Laurier in Love. Roy MacSkimming

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      “I trust Joseph won’t mind,” he says, his voice low.

      “Of course not. He loves roses.”

      “I don’t mean that. What have you been doing with yourself?”

      “Waiting for you.”

      He smiles secretively. “Speak to me about the children. Tell me about your splendid little man and delightful girl. How are they?”

      They sit facing each other on the uncomfortable blue settee, knees touching. The long sculpted slope above his upper lip is moist from the heat. She fingers a silky loop of his hair curling over the back of his high starched collar.

      “As usual, the children are your first concern,” she says with a mock pout, filled with simultaneous pride and regret. “Well, Gabrielle is over her summer cold. The last thing she told me when I left home was to give you her love.”

      “I hope she’s enjoying her freedom from the convent.”

      “She’s writing poetry again. Your praise encouraged her.”

      Wilfrid smiles boyishly. Glad she can give him pleasure this way, Émilie notices the hair at his temples is a little greyer than she remembers it: dusted with ash.

      “I love to hear Gabrielle is writing verses. It shows what a lively imagination she has. It doesn’t even matter whether they’re good or bad as long as her mind is active.”

      “She’s already eighteen. The marriageable age.”

      “You didn’t marry at eighteen.”

      “True. I was waiting for the right man.” She laughs, a little too loudly.

      Wilfrid remains serious. “But Bielle mustn’t rush. With all her gifts, she must wait until the right man comes along.”

      “The Sisters wanted her to consider a novitiate.”

      “Good Lord!”

      She pats the back of his hand. “Don’t worry, she wasn’t interested. But Bielle received an excellent education at Jésus-Marie, thanks to you. We couldn’t have managed without your help.”

      “Helping her has always given me joy.”

      “I know, my dear, I know. And now that stage in her life is over, and she must think about her future. For the moment she’s fine at home. But if Joseph and I can buy a house in Ottawa, Bielle’s marriage prospects will be greatly improved. She could—”

      “Yes, and I would see much more of her. That would be delightful. Now what about Armand? He’ll be returning to Quebec City before long.”

      “Armand is in good spirits, as always.”

      “Such a clever boy. I must show you his latest letter to me. It’s filled with wonderful invective against the Tories: ‘May you blow up Tupper, may you impale Foster,’ and other provocations. He has a precocious interest in politics for a sixteen-year-old. Oh yes: ‘And to destroy all that cannaille, you won’t need bombs, only your famous eloquence.’”

      “Really!” Émilie shakes her head in amused despair. “I don’t know what to do with that boy.”

      “He must make you very proud. But he does have a tendency toward indolence. I wish you’d get him to exercise more. I know about indolence, I’m inclined that way myself. I’ve always been a lazy dog.”

      “Armand returns to the Séminaire in two weeks. I’m going to miss him.”

      “They’ll be after him to join the priesthood too.”

      “He does have bouts of religious feeling, you know.”

      “What idealistic young man doesn’t? It’s natural at his age.” Wilfrid rises from the settee, begins pacing. “I’m sure you don’t want him to be a priest either, but it worries me there’s even a possibility.” He turns to face her. “The other day I went to hear the famous Father Plessis. He’s a truly great sacred orator, his mind dwells in the loftiest spheres. But since I was sitting in the front row, I could observe his scrofulous shaved head and unclean robes, and it became obvious to me that far from refining a man, the priesthood does the very opposite. I thought of Armand’s beautiful mind, and when I pictured him wearing those robes my heart rebelled. Far better to make him a man of the world who knows how to fight and love and do some good for his country than see him disappear into a life of empty piety.”

      Émilie winces at Wilfrid’s impiety. “I’m sure he’ll be pursuing the law. Like you and Joseph.”

      “At Laval, I suppose?”

      She nods.

      Wilfrid sighs in frustration. “Sometimes Armand’s contempt for the English amuses me, but—”

      “He’s young, Wilfrid. Give him time.”

      “I know—he’s in a rebellious phase. But if he’d cultivate his English, he could take law at McGill and he’d be far better off. The priests at the Séminaire put the most ridiculous notions into his head. They want to erect a little French-only stockade on the banks of the St. Lawrence. Well, it’s 1896, and that’s no longer possible!”

      Émilie sits, waiting for the rest.

      “Armand needs to understand: if he spoke English as fluently as French, it would advance his prospects immeasurably. Not only that, such a passionate French Canadian needs English if he’s going to achieve anything for his people. I do wish you’d exercise your influence over him, my dear. It’s still not too late.”

      Émilie wills herself to stay calm. She has her own anxieties about Armand, her own nagging fears, fragile hopes for his future. “Of course, of course, I agree with you. I’ll do my best to persuade him. But you know as well as I, he’s headstrong. It would do him a world of good to see you again, to hear all this from you in person. You know how he looks up to you.”

      “Sometimes I wonder.”

      “How can you doubt it?”

      In her agitation Émilie abandons the settee for the roses, rearranging them absentmindedly. Wilfrid goes and sits in her place, staring moodily off to the side. This isn’t the way she imagined their reunion. And all because he insists on dwelling on the children. “Please, Wilfrid, let’s discuss something else.”

      He looks up sharply. “What could be more important than the young man?”

      “Well, if you want more influence over him, he needs to see you more often! If Joseph and I were to move our household to Ottawa, Armand could be here every school holiday, every Christmas, all summer long—”

      “Here we are again. Am I to arrange this too?”

      “There’s one thing you could arrange, and it wouldn’t be so difficult.”

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