Kamouraska (28 page)

You'll leave Canada, won't you? Just tell me you'll come, Elisabeth. You will. You will come, won't you?
...

That letter. The one I never got. Worse than prison, the thought of being left behind, deserted. Your endless silence. Your written words, kept from me. The sound of your voice, intercepted. Your call, your plea, lost somewhere in justice's endless pile of papers. Good Lord, I'm finished! And my dear Aunt Adélaïde, with me in prison. I'll kill myself, that's what I'll do. Saltpeter, oozing from every wall. And all night long Aunt Adélaïde, writing the judge a letter. Signed with a pathetic little flourish.

The party in question, Elisabeth d'Aulnières, always treated her husband, the late Antoine Tassy, with nothing but kindness and respect. She didn't know a thing about his death, anymore than the rest of us. That is, her mother, her aunts, or myself. What I mean to say is that we heard a rumor about it first, and then we received word in letters from Kamouraska. My niece Elisabeth, the party in question, has three small children from her marriage with the same Antoine Tassy. One of them isn't even four months old. Elisabeth herself is hardly twenty. And in very delicate health. I've been with
her in prison all this time. Myself, her aunt, Adélaïde Lanouette. And I can tell you that she's getting weaker and weaker every day. She's even spitting blood. If she has to stay in prison much longer it's sure to put her life in danger. Besides. I know all about that person Aurélie Caron, formerly of Sorel, and I wouldn't believe a word she says, not even under oath.

Written from the municipal prison, Montreal,
February 22nd, 1839
.

Doctor George Nelson arrives in Burlington on February eighth, and a few days later he's behind bars too. At the request of the Canadian authorities. Then those long-drawn-out negotiations between Montpelier and Washington. And on March 23rd the grand jury of the criminal court in Quebec indicts Doctor Nelson for murder. The case of Elisabeth d'Aulnières is held over for the September session . . .

I've watched the icicles so long, melting on the little window of my cell. I've tossed and turned so long on my narrow bed. I've cried so long . . . Aunt Adélaïde puts compresses on my forehead. Weeps along with me. A taste of iron wells up from my throat. I spit up blood. What wicked old witch is whispering in my ear that it's all just so much theatre? . . .

Aunt Adélaïde begs me to fix my hair, my clothes. To splash cold water on my face and step out in the light for all to see. With Antoine's mother by my side, come all the way from Kamouraska just for this.

Released on bail. A sallow-faced young woman (long mourning veils and all) outside the prison gate. Seems to be walking in her sleep. And the warden bows low, as if it had all been some dreadful mistake. Wrapped in her shawls and crape, she hazards a glance out into the street. Hurries into the carriage standing there against the sidewalk, waiting. A little woman, older than the first,
hidden in black veils too. Picks up a woollen blanket and tucks it around the young woman's lap.

A second carriage follows the first. In it the young woman's mother and aunt.

And in the first, two women, side by side. So careful not to look each other in the eye. Their very first meeting since . . . Tossed and shaken as the carriage jogs along. Elisabeth d'Aulnières and Madame Tassy, sitting protected against each other, like walnuts knocking together inside a sack.

And the strange procession winds through Montreal in the noonday sun.

Really, we'll have to find me a different dress. This one is all wrinkled . . . Please, a little Cologne . . . The coffee's so thick. Like syrup. It leaves such a bitter taste in my mouth . . . That woman in the mirror . . . Her eyes are so tired. And that big, round face . . . Dark circles . . . Her neck, too fat for her collar. That crumpled linen collar . . .

My daughter, Anne-Marie. Still there. Still trying to pull me out of the darkness, all the way.

“The priest wants to tell you good-bye before he leaves. Papa is asleep . . .”

My clouded image in the mirror. After this endless night. Rub the mist clear with the back of my sleeve. Recapture my youth . . .

At Sorel my dear little aunts look after me, ply me with flowers and sweets. Shed torrents of tears.

I wait for a letter that never arrives.

“The child is sick. See, she can hardly stand on her feet.”

I try to save my strength to wait for a letter. Try not to move. Pretend to be living. Learn little by little what it's like to die. Wait for a letter. With all the right gestures, the look on my face, the clothing inside and out, the hair on my head, the shoes on my feet
. . . Like a real living creature. And yet I'm dead. Only hope in my veins. The hope for a certain letter, still beating.

I wait for a letter that's not going to get through, that will never arrive. Yes, I mean, it will. But later, so much later, after years and years lost in those piles of papers on the magistrates' desks. Too late, too late . . .

Time, time. Goes by, spreads out, enfolds me, drags me along. And silence, doubling time, drawing it out to its merciless length. I learn what emptiness is, day after day, night after night. In the bedroom on Rue Augusta, living the life of a prisoner again. With no one to venture near my bed. No one, that is, but my lawyer, my mother, and the three little creatures who have sworn to save me or go down with me in the attempt.

Maître Lafontaine bends over my bed. His face hovers over me, goatee and all. And he keeps repeating something about an involved exchange of letters between the judges in Canada and the United States. My husband's killer . . . Extradition still pending . . . My own case, continued from session to session . . .

I put my faith in the guardian angels that stand watch in the shadows about me. I straighten my clothes, black with mourning. Ask to have my children brought in. A nice little stroll with them through Sorel for all to see, and I know the perverse joy of throwing the whole town off my scent. Pale and pathetic, learning my widow's role . . .

Two years go by. See, Aurélie, now you're free. They'll never extradite Doctor Nelson. Charges withdrawn.

What can I hope for from a man who treats me as if I were dead? Dead and gone so long himself. Dying once, twice, over and over, again and again, until that one last time. That's what life is, after all . . .

Jérôme Rolland calls for his wife. Wants her there beside him. Anne-Marie says her father is better, completely cured, now that
he's had the last rites from the priest . . .

The medical student has a head of thick, red, curly hair. Shaking like a banner flaring in the breeze. Between my clasped fingers, I watch the hostile glints of sun . . .

“Anne-Marie, my dear . . . Yes, I'll go right down. First, get me a handkerchief. There, in the drawer.”

Anne-Marie disappears for a moment. The young student's head of hair flashes above my bed. He speaks in a whisper.

“Four months ago I began to study medicine with Doctor Nelson. On the sixth of February, late at night, he came to my room and woke me up. In Madame Léocadie Leprohon's house, where I live. And he made me go with him to his office. He told me he had to leave the province for good, that he could never come back. He just stood there, leaning against the wall. With his head in his hands. And he began to cry, and his body began to tremble and shake all over. In all my life I never saw a man in such a state. Then he said, in English: “It's that damned woman. She's ruined me . . .”

You're talking in a foreign tongue, Doctor Nelson. No, of course I don't know this man! I'm Elisabeth d'Aulnières. My first husband was Antoine Tassy, the squire of Kamouraska, the one who was murdered. And my second is Jérôme Rolland, notary in the city of Quebec. Like his father before him, and his father's father, for countless generations . . . I'm innocent! See how George Nelson accuses me? See? “That damned woman!” That's what he called me . . . If your love shocks you so, rip it out of your heart. Which one of us betrayed the other first? I'm innocent! Let him go home, back to the country he should never have come from . . . My love ran away. Deserted me, left me alone to face the whims of justice. Yes, let him go home. An outcast in his native land. Back after thirty years. Exiled forever in the land of his birth. A stranger wherever he goes, to the end of his days.

And me. A stranger, a soul possessed, pretending I still belong
in the land of the living . . . Faithless Elisabeth. Turning your back, betraying your sacred trust. Too late now, you say. Too late for a life of delirious passion. The fire is dying. No use to stir up the embers. Should have taken my stand before. Gone off with George. Been cast out together. To the innermost depths of the earth's damnation. No longer just a foreign land. One whole foreign world. An exile, utter and complete. A madman's solitude . . . See how they point their fingers at us. Yes, I'm the one. The one who pushed you to the ends of the earth. (I stood back, off by the side of the road, while you . . . There, in the cove at Kamouraska . . .) Through all that crime and death. Like a boundary to cross . . . And then you come back. And your face, your look against mine. Unknowable, now, for ever and ever. So frightful . . . No, I don't know this man! Found out, Doctor Nelson! You've been found out! Murderer. Stranger . . .

And what if he's there, in Burlington, waiting in his cell for a letter from me? Oh, let me be sure. I'd be so happy I would die! My God, just to run to his side. Beg them to hitch up the horses, take me to the border. Get out of the carriage. Find him alive. Fling myself into his arms. Say to him, “Look, it's me, Elisabeth.” And hear him answer, “It's me. It's George . . .” Together for life, the two of us. That cry in my throat . . .

Can it really be he's still alive? Or married? No, no! That's more than I could bear. I'd sooner see him dead, lying at my feet. Rather than let some other woman . . .

Nothing to do now but act so nicely that no one can doubt me. Pull the mask of innocence over my face. Against the bones. Accept it like some kind of vengeance, some kind of punishment. Play the cruel game, the tedious comedy, day after day. Until the perfect resemblance sticks to my skin. No joy on the long, bitter road. Only my haughty pride, here and there . . .

“Jérôme Rolland wants to marry the child. What a nice young
man! He says he's sure he can make her happy, make her forget . . .”

Adélaïde, Angélique, Luce-Gertrude, my mother . . . They couldn't be more delighted . . .

Jérôme Rolland, his lordship meek and mild, lies propped up against a pile of nice cool pillows. The smell of candle wax floats through the bedroom. Darkened, shutters half closed. Florida, standing about like a vestry nun. Folds a white tablecloth. Madame Rolland's eyes, all puffed and swollen.

“Where were you, Elisabeth? I kept asking them to call you.”

“It's that powder the doctor gave me. It made me sleep and sleep . . .”

A faint smile flickers over Jérôme Rolland's lips. Madame Rolland moves by his bed. And he whispers, still smiling. Tells her how happy he feels now, how much at peace.

“I've had the last rites, Elisabeth. The Good Lord has cleansed me of all my sins.”

Madame Rolland looks down. Wipes a tear from her cheek . . .

Then all at once the nightmare breaks again. Dashes its winds against Elisabeth d'Aulnières. While on the surface everything seems so calm. The model wife, clasping her husband's hand in hers, poised on the sheet. And yet . . . Off in a parched field, under the rocks, they've dug up a woman, all black but still alive, buried there long ago, some far-off, savage time. Strangely preserved. Then they've gone and let her loose on the town. And all the people have locked themselves in. So deathly afraid of this woman. And everyone thinks that she must have an utterly awesome lust for life, buried alive so long. A hunger growing and growing inside the earth for centuries on end! Unlike any other that's ever been known. And whenever she runs through the town, begging and weeping, they sound the alarm. Nothing before her but doors shut tight, and the empty, unpaved streets. Nothing to do now but let herself die. Alone and hungry . . .

Wicked Elisabeth! Damnable woman!

“You'll never know how frightened I was, Jérôme.”

“Don't worry, Elisabeth. I'm here . . .”

Madame Rolland clutches her husband's pallid hand. A fragile thread that still holds her to life and might break any moment. Her eyes fill with tears.

And Léontine Mélançon whispers (unless, perhaps, it's Agathe or Florida):

“Just look how Madame loves Monsieur! You see, she's crying . . .”