Kamouraska by Anne Hébert Page A

flying over these treacherous roads, in the blazing summer heat.
    In front of the inn the sign is swaying in the wind.
Auberge des Trembles
. The Gothic letters blend with the white wooden frills that trim the narrow columns and the balcony.
    The innkeeper seems to know the groom. The groom’s clothes have thrown off their nice little fashion-book air. The tall silk hat, pushed back on his head. A childish lock of fine blond hair falling over his forehead. The vest — unbuttoned, rebuttoned askew — all full of wrinkles.
    The groom gives the innkeeper a couple of healthy slaps on the shoulder. His booming voice fills the low-ceilinged room.
    â€œHello, old man! I’m here to eat. And to spend the night. The lady here is my wife. So give her your nicest, deepest bow and call her ‘Madame.’ Then go round up some fiddlers and dancers. Fast as you can. This is my wedding night. And we’re going to have ourselves a time!”
    I like the polka better. Good God, the governor’s ball! Help me! Save me! The young men are wearing white gloves and such pious expressions. And the governor . . . With his whiskers, reddish gold, like cat’s fur. And his oh-so British air . . . I speak such elegant English. The governor told me so . . . Then why am I here?Tell me, what am I doing here? My husband gets such strange ideas . . . All these ignorant, backwoods boors! Reeking of sweat and dirt. Doing their noisy dances, shrieking like so many beasts off to be slaughtered . . . My husband likes his women unwashed, heavy with the smell of musk. He told me so. He mixes whiskey in his wine. He eats his shortbread hot off the fire . . .
    â€œWhat a wonderful life!”
    The groom, shouting as he twirls the bride about.
    I’m sick. Sick to my stomach. That swallow of shortbread that won’t go down . . . It’s stifling in here . . . The Irish jig . . . The devil’s own dance! And that jarring sound of the fiddles, scraping, piercing my skull . . . I must have had too much to drink. Tin cups full of liquid fire. Good God, I’m dying! . . . At the governor’s ball little round slices of lime float in a pink punch, nice and sweet . . . Mustn’t forget my position . . . I feel so weak, the way I do before my period . . . This country inn is so far beneath me . . . Now he’s playing with the lace on my petticoat. Under the table. Slipping his fingers between my stocking and my shoe. Ever so gently. Behind the long linen cloth, hanging down.
    â€œI’m a happy man!”
    The groom, proclaiming his joy. Everyone watching, a little embarrassed, cooing with delight. Then they all laugh and laugh. Cast sly little looks at the bride. Knowing glances . . .
    In the wee, small hours, the bride is still awake, nestling head to toe against the groom, who lies submerged in an exhausted, alcoholic sleep. With that fresh-cut gash between her thighs, the bride looks round the room. Dismayed to see her clothing strewn about in a tangled clutter of velvet, linen, and lace.

A two-week journey. Long, deserted roads. Through forests. Little village inns. The fatback and molasses make me sick. Sometimes there are bugs crawling out of the bedsteads. And the sheets are always so rough. The heat is unbearable. The rain comes through the hood into the carriage.
    Louiseville, Saint-Hyacinthe, Saint-Nicolas, Pointe-Lévis, Saint-Michel, Montmagny, Berthier, L’Islet, Saint-Roch-des-Aulnaies, Saint-Jean-Port-Joli . . .
    The air of the river, downstream, filling my lungs. The evenings, growing cooler. Stronger and stronger, the smell of the sandy banks.
    Riding along, Antoine Tassy points to an invisible line where the river becomes as salty as the ocean. Elisabeth d’Aulnières lets her thoughts run back home to the sweet, fresh waters of the Richelieu.
    Sainte-Anne, Rivière-Ouelle, Kamouraska!
    The hills loom up, rise out of the underbrush. Sudden whiteness, speckled with black. Layers of