Kamouraska (8 page)

“Remember, Aurélie. You're fifteen, aren't you?”

She looks up at me with that little Mongol face of hers, still laughing. Two narrow slits for eyes. Trying to hold back something burning, something poisonous in her look.

“Back then they called you ‘Mademoiselle,' if you please! ‘Mademoiselle'! . . .”

Another burst of laughter. She fingers my clothes. Gingerly, as if they were made of fire or snow.

“What nice things you wear! So fancy! But you don't know a thing about boys, I'll bet.”

I purse my lips, very prim and proper. Turn aside, give the pleats in my skirt a few smug little pats.

“Oh, this is nothing. You should see my party dress. Low neck, all made of silk . . . For the governor's ball.”

The word “governor” makes her more daring. She feels my skirt with both her hands.

“It's so soft and pretty . . . Anyway, who cares about the governor! . . . I live with my uncle!”

“Some people say he's not your uncle either!”

Again she screws up her eyes. All at once, a little viper darts out from between her lids and disappears.

“Who cares what they say! He takes good care of me, and I hardly have to work at all. And besides, I have a nice lace collar to wear to mass on Sundays.”

“People say you're a witch. You know that, Aurélie?”

Suddenly very calm, very poised, Aurélie shrugs her shoulders. She takes the pipe hanging by a ribbon from her belt. Taps it empty against her bare heel. Reaches into her pocket for a pouch . . .

Now she's filling the pipe. Holding a match to it. Making little sucking noises with that big mouth of hers. Like a baby, nursing. On her pallid face, a look of absolute contentment. She's talking in a cloud of smoke. Her voice, distant. Indifferent.

“Oh, there's one thing I can tell, all right. I always know if babies are going to live or die. But that's easy. Right when they're born, as soon as the midwife washes them clean, I give them a lick from head to toe. And if they taste real salty, that means they're going to die. I've never been wrong. Not even once. Mothers are always sending for me, just so I can tell them . . .”

“And what about boys, Aurélie? Tell me about boys.”

I seem to be shouting now. Cupping my hands and shouting to her. She's getting away from me. All of a sudden I'm out of the blinding sunlight, into a kind of shadow. Humid, enveloping. One single thought boring its way into my head. Go home, I have to go home. If not, they'll never let me go to the governor's ball. If my aunts ever hear I've been talking to Aurélie, they'll be sure to punish me. And the thought bores deeper, embeds itself sharp and clear. And as it does, I find that I'm leaving Aurélie behind. Moving with dizzying speed, but without so much as taking a step. It's as if I'm skimming over the river, standing still on a kind of raft. The river, smooth and quiet. No resistance from the water. No sound of waves or oars. I'm going to the governor's ball. I have to go to the governor's ball. Good-bye, Aurélie. If I ever see you again, I'll make believe we're strangers. I'm sorry I know you, sorry we met . . . My mother promised me a string of pearls to wear to the governor's ball. I'd give my soul for a string of pearls . . . And what about boys, Aurélie? What about . . .

Her profile, sharp, the color of ivory. Her jutting jaw. Her pipe. A cloud of smoke. Then nothing. Aurélie has disappeared.

The ball is superb. I even dance with the governor himself, feel his breath on my neck. Aunt Adélaïde taps me on the arm with her
fan. The chandeliers are splendid. Glints of pink, fluttering along the ceiling. I'd love to dance all night. Not that the boys are very special, all dressed up in their Sunday best. And the girls? So many nasty little snobs, laughing like a pack of cackling geese. There's really no one besides the governor . . . All red. With his rust-colored whiskers. I think I catch him staring . . . I've pulled my neckline down as low as I can . . . The music, my legs. My waist, the music. The music. Going to my head. One . . . Two . . . Ah, the polka. I'm mad about the polka. Supple as a melting candle. Nimble as a flame. I think the governor . . . (Dancing . . . dancing . . . all out of breath . . .) I think he dips me over his arm. Like a wilting flower. Or did I imagine it? And my mother says we have to find me a husband . . . Then the quadrille again. And the boys huff and puff, and snort like little piglets, awkward and clumsy. They cast sly looks my way. Again my mother says we have to find me a husband. Of course, the governor is a man of forty. The interesting age. And all the rest? Just what I said, a lot of little piglets, all dressed up . . . I really must have a talk with you, Aurélie. What do I do? I want to know . . . All about boys . . . About boys . . .

It's out on a hunt that I first meet Antoine Tassy. The islands. The flat-bottom boat. The sound of the oars in the early morning silence. The drops of water, thick and round, falling from the oars. The narrow, winding inlets, green with weeds. The long hours waiting, hidden in the rushes. The rain, the mud. The shotgun hitting its mark. The smell of the powder. The bird, plummeting like a feathered stone. The dogs lying in wait. Their raucous barking. The taste of the mist against my face.

“God, but I love this life! Oh, how I love it!”

My male companions. Their cheeks black with a growth of beard. Their deep voices. Their brash looks at “the huntress,” as they call me. Their bare hands on my shoulder sometimes. And Antoine Tassy's large, pale blue eyes, dimming with tears as he stares at me. Autumn. The ground carpeted with leaves. Blue smoke from the shotguns

“It's not a nice way for a young lady to be spending her time!”

“But my dear aunties, you simply don't understand! I love to go hunting, and I'm going to go hunting!”

My three chaperones in the gamekeeper's cabin, chilled to the bone. Surrounded by doleful, discreet young wives, all bundled
up against the cold, waiting for their husbands. And our black dog, on a leash, suckling her brood and dreaming of game. Whining softly at every shot, her snout between her paws. Her sad-eyed stare, fixed on the cabin door.

“What a beautiful shot! I'd say you're in trim, Mademoiselle d'Aulnières!”

I smile. Yes, in fine trim, Antoine. You're on my trail now, stalking me, like a good hunting dog. And I'm getting your scent too, and tracking you down. Squire of Kamouraska. Worthless game. Easy prey, hip-deep in the mud, lurking in wait for goose and duck, finger on the trigger.

“After you, Mademoiselle.”

I fire. Hit my mark. A bundle of feathers, white and gray, spinning against the gray sky, falling into the rushes.

“Congratulations, Mademoiselle.”

The handsome red setter retrieves the quivering bird, a red star on its breast. Antoine Tassy weighs it in his hand with gluttonous admiration.

“You know how to aim. That's rare for a woman.”

His full face, plump and pink. That lower lip of his, protruding, like a pouting child. That sensual glimmer lighting his cheeks in bright tittle waves. He'd like to lay me down then and there, in the mud and the rushes. And I wouldn't mind it at all, feeling his body on top of me, struggling a little as he covers my face with great moist kisses.

He's not from these parts. He's from farther down the river. I don't know a thing about him. But he's a scoundrel, I'm sure. Good family and all, but a scoundrel just the same. I'll make him show me the respect a marriageable young lady deserves.

Antoine Tassy puts the huge bird into my game bag. He puts the bag on his shoulder, Then he holds out his gloveless hand, all warm and soft. Smooth.

“Come . . . Shall we take a little walk?”

The path cuts through the pine grove. The ground is covered with red-brown needles.

“Oh, no, Monsieur. I have to go back. My aunts are waiting for me in the cabin.”

His hand presses mine. For just a moment my hand submits. Like a wounded bird. Then pulls away, with a show of chaste reserve.

Angélique, Adélaïde, Luce-Gertrude . . . Gazing in wide-eyed rapture.

“Pinch me! Am I dreaming? Or is that the child I see? Coming from the marshes, covered with mud . . . With her cheeks all red from the cold, and her curls in a tangle . . . Holding hands with a big, tall, handsome lad . . .

“No, my dear, you're not dreaming. That's Antoine Tassy, the young squire of Kamouraska!”

Antoine Tassy doesn't give my aunts much time to revel in the romantic bliss of a first encounter. The very next day he asks for my hand. Through Madame Cazeau, who comes and pays my mother a lengthy visit.

“Excellent match. Fine old family. Two hundred and fifty acres of land and woods. And the islands opposite the estate. And a salt marsh. A bakehouse. A wharf. A fine stone manor built out on the cape. The father, dead last year. Lives alone with his mother. Married sisters in Quebec . . .”

Madame d'Aulnières bursts into tears. Dreads having to explain to her daughter the mysteries of marriage and death. For her, one and the same.

“What a life! Good God, what a life! A widow at seventeen, with a baby on the way . . . No, I'll never get over it. Never . . .”

I'm going to be married. My mother has said yes. And so have I, deep in the darkness of my flesh. Will you help me? Tell me, Mother, will you? What's your advice? And you, dear aunts? Tell me, is it love? Is it really love that's troubling me so? Making me feel as if I'm about to drown . . .

Is this how little girls grow up? I preen you and primp you, fix your hair. I send you off to mass and catechism. I shield you from life and death, hide them behind big, high embroidered screens, covered with roses and exotic birds . . . We get babies from the Indians. They come by and drop them into women's beds. You know, those tiny, teeny infants with their puckered little faces, that you find one morning all wrapped and swaddled in a white woolen bundle? Next to a new young mother, exhausted and smiling . . . Oh, the fables we tell. The ones about God, the ones about men. “The Wedding-feast at Cana,” “The Bride of Lammermoor,” “Down by the crystal fountain, e'er shall I remember thee . . .” Love. Beautiful love of song and story.

Swine! Lord of the manor. Foul swine! I saw you in the street. And that whore, Mary Fletcher. Lord! Her red coat. Her flaming red hair. And you, Milord the Fool, tagging along like a dirty little
lamb. To her great big bed with its filthy sheets. Oh, yes, I guessed the kind of shameless games you two were playing. And what a blow it was! Innocent little me. Elisabeth d'Aulnières. Marriageable young lady.

The Cazeaus' ball. Strange how a man so big can whirl and twirl with so much grace. I keep looking down, refuse to lift my eyes. He squeezes my arm. His soft, liquid voice.

“Please, Elisabeth. Look at me!”

“You've humiliated me! I saw you with that . . . that person. Yesterday, in the street.”

“I didn't realize . . . Please . . . I'm sorry.”

His lip quivers as if he's about to cry.

My pride! I call my pride to come to my defense. Like my God. While the flame-red image of Mary Fletcher makes me burn with curiosity, with jealousy and desire.

For a long moment we look at each other. Without a word. His embarrassment. His helplessness. Mine too. And my pride, giving way little by little. We turn our heads, the two of us worn out, like a pair of wrestlers.

“Eléonore-Elisabeth d'Aulnières, do you take this man, Jacques-Antoine Tassy, for your lawfully wedded husband?”

You have to say “yes,” say it nice and loud. Your bridal veil. Your crown of orange blossoms. Your gown with its long train. The wedding cake, three layers high, covered with icing and thick whipped cream. Behind you the guests are sniffling in their handkerchiefs. All of Sorel is waiting to watch you go by, hanging on your young husband's arm . . . Good God, I'm doomed! Married to a man I don't even love . . .

This fair-haired giant. Eyes so blue, like flax, filled with tears. A little too plump, perhaps. And always ready with a tear or two . . . They say he drinks and chases the ladies, this squire of Kamouraska. Barely twenty-one years old. And I'm sixteen,
Elisabeth d'Aulnières. And I've vowed I'll be happy . . .

No, don't let Madame Rolland settle down just yet. Don't let her wake up all of a sudden in Léontine Mélançon's little room. To sort out the recollections of her marriage and hang them on the wall, so she can look them over at her leisure. Nothing is less innocuous than the story of Elisabeth d'Aulnières' first marriage.

It's not the unrelenting light. No, it's this terrible stillness. This distance that ought to be comforting me, this sense of detachment. It's worse than all the rest. Seeing yourself as someone else. Pretending to be objective. Not feeling that you and that young bride dressed in blue velvet are one and the same. Her traveling costume. Fashion plate for Louis-Philippe of France. The groom looks like a dummy made of wax. Long frock coat, tall silk hat.

And now the bride begins to move. Little mechanical doll, clinging to her husband's arm, climbing into the carriage. Her white silk stocking, her elegant shoe. Sitting back, she reassumes the pose. The wedding guests crowd around, joking and laughing at the top of their lungs. Again the bride gives her mother a kiss. And her aunts, and all the guests. The groom takes the reins, can't wait to start out on the long trip all the way to Kamouraska. Stopping at inns. Changing the horses. Aunt Adélaïde shouts something, swallowed up in the wind. Repeats the question, as the groom struggles to hold back the team of two black horses.

Again and again the groom kisses the bride. The groom is made of painted wood. So is the bride, colored all blue.

And me, I'm Madame Rolland, and I'm off again on my first wedding trip. The way you tell a story. Not taking it too seriously, with an amused little smile. Even if happiness turns to vinegar, to bitter gall . . .

The road is lined with trees. I count the grains of rice strewn everywhere in the carriage. I close my eyes. The warm, dry wind passes over my face, my hands. Between my lashes I can see the
cloud of dust stirred up by the carriage along the road.