thinking I might want to marry him if he could. You could squeeze enough oil out of that man to light a house for a year.”
“But it would be sweet oil,” Galtier said. His wife made a face at him.
Before they could start up again, Georges, their younger son, came into the farmhouse with a newspaper from Rivière-du-Loup in his hand. “They’ve gone and done it!” he said, waving the paper at Lucien and Marie.
“Who has gone and done what?” Lucien Galtier asked. With Georges with newspaper in hand, he might settle on anything. Charles, his older brother, was much more like the elder Galtier, both in looks and character. Georges towered over his father—and also, as he had since he was a boy, delighted in whimsy for its own sake. Had someone gone and hauled a cow onto a roof? Georges might well make a story like that out to be the end of the world.
Not this time, though. “The Canadians have risen against the United States!” he said, and held the paper still long enough to let his father and mother see the big black headline.
“Calisse!” Galtier muttered. “Mauvais tabernac!” Marie clucked at his swearing, but he didn’t care.
He reached for the newspaper. “Oh, the fools! The stupid fools!” He crossed himself.
“They’ll get what’s coming to them,” Georges said. He took the Republic of Quebec for granted. He’d lived the last third of his life in it. To him, as his words showed, Canada was a foreign country.
Things were different for Lucien. Back in the 1890s, he’d been conscripted into the Canadian Army.
He’d soldiered side by side with men who spoke English. He’d learned some himself; its remembered fragments had come in handy in ways he hadn’t expected. He’d also been told, “Talk white!” when he spouted French at the wrong time. Despite that, though, he’d seen that English-speaking Canadians weren’t so very different from their Quebecois counterparts. And memories of when Quebec had been part of something stretching from Atlantic to Pacific remained strong in him.
“Give me the paper,” he said. “I want to see what they say about this.” Something in his tone warned Georges this would not be a good time to argue or joke. “Here, Papa,” he said, and handed him the newspaper without another word.
Galtier had to hold it out at arm’s length to read it. His sight had lengthened over the past ten years, too.
“Shall I get your reading glasses?” Marie asked. “I know where you left them—on the nightstand by the bed.”
“Never mind,” he answered. “I can manage well enough. . . . Uprisings in Toronto and Ottawa and Winnipeg, in Calgary and Edmonton and Vancouver.”
“The Americans say they are putting them down,” Georges said.
“Of course they say that. What else would you expect them to say?” Galtier replied. “During the war,both sides told lies as fast as they could. The Americans must have captured Quebec City and Montreal and Toronto half a dozen times each—and they must have been chased south over the border just as often.”
Georges pointed to a paragraph Lucien was about to read on his own. “The premier of the Republic is sending soldiers to help his American allies—that’s what he calls it, anyhow.”
“ ‘Osti,” Galtier muttered. He wasn’t surprised so much as disgusted. He’d been thinking of the Bible.
The Americans were saying Come! —and the Quebecois were duly coming. Or was that fair? Didn’t allies help allies? Weren’t Quebec and the USA allies? Why wouldn’t French-speaking troops in blue-gray help Americans in green-gray?
“Can the Canadians win, do you think?” Georges asked. He certainly thought of his former countrymen as foreigners.
“No.” Galtier shook his head. “The Americans are soft in certain things—they have certainly been softer here in Quebec than they might have been.” Yes, he had to admit that. “But
“But it would be sweet oil,” Galtier said. His wife made a face at him.
Before they could start up again, Georges, their younger son, came into the farmhouse with a newspaper from Rivière-du-Loup in his hand. “They’ve gone and done it!” he said, waving the paper at Lucien and Marie.
“Who has gone and done what?” Lucien Galtier asked. With Georges with newspaper in hand, he might settle on anything. Charles, his older brother, was much more like the elder Galtier, both in looks and character. Georges towered over his father—and also, as he had since he was a boy, delighted in whimsy for its own sake. Had someone gone and hauled a cow onto a roof? Georges might well make a story like that out to be the end of the world.
Not this time, though. “The Canadians have risen against the United States!” he said, and held the paper still long enough to let his father and mother see the big black headline.
“Calisse!” Galtier muttered. “Mauvais tabernac!” Marie clucked at his swearing, but he didn’t care.
He reached for the newspaper. “Oh, the fools! The stupid fools!” He crossed himself.
“They’ll get what’s coming to them,” Georges said. He took the Republic of Quebec for granted. He’d lived the last third of his life in it. To him, as his words showed, Canada was a foreign country.
Things were different for Lucien. Back in the 1890s, he’d been conscripted into the Canadian Army.
He’d soldiered side by side with men who spoke English. He’d learned some himself; its remembered fragments had come in handy in ways he hadn’t expected. He’d also been told, “Talk white!” when he spouted French at the wrong time. Despite that, though, he’d seen that English-speaking Canadians weren’t so very different from their Quebecois counterparts. And memories of when Quebec had been part of something stretching from Atlantic to Pacific remained strong in him.
“Give me the paper,” he said. “I want to see what they say about this.” Something in his tone warned Georges this would not be a good time to argue or joke. “Here, Papa,” he said, and handed him the newspaper without another word.
Galtier had to hold it out at arm’s length to read it. His sight had lengthened over the past ten years, too.
“Shall I get your reading glasses?” Marie asked. “I know where you left them—on the nightstand by the bed.”
“Never mind,” he answered. “I can manage well enough. . . . Uprisings in Toronto and Ottawa and Winnipeg, in Calgary and Edmonton and Vancouver.”
“The Americans say they are putting them down,” Georges said.
“Of course they say that. What else would you expect them to say?” Galtier replied. “During the war,both sides told lies as fast as they could. The Americans must have captured Quebec City and Montreal and Toronto half a dozen times each—and they must have been chased south over the border just as often.”
Georges pointed to a paragraph Lucien was about to read on his own. “The premier of the Republic is sending soldiers to help his American allies—that’s what he calls it, anyhow.”
“ ‘Osti,” Galtier muttered. He wasn’t surprised so much as disgusted. He’d been thinking of the Bible.
The Americans were saying Come! —and the Quebecois were duly coming. Or was that fair? Didn’t allies help allies? Weren’t Quebec and the USA allies? Why wouldn’t French-speaking troops in blue-gray help Americans in green-gray?
“Can the Canadians win, do you think?” Georges asked. He certainly thought of his former countrymen as foreigners.
“No.” Galtier shook his head. “The Americans are soft in certain things—they have certainly been softer here in Quebec than they might have been.” Yes, he had to admit that. “But
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