The American Fiancee

by Eric Dupont

  The troupe of seminarists gave the actor who had triumphed as Toinette in Le Malade imaginaire the role of Joan of Arc in The Maid of Orleans. The irony being, Father Cousineau remarked, that the Brothers of the Holy Cross, who had written the play, had included one rather lengthy scene depicting the trial of Joan of Arc, particularly her indictment, in which she was reproached, among many other offences, for wearing men’s clothing. So it was that when the young seminarist played this role dressed up as a woman, a sigh or gasp always went up from the audience, as a train of thought arrived in the station. But in The Maid of Orleans, Father Cousineau had stolen the show from the cross-dressing seminarist thanks to his magnificent costume and the deep voice he had used to reply to Joan of Arc when she was crowned.

  “Your Majesty, we absolutely must take Paris. Our victory is unimaginable without Paris.”

  “Joan, above all else we must be careful,” Charles VII had replied, under the approving gaze of the audience, Cousineau’s presence so eclipsing poor Levasseur that people almost began to hope he would be burned as quickly as possible.

  And so Father Cousineau belonged to those who you could say had missed their vocation in life, even though his Sunday mass attracted four to five hundred souls, rain or shine. To a liturgy as regular as clockwork and in which there was on the face of it no place for creativity or improvisation, the ingenious Father Cousineau always found a way to introduce a dash of theatricality to the proceedings, as though the popes had not already personally seen to it that Catholic mass remained the best show in town. On the feast day of St. John the Baptist, for instance, Father Cousineau made sure that the altar boys were all very young, with curly blond hair. He had arranged it so that the Sisters of the Child Jesus, newly arrived in Fraserville, joined a very active choir that parishioners would turn out to hear at the drop of a hat.

  And so it was that on Sunday, November 17, 1918, a very special mass came to be sung at the church of Saint-François-Xavier. Father Cousineau, always with a keen eye for staging and an ear for music, had demanded that each parishioner be at the mass, adding that absentees had better be on their deathbeds. They were going to give glory to God, ask forgiveness for their sins, and praise the Virgin Mary for having brought an end to an interminable war, a senseless, horrifying war, and no grounds would be deemed acceptable for failing to attend the ceremony. Without a word of explanation to the parishioners, Father Cousineau asked the couples he had personally married during the war to fill the first pews, thereby upsetting an established order determined by how much the faithful had contributed to the parish finances. He had also tasked the choirmaster with having the choir sing a Te Deum, a hymn sung on various occasions, notably at the end of a smallpox epidemic or whenever a siege of a city had been lifted, an heir to the throne had been born, spring had arrived after a particularly deadly winter, a shipwrecked crew had been saved, a harvest of oats had been especially bountiful, or an end had come to a war that no one had wanted and that had brought nothing but death, sadness, and pestilence down upon humanity. Father Cousineau’s sermon was clear: “My fellow Canadiens! Go forth and have children to replace those the war has taken from us!”

  And he addressed his message to the first rows of the congregation in particular, for the most part sprightly and willing young men married to very young women deprived of all means of contraception.

  The Te Deum was magnificent. Papa Louis chanted in Latin to impress his children:

  “Te æternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur!” he sang in a tuneful tenor. “What does it mean?” chorused the children, who belonged to a time where people still wanted these mysterious phrases translated.

  It means, “All the earth doth worship thee, the father everlasting!” Papa Louis replied, proud to prove that not only was he able to lift a horse clean off the ground but he could translate from the Latin, too.

  In a way, the parishioners, and especially those whom Father Cousineau addressed on that first Sunday following the armistice, were singing for their priest a silent hymn full of thanks to a man who, through some sleight of hand, falsification, and manipulation had managed to unite before God and man an unrivaled number of couples, a good many of whom had not yet reached adulthood. With their chubby, smiling faces, not the slightest grey hair among them, their hands still plump, sometimes already expecting, unsuspecting though they were, they wanted nothing more than for the interminable mass to end so they could get on with the task Father Cousineau had set them in the intimacy of their wooden homes. Everyone would remember the impeccable organization behind that armistice mass, the emotion that had washed over the congregation, and Father Cousineau’s touching affection for young people, family, and music. Could there possibly be, east of Quebec City, a parish priest more pleasant, more determined, more kindly? They had their doubts. At any rate, in the hearts of Louis-Benjamin and the American, Father Cousineau was truly a savior, a guardian, an indispensable guide.

  But Cousineau still had an idea or two to ensure his masses would live long in the memory of his congregation, masses as unforgettable as opening night at the theater. It goes without saying that he considered Louis-Benjamin and the American something of a creation of his own making. From one Sunday to the next, he could see how the pretty American was thriving, developing more curves, and illuminating with her hopeful face the gazes of the other parishioners. With her bulging belly, rosy cheeks, and glowing complexion, the American exuded maternity and joy. According to the priest’s calculations, she would bring her child into the world after New Year’s Day, which gave him cause to consider realizing a dream he had cherished for years: a live nativity scene at midnight mass. Never had he dared bring up this desire with any of Fraserville’s young couples, fearing they would refuse outright or misinterpret his intentions. But he was so close to the American, and young Louis-Benjamin was, out of all his flock, the closest thing to the son he would never have. And so in September he revealed his plans to them. It wouldn’t be a big deal for Louis-Benjamin and his young wife: between the ox and the little donkey they would come in from the sacristy and walk calmly toward the altar. They would, of course, be appropriately attired, faithfully harkening back to the days of the nativity.

  “With real lambs, I promise!” Cousineau had assured them.

  He had already spoken to a farmer on Témiscouata Road, who had agreed to supply two of them. They would be led by young shepherds, the same who had played the role of Saint John the Baptist.

  “There will be singing, and music, Bach, Balbastre . . . Fraserville will still be talking about this mass in one hundred years’ time!”

  In the Lamontagne household, the thought had brought a smile to the little girls’ faces, already imagining their big brother as Joseph and his wife as the Virgin Mary. Old Ma Madeleine immediately expressed her clear disapproval: the young woman would likely not be able to live up to the priest’s ambitions. And it would cause the whole parish to turn its attentions to the pair when all eyes had already been on them for months. At any rate, if the project were to go ahead, it would do so without her consent.

  “People are talking. Saying the girl was put in the family way by my Louis-Benjamin before the wedding.”

  What Old Ma Madeleine did not know, but what anyone in the parish could have told her, was that that was the most harmless rumor doing the rounds about Madeleine the American. The town gossips had come up with whole new chapters for the tall tales surrounding her origins and the real reasons why she had turned up in Fraserville.

  Nobody had officially bought the story of the family decimated by Spanish flu. For scandalmongers, the idea that Madeleine the American had been a victim of circumstance was much too bland. It didn’t fit with the story they had already scripted for her and so they came up with two explanations for her pregnancy. The first had it that the child had been conceived out of wedlock, the very night the American first set foot in the Lamontagne home. The sorry reputation the women of America held in Canadian eyes only added fu
el to the fire. An American! Just imagine! The young lad had surely been seduced from the first minute by the red-haired devil. Two reliable witnesses had even seen them kissing on the lips, right under the noses of Old Ma Madeleine, Father Cousineau, and Louis-Benjamin’s little sisters, whose salvation had surely now been compromised by such debauchery. They would have to be watched carefully. But that was far and away the least hurtful of the tall tales circulating along Rue Lafontaine.

  There was much worse.

  Among the many stories Old Ma Madeleine had never heard about her daughter-in-law was the vile rumor that she had come to Fraserville already carrying the child whose paternity was now being ascribed to Louis-Benjamin. It goes without saying that this version nicely complemented rumors that the American had led a loose life before repenting and winding up in Fraserville. The rest was said to have been a ruse on her part: she seduced Louis-Benjamin, they said, so that he would raise the child whose real father would never be known. At any rate, Old Ma Madeleine was against the idea of a living nativity and did not mince her words. Louis-Benjamin’s father, for his part, was completely indifferent to the whole affair. Only the little Lamontagne girls seemed keen on Father Cousineau’s project. Perhaps they would be allowed to take part themselves?

  “The angels are boys,” Old Ma Madeleine snapped, nipping in the bud her daughters’ dreams of the theater.

  Louis-Benjamin’s young brother Napoleon wanted to know if they needed a shepherd, making it clear to the priest that any support for his project would come from the youngsters. Louis-Benjamin and the American had laughed long and hard at the priest’s plan and were largely in agreement, provided they had very few lines to deliver. The priest had reassured them immediately: they would have very little to say; the whole thing would be narrated by a nun from the Sisters of the Child Jesus, who would read the story of the nativity from the gospels. This eased the American’s mind in particular. Her hesitant French caused her to blush every time she had to speak in public.

  The priest remarked that the young woman was wearing a very simple gold cross on her ample bosom. He had not noticed it when she arrived in the spring. Perhaps it had been hidden by layer upon layer of clothing. But now he could see it shining in the light. The cross was about an inch long and made from real gold. Seeing the priest staring at the piece of jewelry, the girl tried to explain its provenance in French peppered with English. Louis-Benjamin had given it to her for her birthday, on June 24, the feast of St. John the Baptist. She unfastened the gold chain and handed it to the priest, saying, “Could you please bless my cross, Father Cousineau?” The priest fingered the pendant. There was an inscription on the back, its owner’s initials in cursive script: ML. The priest, well used to being asked to bless entire farms, new homes, telephones, and even locomotives, didn’t think twice about blessing the piece of jewelry, especially since he felt that by performing this simple task for the naive little soul, he would surely improve the odds of her taking part in his living nativity. He blessed the small cross and returned it to its owner, pink with gratitude. How much must it have cost? Much more than Louis-Benjamin was earning at Old Michaud’s, that was for sure. But Louis-Benjamin had not let material considerations dampen his ardor for his Madeleine. The cross was brilliant, scintillating proof of it. The priest told the American to be very careful, to never go out in the evening wearing her cross too ostentatiously, and to take good care of it.

  “I will, Father Cousineau.”

  Much to Old Ma Madeleine’s chagrin, the deal was sealed quickly. They agreed on a dress rehearsal in December, and then the meal was served, to Father Cousineau’s great delight. At last he would have the midnight mass he had always dreamed of.

  Father Cousineau thought about his living nativity every day, had costumes made, sat down with the nun to decide on which text to read, did everything in the church to make sure the scene would have every bit the impact he hoped for, even for those who would be sitting at the back or standing. The American was now enormous. She dragged herself with more and more difficulty from one chore to the next. Sometimes she would be caught sleeping on a stool, her head leaning against the kitchen wall, as the soup she had begun to heat up boiled over. On days like those, Old Ma Madeleine would excuse her from all strenuous tasks and order her to remain seated or lying down, to keep away from the stove at any rate, a miserable sentence for a woman used to cooking morning, noon, and night.

  With December came Advent, celestial organs, and red cheeks. The Lamontagne family put the building of Louis-Benjamin’s new home on hold. The shell and structure were ready, and the final touches would come in the spring. Even the mountains of Charlevoix, which could be seen gathering snow on the other side of the St. Lawrence, seemed to agree with how things were in Fraserville. In the afternoon, the setting sun gave a rosy hue to the snow and the locals before disappearing. No country was more beautiful.

  Then came Christmas.

  On December 22, the fourth Sunday of Advent, Father Cousineau again stood up the Sisters of the Child Jesus—the nuns having set up home in the church of Saint-François-Xavier’s sacristy while waiting for their first convent in Fraserville to be built—to dine with the Lamontagne family. The Lamontagnes now considered the man of the cloth one of their own. By this stage of her pregnancy, the American was praying every day to be delivered from the burden she carried, a burden that kicked and wriggled around inside her. She sometimes wondered if the child, so often did it keep her awake at night, was not trying to warn her of some imminent danger. She could feel some sort of battle being waged inside her, she was sure of it. Forced to rest, she was served food by Old Ma Madeleine. It was much less tasty than her own, but had the advantage of being prepared for her. As the priest chewed away on a slice of pork, he politely reminded the married couple he was expecting them on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth for the nativity scene dress rehearsal.

  On the morning of December 24, the American was rudely awakened by her child, who was kicking with such frenzy that Louis-Benjamin could see the baby’s foot bulging through his wife’s skin with his own eyes; he could even count five tiny toes. The couple laughed off the incident, Old Ma Madeleine having explained that all her children, particularly the boys, had elbowed and kicked with varying degrees of violence. Painful though it might have been, it was nothing to get worked up over. Around two in the afternoon, as the sun’s angled rays were already starting to turn the snow-covered shores of the St. Lawrence pink, a telegram arrived from Quebec City, warning of most inclement weather for the following day. But the telegraph operator on duty that December 24 had fallen ill and was unable to record the message that might have helped avoid the worst.

  The die had been cast by a much higher authority.

  In the church, the couple found the parish priest in hysterics, raising his voice in front of the Madonna to berate a visibly dismayed workman. The priest had had a beautiful wooden set made for the nativity scene. Just to the right of the altar stood a miniature stable, complete with a little roof of coarsely planed boards—a nod to the cold, destitution, and poverty the Savior had been born into. A tiny cradle made of branches and filled with straw had been placed beneath this approximately six-foot-high structure. And above the stable there shone a huge star, its wooden frame some five feet across covered by a white sheet. The object fascinated the American for an instant, as she watched the custodian open one of the sides fastened by two tiny metal hinges to hang an oil lamp inside. Perched on a wooden stepladder, the man struck a match and drew it closer to the wick. Once the lamp had been lit, he closed the side of the star, now shining brightly and casting out its yellow light. Madeleine the American had never seen the like of it.

  “Beautiful!” she exclaimed, as the priest puffed up with pride.

  To read the text of the nativity according to Saint Luke, the priest had chosen a nun whose sweet and gentle voice was sure to charm the faithful, but she had been confined to her bed by an unexplained illness. During the prev
ious night, she had suffered from frightful dreams, at the end of which she had awoken as white as a sheet, her face haggard, in a sweat, and without even taking a bite to eat she had begged her Mother Superior to intercede with the priest on her behalf to relieve her of performing the reading for the nativity scene. She had described her nightmare: a terrifying scene where, standing on the terrace of a stone fortress on the shores of the Tiber River in Rome, she watched, powerless, as a man was executed, his hands bound behind him. In the background stood St. Peter’s Basilica, which she recognized from pictures she had seen. A drum rolled; soldiers took aim with their rifles. Scarlet blood against a white shirt. A body collapsing. Cries ringing out in the sacristy. A fall from a great height.