Kamouraska by Anne Hébert Read Free Book Online

vain. The cards are silent. She begins to lose interest. Ace of hearts . . . A love letter . . . Lies, lies. Mother doesn’t believe in the cards. Or in love either. Besides,the deck is fixed. And so are our hearts . . . Queen of diamonds . . . Elisabeth, my only child. Her blond hair, with flashes of red in the light . . . Two of clubs . . . The evening is peaceful and calm, like a tub of fresh-drawn milk. My aunts, busy with their embroidery. Beneath their dry little fingers, dull, lifeless flowers take shape, slavishly copied from the pages of the
Boston Ladies’ Needlework Magazine
.
    â€œLook, Adélaïde. You see how much red the child is using on hers? Really, it’s outrageous. Why can’t she follow the model? Nice subdued colors . . .”
    A typical winter night in Sorel. In the cottage, a single lamp burning. The child is well protected. Her brute of a husband can go gallivanting to his lordship’s heart’s content in his domain of Kamouraska . . . Here, all these women, quietly embroidering. And one male, only one, allowed in this room, with its low wooden ceiling, all white and shining like porcelain, covered with flickering shadows. Every evening Doctor Nelson comes to visit with us and pass the time. He’s so pleasant, such a gentleman, this Doctor Nelson. And he took such good care of the child when she was sick. A trifle nervous, perhaps. A little too pensive. It would take a clever one to find out what it is that’s preying on his mind, what secret makes that look of anger flash across his face from time to time.
    â€œI’ll call Aurélie and tell her to bring us some lemonade.”
    â€œYou would do better to get rid of that girl. With her reputation . . .”
    â€œNow you mustn’t do anything to upset Elisabeth. The child is so miserable with that husband of hers . . .”
    My mother and my aunts are speaking in a whisper. Doctor Nelson and I don’t say a word. He hands me the lengths of thread as I need them. Together we sit looking at the canvas, watching a flower take shape, a flower that’s much too red.
    Footsteps in the hall, brisk and confident. Aurélie with thelemonade. A jumble of other footsteps. Sophie Langlade and Justine Latour are with her. Frenetic, these two, always caught up in a flurry of activity. Forever opening doors, as if they feel they have to open every room in the house, connect them all together. Mysterious, these rooms one after another. They beckon to me. With their sly little looks they urge me to hurry and live in this house again, here in Sorel. To live in it all, and not leave out a single room.
    â€œMadame would always go and lock herself in one of the bedrooms with Doctor Nelson.”
    Who said that? Who dared say such a thing? It’s written down on paper, with an official stamp. Aurélie Caron’s sworn deposition. That lying child. And innocent little Justine Latour, testifying later.
    â€œMadame was never alone with Doctor Nelson. Her mother followed them everywhere they went.”
    Good-hearted child, Justine. But the consolation of your simple little soul doesn’t last too long. Listen to the clerk, reading the last words of the indictment.
    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
.
    The Queen! Always the Queen! Couldn’t you just die laughing! As if it makes the slightest difference to our dear Victoria-beyond-the-sea! What does she care if there’s a little adultery, a little murder, way out there on a few acres of snowy waste that England once took away from France?
    Elisabeth d’Aulnières, widow Tassy. You hear that? You’re being charged in a foreign tongue. The language of my love. Nothing matters now but the shape of the words on his lips. Elisabeth d’Aulnières, widow Tassy. Remember Saint