up.’
Elisabeth was silent.
‘Do you know Rabelais’ book, The Abbey of Thélème ?’ Rochon asked softly. ‘His order of Thelemites had only one rule: do what thou wilt. A joke, of course, but at the same time, absolutely serious. Rabelais was convinced that the free man possessed a natural instinct for virtue and aversion to vice. It was when he was subjected to the unnatural enslavement of statutes and laws that he was turned aside from that noble disposition, for it is in man’s nature to desire those things that are denied him.’
‘Is that why you seek a mission? Because you are denied one?’
‘Not precisely my point. But yes, that is possible.’
‘And when you have one, what then?’
Rochon smiled.
‘Then I suppose I shall be free most virtuously to regret it.’
‘And the savage children?’
‘They will not be abandoned. I have found my successor.’
‘La Vente? Poor children.’
‘You.’
‘Me? But–’
‘Waiting is not enough occupation for any of us.’
After that, in the late afternoon three days each week, Elisabeth taught the children of the savages the rudiments of the French language. She conducted the lessons in the cabin on the rue d’Iberville, the infants squatting in two obedient rows on either side of the room, girls to the left and boys to the right. She did not ask their names, but she learned their faces, the way one boy rubbed his ear against his shoulder when he was thinking, the resolve of the smallest of the girls to speak a little sooner and louder than the rest. She brought household items from the kitchen hut and borrowed others from her neighbours, pointing at each one and saying the word for it in French. They were eager pupils, several of them quick. They learned to say yes, no, thank you, forgive me. They learned to count. At night sometimes she dreamed of them, their faces turned upward like two rows of cabbages. When they chorused the words after her, their voices were high and clear.
Sometimes, after the lesson, she gave them apple cider to drink and pieces of cornbread. It pleased her to see the eagerness of their appetites, the glances and whispers that darted between them when they thought she was not looking, but she was glad when they were gone. Then she went out onto the stoop, watching the evening shadows settle in the high trees, so that in the house the silence might unfurl undisturbed, stretching its limbs like a lover across the hard dirt floor, ready for his return.
He came back when the ground was dry and Elisabeth as good as healed. He was in high spirits, lifting her off her feet and spinning her giddily around as sunlight spilled through the open front door and warmed the hard dirt floor. She laughed with him and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, the exquisite ache of his embrace like unshed tears at the base of her throat. When the savage children came for their lesson, she sent them away. It was only much later, as they lay pressed together beneath the sea-green quilt, that she told him about the baby.
‘But you are not to concern yourself about me,’ she murmured, her lips against his. ‘There is time. And I am quite well again, as you can see.’
‘As I can feel.’ His tongue flickered against hers, his hand sliding down over the curve of her belly. ‘Then let us hope you do not succumb again too quickly. There is a great deal more to be said for the manufacture of children than there is for the raising of them.’
T he next time she went longer. The sickness persisted and the exhaustion. Her breasts hardened and swelled, and her back ached. At night the child moved like a fish inside her, slipping between her nerve-strings as though through weed and setting the waters inside her to vibrating. She placed her hands upon her belly and it rippled, soft ridges moving in waves across the tautening flesh. A darkening line ran from her belly button into the hair between her thighs, dividing her in two.
It was winter again
Elisabeth was silent.
‘Do you know Rabelais’ book, The Abbey of Thélème ?’ Rochon asked softly. ‘His order of Thelemites had only one rule: do what thou wilt. A joke, of course, but at the same time, absolutely serious. Rabelais was convinced that the free man possessed a natural instinct for virtue and aversion to vice. It was when he was subjected to the unnatural enslavement of statutes and laws that he was turned aside from that noble disposition, for it is in man’s nature to desire those things that are denied him.’
‘Is that why you seek a mission? Because you are denied one?’
‘Not precisely my point. But yes, that is possible.’
‘And when you have one, what then?’
Rochon smiled.
‘Then I suppose I shall be free most virtuously to regret it.’
‘And the savage children?’
‘They will not be abandoned. I have found my successor.’
‘La Vente? Poor children.’
‘You.’
‘Me? But–’
‘Waiting is not enough occupation for any of us.’
After that, in the late afternoon three days each week, Elisabeth taught the children of the savages the rudiments of the French language. She conducted the lessons in the cabin on the rue d’Iberville, the infants squatting in two obedient rows on either side of the room, girls to the left and boys to the right. She did not ask their names, but she learned their faces, the way one boy rubbed his ear against his shoulder when he was thinking, the resolve of the smallest of the girls to speak a little sooner and louder than the rest. She brought household items from the kitchen hut and borrowed others from her neighbours, pointing at each one and saying the word for it in French. They were eager pupils, several of them quick. They learned to say yes, no, thank you, forgive me. They learned to count. At night sometimes she dreamed of them, their faces turned upward like two rows of cabbages. When they chorused the words after her, their voices were high and clear.
Sometimes, after the lesson, she gave them apple cider to drink and pieces of cornbread. It pleased her to see the eagerness of their appetites, the glances and whispers that darted between them when they thought she was not looking, but she was glad when they were gone. Then she went out onto the stoop, watching the evening shadows settle in the high trees, so that in the house the silence might unfurl undisturbed, stretching its limbs like a lover across the hard dirt floor, ready for his return.
He came back when the ground was dry and Elisabeth as good as healed. He was in high spirits, lifting her off her feet and spinning her giddily around as sunlight spilled through the open front door and warmed the hard dirt floor. She laughed with him and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, the exquisite ache of his embrace like unshed tears at the base of her throat. When the savage children came for their lesson, she sent them away. It was only much later, as they lay pressed together beneath the sea-green quilt, that she told him about the baby.
‘But you are not to concern yourself about me,’ she murmured, her lips against his. ‘There is time. And I am quite well again, as you can see.’
‘As I can feel.’ His tongue flickered against hers, his hand sliding down over the curve of her belly. ‘Then let us hope you do not succumb again too quickly. There is a great deal more to be said for the manufacture of children than there is for the raising of them.’
T he next time she went longer. The sickness persisted and the exhaustion. Her breasts hardened and swelled, and her back ached. At night the child moved like a fish inside her, slipping between her nerve-strings as though through weed and setting the waters inside her to vibrating. She placed her hands upon her belly and it rippled, soft ridges moving in waves across the tautening flesh. A darkening line ran from her belly button into the hair between her thighs, dividing her in two.
It was winter again
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