Kamouraska (20 page)

“That dear little doctor of yours has hexed us for sure, no doubt about it . . .”

I put my arms around her. Stroke her hair. It's so essential now to soothe and calm her. Make her drop her defenses. Pamper her into that utterly passive state where docile submission will seem the most natural thing in the world . . . I offer Aurélie a glass of port. She drinks it down in little swallows.

“I need your help, Aurélie. You know what a wicked man I married. Well, I want you to go to Kamouraska and poison my husband . . .”

“That's a pretty big crime, Madame . . .”

“No one will ever know. And afterward you'll come stay here with me. Like a sister. For the rest of your life if you want . . .”

“I'm so afraid I'll burn in hell! . . .”

Between Montreal and Sorel. The ruts run deep. The earth, dug up. And the heart as well, by the same devastation. Impossible to tell just where it began. With the earth, more than likely. The countryside, eaten away from within. At first, an infinitesimal shifting of ground, somewhere in a rain-soaked landscape.

Then masses of crumbling rock, great floods and rushing torrents. And a corner of the known world gives way and falls to pieces. (You mean you didn't know such villainy was in you, Doctor Nelson?) Now here you are, involved completely, bound up in the fate of this land. The collapse of this land. (Before you return there yourself, in the flesh, to rot.) All the good topsoil, ripped away. (Pride, self-respect, compassion, charity, courage . . .) The heart, stripped bare. So painfully naked. (Fatigue, despair, disgust . . .) “My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Now just one thing to do. Be rid of Catherine of the Angels' death as fast as possible. And every other death as well. Those past and yet to come. Tonight, George Nelson, this very evening, you'll give way to Elisabeth's pleas. You'll speak to Aurélie and send her off to Kamouraska in your place . . . Weary. So awfully weary . . .

Poor dear, I'm sure I can never make you understand that beyond all saintliness the wily innocence of beasts and madmen reigns supreme.

A dozen miles or so before you reach Sorel. It's no use forcing your horse. Besides, Aurélie and I have so much to say to each other. Here by the fire, cozy and warm. And these sudden cravings of mine. Like every pregnant woman. Send Aurélie to Kamouraska. We must send Aurélie to Kamouraska . . . Put Antoine's death way out beyond our reach, yours and mine. Keep
plenty of distance between ourselves and Antoine's death. Enough to restore our innocence. So difficult a peace to win. Dispel the agony. Heart pounding, bulging out between the ribs. The terrible urge to kill, held at bay. Try frantically to reach the calm in the hurricane's eye. You'll see, it's all going to happen in another world. Aurélie is taking care of everything. Well hear about Antoine's death as if we had nothing to do with it at all. His mother will write us a letter, I suppose. And no one will ever be able to say just what my husband died of. It was bound to happen, sooner or later. One party too many, and that's the end of the squire of Kamouraska. Nobody will really be surprised . . . On a frightful night like this I hear someone whisper that the Marsh King is coming to get me. That he'll grab me by the hair and drag me off. Roll me about in a great morass of muck and slime until I drown . . . It's so hard to keep the fire alive. The logs don't seem to burn. Just fill the room with smoke . . . Maybe I've had too much port to drink.

Now I'm giving Aurélie some cakes. And ribbons too. Red ones and green ones. In an instant her sullen face lights up. Like a child, in tears one moment and laughing the next.

I speak to her softly, afraid of jostling her out of her sudden joy.

She sighs, tries to find her thoughts in the fire. Pokes through the crumbling embers. Snatches at tiny cinders with the tongs. All at once she utters a cry. Jumps up. Drops the tongs on the hearth. With an infernal clatter.

Someone has just come in. Someone we didn't expect so soon, comes bursting in. All out of breath. After a long, long ride . . .

He's been standing in the bedroom with us now for several minutes. His muddy boots have left a black trail on the floor. A three-day growth of beard covers his cheeks with dark blue shadows. He's staring at us without a word. Long and hard. As if he were blaming me and Aurélie for something . . . Now he's saying that it's all a farce, that sooner or later you've got to make up your mind. And his voice, by nature so gentle and pleasant, shatters the air.

“Someone could walk off with this house, the way you watch it! I've been out there knocking for half an hour! . . . What on earth is in that fire, Aurélie? What are you looking at?”

George Nelson throws his coat on the floor. His silk hat, his cane. It's Aurélie he's after with his jibes. He doesn't seem to see me at all. I'm beginning to find her hateful . . .

“You don't look like much of a witch to me, Aurélie!”

“When it comes to devils, Monsieur, no one is as good as you! Now let me be, Monsieur. I want to go . . .”

“You're not going to leave me just like that, Aurélie. Not now, when I need you. Oh, no! We're going to see whose power is stronger, yours or mine. We'll see if you're as much of a witch as you say you are!”

“I'd rather not, Monsieur. I want to go . . .”

“Look me in the eye, Aurélie.”

“I never look anyone in the eye, Monsieur. And I'm not about to begin with you.”

Aurélie looks down at the floor. Then at me. Seems to be waiting for help. I turn aside. We've reached a point where we have to let things run their course now without the slightest change.

“Come now, Aurélie. Whenever we go meddling in other people's business we have to go all the way. Like it or not. Put up with all their secrets, from start to finish. Their whole delightful tale of love and death . . .”

“Please, Monsieur, let me go. I'll mind my own business for the rest of my blessed days. I promise . . .”

A dry little laugh. That inflexible voice I know so well.

“Now don't start whimpering, Aurélie, for God's sake!”

Aurélie stares at the floor. Then at the dying fire. Begins to weep, but without a sound. Without even moving. As if the flood of tears streaming down her shawl weren't part of her anymore.

George comes over and sits by my side. Shuts out the world. The two of us, here in a corner. Kisses my hands. Calls me his “dearest.” Lays his head in my lap and tells me about his sister. Tells me that she's dead. That she died at three o'clock, this morning. Like a sinner. And that we have to mourn her for two reasons now.

In a single bound he's back to Aurélie. Ranting and raving.

“Tell me, Aurélie . . . While you're sitting there looking for treasures in the fire . . . Do you hear people's voices there too? Do you hear their screams? . . . My sister's scream . . . Can you hear it somewhere in all those ashes? ‘Save me! Doctor, save me!' . . .”

Aurélie stands transfixed. Weeping. Without moving a muscle. As if she were turned to stone.

The doctor looks at her and smiles. Sees how weak and defenseless she is, how easily hurt. He seems relieved, rid of a terrible
burden weighing him down. He speaks to her now in the gentlest of tones.

“You see, Aurélie, the important thing is for you to know what's going on. For you to take care of everything. Even certain things your sweet little mind might not understand. That's how real witches work. We each have our calling. And you know what my calling is, Aurélie? Would you believe it? One day I swore I was going to be a saint!”

“You, Monsieur? A saint? You must be joking!”

“Yes, I'm quite a joker, Aurélie. You'll never know how much of a joker I can be.”

The doctor is laughing now. Aurélie too. Wiping her nose and her eyes on her sleeve. She's coming back to life. And so is he. Light as a bubble. His white teeth gleaming in his dark, whiskered face.

“Tassy, that worthless scum! Watch, Aurélie. I'll cut him down like the dog he is!”

Aurélie is doubled up, splitting her sides.

“Monsieur really is a joker. Believe you me.”

I go over and join them at the hearth, by the fire's last dying embers. Anxious to claim my share in this burst of hilarity flashing between my maid and my lover. I break out into gales of laughter. I tell them: “I'll fix the fire.” But I'm laughing so hard I can hardly breathe.

Who else would dare have such a hearty laugh over the crime we're planning? Who but the three of us . . .

Another glass of port, another fire in the hearth. And Aurélie, steeping in the gentle warmth of it all. Beginning to soften. But George won't let her sink all the way. Keeps her on the narrow brink between dreaming and waking. Pulling the strings of the dream himself. Holding them tight. Calls me to help him. Gives me a special part to play in Aurélie's submission . . . I'm speaking now with such astounding ease. As if my role were being whispered to me line by line. My movements are effortless. So light and airy.

“You mustn't fall asleep, Aurélie . . . You're too close to the fire. Move away a little or you'll burn your dress. Come, lean back here against me.”

Aurélie obeys. Moves away. Leans back against me. Heaves a contented sigh. Lays her head in my lap. Looks up at me with languorous eyes.

“I feel so good like this, Madame. You can't imagine . . .”

A sign from George, and I start to undo her hair.

“Good God a'mighty, Madame. What are you doing?”

The doctor, again in his stern, sharp voice. A voice I recognize, with a twinge of pain.

“That's enough, Aurélie. Be quiet! Now close your mouth . . .
Your mouth! . . . And your eyes . . . Your eyes, Alouette! . . . There, ‘gentille Alouette'! Now you're going to have a dream. We're going to give you the nicest dream you ever had. From now on you're working for me, George Nelson. For good, understand? Just like a nun when she takes her vows . . .”

I begin unfastening Aurélie's shawl, twisted around her waist and shoulders. She hardly moves. Lets me turn her this way and that. Limp as a little stuffed doll. Her pale lips fixed in a blissful smile. George has gone to my cupboard, brought out my red velvet gown.

Together we roll her out of the black woollen shawl. Take off her bodice, her skirt. Pass Aurélie's frail body back and forth between us.

Her shabby chemise slips down around her legs. Her long black stocking are thrown on the bed . . . Aurélie opens one eye. Makes believe she's upset. Fairly swoons with delight.

“Good God a'mighty, what are you doing to me?”

George's voice, so painfully gentle, rips right through me.

“Now you mustn't open your eyes until I tell you, Aurélie.”

My Irish linen petticoat, my openwork stockings, my velvet gown. Here and there, a pin to pull in the sagging waist, tuck up the trailing skirt. Aurélie's narrow shoulders. Aurélie's tiny breasts . . . My comb, run through that halo of ringlets framing a face so deathly pale . . .

Aurélie makes a show now of being awake. A curious glint in her beady yellow eyes. We hand her a mirror. She looks at her own reflection in amazement. Gives way to a kind of unspeakable rapture. Claps her hands. Begins to stir. To flutter. Struts about the room. Comes back to the mirror. Declares, in a shrill little drawl:

“I'm absolutely gorgeous! Just like a high-class lady!”

Still reeling a little, she walks around, glances over toward the bed. Forces a yawn. Turns to the doctor, all excited.

“I wouldn't mind having a go in bed. With a real gentleman, I mean . . .”

George grabs her sharply by the wrists. Pulls her back to the chair.

“You'll have your go in bed all right. And with a real gentleman, too. You know Monsieur Tassy, Aurélie? And you know how much he likes the ladies, don't you?”

Aurélie guffaws. Covers her face with her hands.

“Look at me, Aurélie. Take a good look. I'm your master now, and you're going to obey me. You're going to do whatever I tell you.”

He doesn't take his eyes away from her. Each time she tries to break loose, he snares the child's fleeting glance and mercilessly pulls it back. Aurélie dreams that she's struggling hard. Dreams that she finally escapes, runs far away. While all the time, in fact, she scarcely moves at all. Pinned to the chair beneath the doctor's gaze. Only the rapid beating of her heart, pounding all over her trembling body.

“Let me go, Monsieur . . .”

“If only you put an end to Monsieur Tassy, you won't have to work again for the rest of your life, Aurélie. You'll live like a lady. Red velvet and all. And I'll give you a place of your own, with beautiful things. Or an allowance if you'd rather. And you'll live out your days in a lovely room, with a sofa to sit on . . . All dressed up in velvet, red or blue. Or in fancy silk. Whatever you want . . .”

Aurélie tosses her head from side to side against the chair. Back and forth. While through her greedy little body the wondrous words go coursing, pall-mall, all in a jumble. “Red velvet,” “blue velvet,” “fancy silk.” “A place of your own,” “beautiful things . . .” If only you put an end . . . If only, Aurélie . . .

My neck in the noose, dragged back to my room on Rue Augusta. Next to the fire. While my mother and aunts are at vespers. I deny that a scene like that could ever take place between
George Nelson and my maid, Aurélie Caron. Except in a dream, that is . . . The nightmare clings to me, sticks to my skin, won't let me go, poisons my existence. As soon as I close my eyes. And whenever I call her to come and help me, it's to have her deliver me from my evil, absolve me, cleanse me. Rid my love and me of this tale of madness. Aurélie, my friend, my sister. Think of your mistress. Your suffering mistress and her wicked husband. Think of her wonderful love for the doctor, warm and tender. Like nothing you've ever seen before, and never will, no matter how long you live. Nowhere, from Sorel to Kamouraska. Not even in Quebec or Montreal . . . No one will ever know, Aurélie. You only have to pour the poison in some brandy. You remember how much he likes his liquor and his women! . . . Aurélie, I can't go on without my love this way. I'll die, Aurélie . . .