Kamouraska by Anne Hébert Read Free Book Online Page B

Caron, begins to sputter disconnected phrases, while a flood of tears furrows her contorted little face:
    â€œAurélie Caron . . . Nothing but a liar . . . A slut, a drunkard . . . Little Elisabeth . . . Her father died before she was born . . . And we raised her, the three of us, because her mother couldn’t . . . Marie-Louise, poor dear . . . How could she bring her up? . . . So young to be a widow, so soon, only six months married . . . And her husband, dead at twenty-two, from the pox . . . A terrible, terrible shock for her, poor dear . . . Such grief . . . Never got over it . . .”
    Is that how pious women live? Up bright and early, off to perjure themselves, with only one thought in mind, one order to carry out. Risk your immortal soul, but save the family name. Bring the child back home, snatched from disgrace and prison. Save the child. She’s so pretty, after all. Who wouldn’t trust her with the keys to heaven! . . . No, the trial must not take place. We’ll teach this worthless rabble that some of us are above the law. Besides, the child will do the rest. Just let her appear, she’ll silence her accusers. Just let her stand there, straight and tall, with her haughty, cunning air. That dazzling flesh, that stance, those well-cut clothes of hers. That arrogant little smirk, and her cold, unbearable statue gaze. She could walk through fire and never be burned, wallow in the depths of vice and never change her expression. Tragic, implacable beauty, sufficient unto itself, bowing to no laws but its own. You wouldn’t understand. She’s above the ordinary laws of men. Try not to wither under her gaze, sharp, the color of grass and tart green grapes . . . We’ll take her home, we’ll comfort her. We’ll wash her body from head to toe, and her long hair too. In great red copper tubs. With perfumed soap. Big white towels. We’ll wrap her up like a newborn infant. Tiny newborn babe, this niece of ours, fresh from her mother’s womb. Her little wrinkled face, with slits for eyes. Her very first squeals . . . Yes, we’ll restore her honor, build it up again, impregnable. And her good name, invulnerable . . . Invulnerable. Impregnable. Adorable . . . What an adorable child. Three little fairy godmothers, all pointy and shrill,bending over her cradle . . . We’ll raise this child. We’ll teach her to read. We’ll have her make her First Communion. We’ll take her to the governor’s ball. We’ll make a fine match for her, give her an enormous wedding. Antoine Tassy, the squire of Kamouraska . . . The squire . . . Antoine . . . Of Kamouraska . . . Dear me, indeed! What an enormous wedding . . . Oh, what an enormous crime, Elisabeth! Your poor dear husband, dead in the snow! Who could have killed him? In the cove at Kamouraska? The snow . . . And so much blood . . . Your pretty face, all stained! . . . Snow . . . Snow . . . Kamouraska . . . It’s our fault, all our fault. We didn’t raise you right. We spoiled you, Elisabeth. Our little idol, the little golden statue in the desert of our lives. Three old maid sisters from Sorel. Good God! We’re damning our very souls to protect her!
    Eccentric aunts of mine. Black furs, black veils. Strings of jet beads tangled about their scrawny chicken necks. Silly old maids. Look, there you are in the midst of a circus, a huge circus, black with humanity on all sides. Adélaïde, Luce-Gertrude, Angélique . . . Tiny, hemmed in, hooted down . . . Shaking their tight-clenched fists up in the air. Their rosaries, jingling around their wrists like so many little bells. They’re shouting, struggling in vain to be heard over an endless roll on the drum. In the front row, three immense judges. White wigs and all. The biggest one waves his hand, gestures for the drummer to stop. Silence. So abrupt that Aunt Adélaïde can’t hold her tongue. She keeps on shouting, as if the drum were still