Free Kamouraska by Anne Hébert

their traps! . . . Oh, yes, Madame is saved, and so am I! We’re free! Free! Both of us, free!”
    She laughs until she’s out of breath. Lets herself collapse in a heap on the ground. Her shoulders, heaving, as if she were crying. I kneel down beside her on the towpath grass, worn thin.
    â€œRemember, Aurélie. You’re fifteen, aren’t you?”
    She looks up at me with that little Mongol face of hers, still laughing. Two narrow slits for eyes. Trying to hold back something burning, something poisonous in her look.
    â€œBack then they called you ‘Mademoiselle,’ if you please! ‘Mademoiselle’! . . .”
    Another burst of laughter. She fingers my clothes. Gingerly, as if they were made of fire or snow.
    â€œWhat nice things you wear! So fancy! But you don’t know a thing about boys, I’ll bet.”
    I purse my lips, very prim and proper. Turn aside, give the pleats in my skirt a few smug little pats.
    â€œOh, this is nothing. You should see my party dress. Low neck, all made of silk . . . For the governor’s ball.”
    The word “governor” makes her more daring. She feels my skirt with both her hands.
    â€œIt’s so soft and pretty . . . Anyway, who cares about the governor! . . . I live with my uncle!”
    â€œSome people say he’s not your uncle either!”
    Again she screws up her eyes. All at once, a little viper darts out from between her lids and disappears.
    â€œWho cares what they say! He takes good care of me, and I hardly have to work at all. And besides, I have a nice lace collar to wear to mass on Sundays.”
    â€œPeople say you’re a witch. You know that, Aurélie?”
    Suddenly very calm, very poised, Aurélie shrugs her shoulders. She takes the pipe hanging by a ribbon from her belt. Taps it empty against her bare heel. Reaches into her pocket for a pouch . . .
    Now she’s filling the pipe. Holding a match to it. Making little sucking noises with that big mouth of hers. Like a baby, nursing. On her pallid face, a look of absolute contentment. She’s talking in a cloud of smoke. Her voice, distant. Indifferent.
    â€œOh, there’s one thing I can tell, all right. I always know if babies are going to live or die. But that’s easy. Right when they’re born, as soon as the midwife washes them clean, I give them a lick from head to toe. And if they taste real salty, that means they’re going to die. I’ve never been wrong. Not even once. Mothers are always sending for me, just so I can tell them . . .”
    â€œAnd what about boys, Aurélie? Tell me about boys.”
    I seem to be shouting now. Cupping my hands and shouting to her. She’s getting away from me. All of a sudden I’m out of the blinding sunlight, into a kind of shadow. Humid, enveloping. One single thought boring its way into my head. Go home, I have to go home. If not, they’ll never let me go to the governor’s ball. If my aunts ever hear I’ve been talking to Aurélie, they’ll be sure to punish me. And the thought bores deeper, embeds itself sharp and clear. And as it does, I find that I’m leaving Aurélie behind. Moving with dizzying speed, but without so much as taking a step. It’s as if I’m skimming over the river, standing still on a kind of raft. The river, smooth and quiet. No resistance from the water. No sound of waves or oars. I’m going to the governor’s ball. I have to go to the governor’s ball. Good-bye, Aurélie. If I ever see you again, I’ll make believe we’re strangers. I’m sorry I know you, sorry we met . . . My mother promised me a string of pearls to wear to the governor’s ball. I’d give my soul for a string of pearls . . . And what about boys, Aurélie? What about . . .
    Her profile, sharp, the color of ivory. Her jutting jaw. Her pipe. A cloud of smoke. Then nothing. Aurélie has disappeared.
    The ball is