Kamouraska Page 3

  Twice more Monsieur Rolland whispers distinctly: “Aurélie Caron . . . Aurélie Caron . . .” Elisabeth doesn’t flinch. She feels her forehead covered with sweat. He must be delirious. If not, he wouldn’t dare . . .

  Monsieur Rolland is breathing hard. How he would like to fling away that wretched girl’s name, throw it back, back into the shadows. It’s a two-edged sword, and now it’s falling on me. Tearing at my breast. Aurélie Caron . . . With every fiber of her being she clings to the guilty heart of Elisabeth d’Aulnières, my wife in the eyes of God and man. I don’t want to know about it. I swore I would never know a thing about it. Just close my eyes and go on living. Oh, God, the sordid memories, filling my veins, smothering me . . .

  Elisabeth comes over to his bed. Looks at her husband’s haggard face.

  “Try to relax and get some sleep. Florida shouldn’t be much longer now.”

  Monsieur Rolland closes his eyes. What a good wife you have, Monsieur Rolland, so attentive to the slightest sign of death on your sallow face.

  Elisabeth pulls herself together. Fixes her hair, spreads a large shawl about her shoulders. Why not take her stand here and now? Stop caring for this man, once and for all. Too bad. Isn’t that what he wants? Let it all be just between Florida and him, between him and death itself. Doesn’t he always call for Florida? Well, she can take care of him now, I wash my hands of it. I’m turning him over to Florida, for good. Time now to rest. To stretch out on the bed. Lengthwise, crosswise, all to myself. To live . . . And what’s the harm? The only time Florida ever came to life, the only time her eyes lit up, was when she caught the scent of death. Then all at once a spark in the clumsy hulk. Transformed by the intuition that her master is about to die. A simpleton stepping out of her stupidity. A cataleptic learning how to use her life. A lost soul finding her way and her reason for being . . . Good God, is it possible? This gawking, good-for-nothing maid of ours! Letting the milk boil over on the fire, breaking the glasses and the plates. Can’t even put the children’s shoes on right. Never knows which foot they go on. What are we going to do with her? Useless, absolutely useless. Shouldn’t we send her home, back to the town she came from? . . . Then there she was, watching, while Jérôme was having his last attack. All she needed to make her emerge from the depths of darkness. Become a new person. Discover her deathly calling. The transformation is complete. Now the new Florida: eyes sharp, movements precise. Strange, agile creature, ready to officiate at the final moments of Jérôme Rolland, with all the sacred rites. Leeches and poultices, hot-water bottle and eggnog, compresses and Extreme Unction, tears and shroud. Nothing has been forgotten and nothing will be. You can count on Florida. Madame can go off and cry in peace. I’ll see to everything.

  There she is now, standing in the doorway. Impossible to hear her coming, with those slippers she always wears. The heavy, muffled step, those big feet and their giant strides. That long, curved, equine neck of hers, with its little head of braided hair bobbing about. Just like an undertaker’s horse, tossing her little gray braids, ribboned with black. She’s smiling now, a mouthful of long, white teeth.

  “It’s market day. Some of the wagons are coming by already. Madame can go to sleep now. No need to worry about Monsieur. I’ll be here.”

  Florida lifts up Jérôme Rolland in her powerful arms, turns him over like an empty box. Takes off his nightshirt, soaked with sweat, washes him all around, puts on a clean one. Elisabeth feels she’s in the way, stands aside. Leans out the window. Sees in the reflection of the room behind her — now suddenly Florida’s room — all the early-morning bustle of a hospital.

  Madame Rolland surrenders her husband to those soothing hands that take possession of him. And as she steals out of the room, Monsieur Rolland — washed, shaved, and much relieved — falls off to sleep between fresh sheets, exhausted. Florida keeps watch, motionless in her chair beside the bed. Monsieur Rolland is dreaming that he will lie forever, nestled in Florida’s lap.

  Thrown out! Out of the room we shared together. Out of my bed. Eighteen years with that mild little man, lying together in a fine, big bed, all carved by hand. Feather mattress, linen sheets . . . And now, alone. In this tiny bed, this ludicrous little bed the governess sleeps in. The children’s governess, Léontine Mélançon. And Léontine, upstairs in Anne-Marie’s room, sleeping on a sofa. Since yesterday. Now that Jérôme is so sick . . . That smell. Like ink. A musty, old-maid smell . . . I have to fall asleep. Sleep. Quick, before the children all start waking up. Have to get used to sleeping by myself. To put up with my horrible dreams. Alone. No man to run to, no man to protect me. Knowing that someone is there, under the covers. The heat of a body to keep you warm. An embrace to comfort you. Cleanse you of every ill: short-lived eternity, at peace again with the whole wide world. Today I can admit it, dear little Jérôme. If not for you, I’d be dead by now, frightened to death. Devoured by my nightmares, ripped to shreds. A storm of terror rages around us. There, in the snow, I see a man all covered with blood. I see him there, stretched out forever, his stiff arm, frozen, pointing up to heaven . . . Oh, Jérôme! Dear, dear Jérôme! I’m so afraid! Take me in your arms just one more time. Help me find my lost salvation. A little peace. A little sleep at last!

  Madame Rolland gets up with a start, surprised to be lying on Léontine’s bed in all her clothes. I must have dozed . . .

  Twice she tries before she can pull down the covers, tucked in so smooth and tight. She loosens her bodice, unbuckles her belt. Thinks about calling someone to come unbutton her shoes and help her out of them. But no, she doesn’t dare. It might wake the children. A mouthful of hairpins between her lips, she bends over to unbutton the shoes herself. Almost chokes on one of the pins, almost swallows it. Bursts out sobbing. Locks of reddish hair, disheveled, falling in her eyes. A breast bulging out of her corset.

  At last she lies down. On top of the covers. That sour, slovenly old-maid smell! Too much, I can’t stand it! . . . Elisabeth closes her eyes.

  Guilty! Guilty! You’re guilty, Madame Rolland! She jumps up, listens. On the floor below, Florida’s solemn step is bustling about, here and there, by her husband’s bed. Has Jérôme taken a turn for the worse? No, Florida would let me know, I’m sure. I have to sleep. Besides, it’s all her fault, that dismal creature. I never should have left Jérôme alone with her. He’s sick. Who knows what devilish plots they may be hatching between them? My poor husband, in league with Florida, for his everlasting perdition . . . And now my husband is dying once again. Peacefully, in his bed this time. The first time was nothing but violence, blood, and snow. Not two separate husbands, one by one, following each other in the marriage registers. But one man, one and the same, rising again from his ashes. One long snake, always the same, coiling himself about in endless rings. The eternal man, who takes me, then lets me go. Over and over. His first face, cruel. I was sixteen, and I wanted so to be happy. Swine! The filthy swine! Antoine Tassy, squire of Kamouraska. Next, love in all its somber radiance. Eyes, beard, lashes, brows. All black. Black love . . . I’m sick, Doctor Nelson, and I’ll never see you again . . . My, what a lovely triptych! The third face, so gentle, so dull. Jérôme. Jérôme, now you’re in Florida’s hands. And all I want to do is sleep. Sleep.

  Is Florida moving the furniture? Is that what I hear? What is she doing? Right now the house is hers, all hers. She’s busy arranging the rooms, getting things ready for the ceremony. She’s opening the carriage entrance wide. I hear the gates slamming. And the door to the street, I’m sure that’s open too. What on earth is she doing? Am I dreaming? Dreaming? Florida, perched on her spindly legs. Standing at attention on the sidewalk. I can see her now. See her and hear her. A real Swiss guard, with a halberd on her shoulder. And that little starched apron she put on just this morning, flapping about on her dried-up body. She’s shouting terrible things to the people passing by on their way to mass at seven: Oyez! Good people, oyez! Monsieur is dying. It’s Madame who’s doing him in. Come one, come all. We’re going t
o put Madame on trial. We’re going to grill Madame like a rabbit sliced up the middle. Zip! Her miserable belly full of her miserable guts. Oyez! Good people, oyez! The indictment, writ in the Queen’s own English, by the masters of this land:

  At Her Majesty’s Court of King’s Bench the jurors for our Lady the Queen upon their oath present that Elisabeth Eléonore d’Aulnières, late of the parish of Kamouraska, in the county of Kamouraska, in the district of Quebec, wife of one Antoine Tassy, on the fourth day of January in the second year of the reign of our sovereign Lady Victoria, by the grace of God Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, defender of the faith, with force and arms at the parish aforesaid, in the county aforesaid, wilfully, maliciously, and unlawfully, did mix deadly poison, to wit one ounce of white arsenic with brandy, and the same poison mixed with brandy as aforesaid, to wit on the same day and year above mentioned, with force and arms, at the parish aforesaid, in the county aforesaid, feloniously, wilfully, maliciously, and unlawfully did administer to, and cause the same to be taken by, the said Antoine Tassy, then and there being a subject of our said Lady the Queen, with intent in so doing feloniously, wilfully and of her malice aforethought to poison, kill, and murder the said Antoine Tassy, against the peace of our said Lady the Queen, her crown, and dignity. Oyez!

  The court is now in session!

  A cry, sharp and guttural, both at once, piercing my skull. Florida is the devil. I’ve taken the devil himself into my house. This is the second time, Madame Rolland. The second infernal creature you’ve hired. The first one’s name was Aurélie Caron. Aurélie Caron, you remember? No, that’s not true. I don’t know whom you mean . . .

  Elisabeth takes her head in her hands. Every cry becomes a blow. I’m dying, dying . . . She sits up. Sunlight is pouring into Léontine’s little bedroom now. It’s the middle of the morning. Upstairs the children are raising a terrible row, seeing who can stamp and squeal the loudest. Suddenly, two piercing cries come ripping through the air, above the clatter. The child isn’t screaming with anger or pain. Just for the sheer joy of making himself heard, at the top of his lungs, over the troop of brothers and sisters.

  Madame Rolland pulls on her dressing gown, dashes upstairs. There she is now in the nursery, wild-eyed, breathless, giving a healthy slap to little Eugène, so startled he forgets to whimper.

  “What’s got into you, screaming like that? And with your father so sick!”

  The chaos of the room defies description. Chunks of bread scattered about the rug, a cup of milk spilled over. A big rocking horse, lying on its side, as if craning its neck to reach the puddle. Piles of dirty underwear. Baby Eléonore, half naked, displaying her bottom and its chafed little checks. Madame Rolland seizes the children’s nursemaid by the shoulders, gives her a shaking. Hairpins fall to the floor in a shower as the poor girl is jostled back and forth by a steady hand.

  “Agathe, you stupid child!”

  “But . . . Florida said she’d help me. I can’t do it all by myself.”

  In no time at all Madame Rolland has powdered little Eléonore’s bottom, dressed her up in pretty embroidered drawers. The rocking horse is put in its place. Agathe takes out the dirty underwear, wipes up the milk, picks up the bread, sweeps up the crumbs. Everything is back to normal. The children — dressed, combed, calmed down — strike a delightful pose around their mother. Agathe, hands joined in admiration, stands before the touching tableau.

  “Just like the Queen with her little princes by her side!”

  Out of the mouths of fools. How true. The Queen, against Elisabeth d’Aulnières? Absurd. Who would dare accuse me of offending the Queen? When it’s obvious that I look just like her, enough to be her sister, with all my brood around me. I look like the Queen of England. I act like the Queen of England. I’m fascinated by the image of Victoria and her children. Perfect imitation. Who could find me guilty of doing anything wrong?

  Suddenly little Anne-Marie’s sweet voice pipes up:

  “But Mamma is wearing her robe! And her hair isn’t combed. And besides, her face is all red!”

  What a nuisance, this bright, clever child. Too clever. In a flash the charm is broken, the sham unmasked. In her state of disarray, Madame Rolland rings a clashing note. And in such a lovely picture of the children, cleaned up all spick-and-span. Agathe seems a little ashamed to have let herself be taken in by such a sorry sight.

  “Oh, Mamma, let me fix your hair!”

  Anne-Marie pleads with her shining eyes. For a while Elisabeth lets her pull and tug. Again and again, without success, comb and brush attack the thick, tangled growth.

  All right, what’s the shame? Let’s show the children the backside of Victoria’s image. Let it amaze them. Let them be good and bewildered. It will teach them something. Here’s your mother, unkempt and disheveled. See what she looks like fresh from a couple of hours of haunted sleep. So, Anne-Marie, my dear, you think my face is red? You’ll never know how it hurts me to hear you say that. You’ll never know the pain . . . Your childish voice, dredging up another voice buried deep in the darkness of time. A long root, torn thundering from the soil of memory, still covered with earth. Justine Latour, before the magistrate, testifying in her peasant’s twang, shaking with fright.

  “The whole time Doctor Nelson was on his way to Kamouraska, Madame was all excited and red in the face, even more than she usually is.”

  Send the children off for the day. Anne-Marie and Eugène to Aunt Eglantine’s. She asked them over. They can go with Léontine. The rest of them Agathe will take to the park near the fort. Let them play to their hearts’ content until dark. That’s that. Amen. And I’ll have nothing to do but put on my clothes and wait for the doctor. He won’t be long.

  Redressed, refurbished, standing at attention, Madame Rolland returns to her post at her husband’s bedside. The doctor has made it very clear:

  “Your husband could go at any minute.”

  And now, not even to take your eyes off Jérôme Rolland. To watch over him like the mystery of life and death itself. To be there, waiting, when the hand of God seizes its prey. To reassure this pitiful prey in human form. To be vigilant to the utmost limits of your attention. To bow to this man’s merest shadow of a wish. To be there. To give him a drink, to tell him hello, to tell him goodbye. To tell him it’s summer. To convince him that God is merciful. To show him a face full of peace, our face, the very image of peace and harmony. Innocence, spread out like skin over bones. Jérôme, are you there? He’s tossing in his sleep. Muttering Florida’s name. He’s asking for Florida. And again. He doesn’t seem to see me. He passes me by and calls for that woman who’s hand in glove with death.

  “Florida’s out shopping. She’ll be back soon.”

  Madame Rolland stands up. The color is leaving her face. She feels cold all over. No, I won’t let things go on this way. He’s going too far. He’s insulting me. No, it simply isn’t right. I’m his wife, and no one else is going to look after him. When Florida comes back I’ll send her to the kitchen.

  Jérôme’s voice, soft and slow.

  “Tell me, Elisabeth. You were lucky to marry me, weren’t you?”

  Elisabeth’s voice, flat and unwavering.

  “If not for you, Jérôme, I would have been free. I’d have made my life over, like a worn-out coat you turn inside out.”

  Not even a heated exchange. Two perfect thrusts, right to the point. Straight to the heart of the truth. Hitting the mark in an intimate whisper. In the face of impending death.

  The morning drags on, and still Florida isn’t back. Monsieur Rolland is beside himself. What can that fool be doing? Elisabeth has done all she can to quiet him down. She runs back and forth between the door and the window. Runs upstairs, downstairs. Calls out to Florida. Even steps outside, out on the wood-planked sidewalk, watching for her. Then back to Jérôme.

  “It’s only eleven. She’s not really so late after all . . .”

  “But she should be back by now. She knows I
’m waiting. She’s doing it on purpose . . .”

  Florida appears, coming down Rue Donacona, taking her time. Loaded with vegetables and fruit, waddling along like a pack mule calmly making its way through the summer morning. How slowly she’s walking. Madame Rolland lets go of the curtain, runs to meet her. She pokes about in the baskets of food. Discovers all kinds of wonderful things.

  “Green peas! . . . And raspberries! . . .”

  To taste the raspberries, to bite into the green peas, raw like firm little beads. Once more Madame Rolland feels safe, standing there, lost in a kind of rapturous joy. But not for long. In a moment she’s running around again. Dashing up the stairs, picking up her skirts, trailing them along the floor. She opens the window, straightens the pillow, smooths out the sheet. Madame Rolland is a machine now, a machine that mustn’t stop moving. Don’t give in. Do anything, but don’t let yourself doze off . . . Look, Jérôme’s fingernails. They’re all blue. No, my God, I mustn’t fall asleep. Maybe I should get the children. Drink a big cup of black coffee. Whatever I do, don’t rest my head against the chair, or I’m finished . . . Look at Florida. Just look at her shuffling around his bed! That foolish apron! So much starch you could break it in two! . . . The doctor’s voice, dull and flat, and that sermon of his, like something he learned by heart.