen, and a small room for storing his belongings.
Higher up lived a few prostitutes recently arrived from Paris, and above them, crammed into the attic, were the most modest residents: a worker's family, a cobbler and his two children, a young man ruined by a gambling father — and Adam.
The day before, he had run into that young man weighed down by his father's debts as he returned from work. Strangely enough, the guy had smelled even worse than Adam did when he first arrived in Montreal — quite the feat.
Adam had gathered he worked as a garbage collector, a thankless and poorly paid job, but essential to prevent the city from turning into a massive dump.
A door creaked on the floor below — the one where the Parisian prostitutes lived. Moments later, suggestive sounds floated up, barely muffled by the aging walls and floorboards, revealing that they hadn't abandoned their trade.
Adam's cheeks flushed instantly as desire surged within him. He could perfectly imagine what was going on beneath him.
Gulp.
The girl's moans were so loud they must have echoed all the way to the cobblestones outside. Adam couldn't tell whether her client was particularly skilled or if the theatrics were part of the service — meant as much to stroke the customer's ego as to attract new ones.
In any case, it didn't last long. Soon, calm returned to Madame Boileau's house, as if nothing had happened.
Adam turned over in his bed. Then again. And again. Finally, he sighed, defeated.
Fuck… There's no way I'm falling back asleep now.
Frustrated — he had hoped to lounge for hours into the morning — Adam kicked off the rough sheets and got up. Like a well-oiled machine, he instinctively reached for his uniform before remembering he'd given it to his landlady to wash.
He grabbed the civilian clothes he'd laid out the night before on the rickety chair by the bed, under the window. These clothes didn't belong to François — he had "found" them in Boston during the looting.
They were more than decent, having once belonged to a relatively well-off bourgeois of the city — but above all, they were clean. That's why, among the mountain of loot, he had picked them.
Adam pulled off his long shirt and quickly put on a regular one, looser and shorter than the one he'd just taken off. He didn't want anyone to find him bare-assed if someone knocked on his door.
Then he pulled on thick stockings, which he rolled up to his knees and fastened with ribbons.
The young man then picked up the cream-colored breeches he had just dropped on the floor and once again noted the quality of the fabric — better than what he was used to. However, they weren't very different in cut from the ones that came with his uniform.
Like the shirt, they were nice and very comfortable.
He quickly tucked the shirt in and buttoned it up with the wide, simple buttons on the front. Then he dealt with the breeches, which also had a few buttons at the bottom.
Indeed, it was unthinkable to go out with unbuttoned breeches at the knees. To make sure they wouldn't open while he was moving — and for aesthetics, too — he added a few small metal buckles.
Adam's outfit was nearly complete. He slipped on a waistcoat that matched his stockings — naturally, since they'd come from the same piece of furniture — but didn't button it all the way up.
Finally, he stepped into his shoes — black, shiny, another find from Boston. Luckily, they fit him perfectly. Not too tight, not too loose.
Best of all, they were dry!
Though it was fashionable, he decided not to wear a wig. He only had one, and it was a pain to manage, however nice it looked. So he combed back his long chestnut-red hair as best he could and tied it with a small black ribbon into a neat ponytail.
All that was left was the coat. His was relatively long — falling below the knees — and dark. It contrasted with the rest of his outfit but completed the look.
Without a word, he left his room, careful not to bump his head against the thick wooden beam that framed the doorway. He descended the few stairs — narrow, steep, and uneven — that led to the floor below.
In the hallway, he passed a man he didn't recognize as a tenant, and assumed he was one of the ladies' clients. On the next floor down, he also ran into the officer from the first floor, who greeted him with a brief nod.
At the entrance of Madame Boileau's modest shop, where fabric, needles, buttons, as well as candles, soap, and a few ribbons were sold, Adam came across the shop's young apprentice: Thomas Dupuis.
The boy was diligently sweeping the front step, just as he had done every morning for the past year and a half. He was small and slim, with rosy cheeks and short-cut chestnut hair.
"Good morning, sir," he called out in a cheerful and lively voice.
Adam gave him a brief glance, surprised by such energy so early in the morning. He politely returned the greeting before continuing on his way.
Ah… Feels strange not wearing a uniform. I hope this outfit looks good on me…
Adam knew nothing about fashion in this era. As far as he was concerned, he looked perfectly respectable—but the moment he stepped into the already bustling street, he realized he wasn't going unnoticed.
While his waistcoat matched his breeches and shoes nicely, his coat didn't quite fit the ensemble. It was too plain—like wearing a fine suit with a thick leather jacket. Not exactly a match.
The coat Adam was currently wearing, which seemed perfectly fine to him, was in fact more suited for travel. The rest of his outfit, however, made him look like a respectable merchant.
What are they staring at? he wondered, confused. Why are they looking at me like that? I'm dressed better than most of them, aren't I?
Because it was easier that way, he chose to ignore the curious glances and began strolling through the city. Fortunately, the rain had stopped.
That didn't mean the streets were clean, though. Mud was everywhere, along with huge puddles of filthy water. The air smelled of dampness, freshly cut wood, smoke, earth, and yesterday's garbage.
So… where should I go?
With no clear goal in mind, he let his legs lead him north, toward the Jesuit garden.
He only knew the name, not the history. He supposed it was quite old, probably going back to the Middle Ages.
In reality, this religious order wasn't that ancient, having been founded by Ignatius of Loyola in 1540. The members of the order saw themselves as soldiers of God and His prophet, Jesus Christ.
They were very active in the Americas, having taken it upon themselves to evangelize all Indigenous peoples. Their mission to spread reformed Catholicism had met with many successes, even among the formidable Iroquois.
There had been some failures, too—like their attempt to convert children as a means of reaching adults more easily. There was still a seminary in Montreal, located farther west, between the courthouse and the parish church of Notre-Dame.
In the last fifty years, however, the Jesuits had been in decline. Their influence was waning, and royal support was growing scarce. Subsidies were shrinking year after year, and their once-brilliant reputation was fading.
Almost left to fend for themselves, the Jesuits of New France stubbornly did their best to continue their mission, seeing these difficult times as a trial sent by the Lord.
Adam continued his walk along Notre-Dame Street, his mind drifting between these thoughts and the surrounding noises, until he stopped in front of a small shop with a simple facade: a hatmaker's.
Curious, he pushed open the door, and a little bell rang above his head. He was immediately greeted by a mature man with greying temples, flanked by two apprentices.
The older apprentice looked to be sixteen or seventeen, while the younger one was barely a child, perhaps thirteen or fourteen.
"Good day, sir!" said the hatter in a cheerful tone. "May I help you? Looking for a new hat?"
The merchant instantly struck Adam as likable. He had a pleasant face, weathered by time and marked with fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—a sign he laughed often.
"Hello. Um… I'm not really sure. I was just curious to see what you had for sale."
The hatter chuckled softly and set aside the hat he had been working on.
"Well! I'm glad my shop caught your eye. As you can see, I make all sorts of models. Sturdy ones! They won't let you down for the rest of your days, I guarantee it!"
"Really? That's very impressive," Adam replied with sincere astonishment, glancing around. "You made all these?"
"Indeed! Some are custom orders, so they're not for sale, but I can make one perfectly suited to your head size."
Adam, used to mass-produced, ready-to-wear clothing that wasn't designed to last more than a few seasons, looked more closely—and with admiration—at all the hats neatly arranged around him like jewelry in a boutique.
Everything was clean, well-organized, and nothing was out of place. Naturally, he thought, seeing all these hats, that in his own time, a shop like this would be labeled "luxury" and probably way too expensive.
"We have quite a full catalog," the hatter continued, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. "Some of the styles are a little out of fashion now, but if one catches your interest, I can still make it without a problem. Want to take a look?"
"Oh, yes, I'd love to."
Adam let himself be guided with an almost childlike excitement, and in no time he was flipping through a bound catalog, its pages slightly yellowed at the edges. It was surprisingly thick for such a modest shop.
He turned the pages slowly, admiring the detailed sketches, notes, and references. Some designs were over forty years old, but Adam had to admit the shapes were both simple and elegant.
"How much would this one cost to make, for example?"
The old man smiled gently when he saw the model pointed out by his potential client.
"Oh, number thirty-four. A true classic. Timeless. It all depends on the quality you're looking for, sir. If your budget is tight, I can make one in a day—it'll only cost you three livres. If you want a finer, more durable felt with a better-shaped brim, I can make one for six livres, a bit more if you'd like some adjustments to make it unique. And if you're interested in the high-end option, that's possible too. I recently received a top-quality felt from Bordeaux. It'll take more time depending on the work involved, but I can craft you a magnificent tricorne starting at twelve livres."
Oh wow, that adds up fast! Twelve livres... Definitely can't afford that right now, Adam winced inwardly. But now I really want a new hat…
"In that case, I'll take a tricorn like this one—mid-range quality. The one for six pounds."
"Excellent choice, sir! Would you like me to take your measurements now? It'll only take a moment."
"Hm, very well."
The next thing Adam knew, he was sitting on a chair with a strange, heavy metallic contraption resting on his head, vaguely resembling a steampunk-style hat. The hatter began turning knobs and making adjustments, and true to his word, the measurements were taken in the blink of an eye.
"All done! Come back tomorrow late afternoon. Your new tricorn should be ready! I'll just take your details, just in case."
Adam cooperated, paid the sum with a vaguely pained look, and left the shop, torn between satisfaction and guilt at having just spent two days' wages so quickly. Comparing it to the prices from his original time, assuming he earned ten euros an hour and worked eight hours a day, this tricorn had cost him one hundred and sixty euros!
One hundred and sixty euros?! That's… uh… is that expensive for a custom-made hat? I… I don't think it is… No, it's fine. Yes, that's cheap, I think.
Adam, who had stopped in the middle of the street, compared this bit of information with what he knew.
Back in the past—well, the future—he paid one euro for a baguette at the bakery. In a supermarket, he could find them for a third of that, but never mind. In an eight-hour workday, Adam could afford eighty baguettes.
Here, a pound of bread—about 450 grams—cost anywhere between 1 and 1.5 sols, depending on the harvest and time of year. A baguette's equivalent would be about half a sol, or six deniers.
Uh… Let's see, Adam muttered, counting on his fingers. I earn three pounds a day, that's sixty sols… One hundred and twenty baguettes! Damn! So all this time I was overpaying for my bread?! Thieves! Thieves! Thieves!
Adam, suddenly furious, raised a vengeful fist toward the sky, cursing those who were profiting at their expense. Of course, he didn't realize he'd made a few major errors in his calculations and reasoning.
The biggest one being that he hadn't taken into account the fluctuation of wheat prices—therefore flour and bread—during bad harvests. In all his previous life, he'd never seen the price of bread double, triple, or more in just a few weeks.
He'd never seen ordinary people go mad enough to beat a baker or a merchant to death, whether out of revenge or swept up in a riot.
Here, in this time, it was a common occurrence. As soon as a bad harvest hit, prices soared so high that many of the King's subjects were left with nothing to eat! It was enough to turn an admirable mother into a looter of attics and bakeries.
In twenty-first-century France, that just didn't happen, because goods circulated as freely as people did. Prices were extremely stable.
"Mama, why is that man angry at the clouds?"
"Don't look at him, Charlotte. He must be drunk."
Adam froze and watched the mother and her child walk away hastily. His heart sank.
N-no, I… I'm not drunk! Ah, forget it…
He let out a long sigh and resumed walking west through the city.
The walk was uneventful. Montréal wasn't very big, even if its population had grown—barely nine thousand souls. It took him only a few hours to walk the entire perimeter.
New houses were being built all over the place. They were springing up between existing homes and along the edges of gardens.
Soon, he thought, passing one nearly finished structure, Madame Boileau won't be able to rob her tenants anymore. Everyone in Montréal will have a place to live.
Or at least, that's what Adam hoped.
Around noon, he stopped at an inn on Saint Paul Street and ate a hearty stew—not nearly as good as what had been served to him in Chief Akwiratheka's longhouse. He didn't complain—he'd eaten far worse—and emptied his bowl down to the last drop of sauce.
Later, Adam headed toward the southern rampart, gazing out at the still largely wild landscape and the steady flow of boats on the Saint Lawrence River. He stayed there for part of the afternoon, until heavy gray clouds began rolling in and covering the sky.
Unbeknownst to him, he was witnessing the arrival of his new uniform from the Old World.
It wasn't truly a new uniform, but rather the colonial version of the one he already wore. A year late, the Picardy Regiment was finally receiving theirs!
The Canadian uniform of this regiment was almost identical to the continental one. Same cut, same color, same fabric.
There were only two differences: the buttons were made of tin instead of copper, and the edges of the tricorn were silver instead of gold—well, silvery-white in reality.
Everything else remained unchanged.