Free Kamouraska by Anne Hébert Page A

superb. I even dance with the governor himself, feel his breath on my neck. Aunt Adélaïde taps me on the arm with herfan. The chandeliers are splendid. Glints of pink, fluttering along the ceiling. I’d love to dance all night. Not that the boys are very special, all dressed up in their Sunday best. And the girls? So many nasty little snobs, laughing like a pack of cackling geese. There’s really no one besides the governor . . . All red. With his rust-colored whiskers. I think I catch him staring . . . I’ve pulled my neckline down as low as I can . . . The music, my legs. My waist, the music. The music. Going to my head. One . . . Two . . . Ah, the polka. I’m mad about the polka. Supple as a melting candle. Nimble as a flame. I think the governor . . . (Dancing . . . dancing . . . all out of breath . . .) I think he dips me over his arm. Like a wilting flower. Or did I imagine it? And my mother says we have to find me a husband . . . Then the quadrille again. And the boys huff and puff, and snort like little piglets, awkward and clumsy. They cast sly looks my way. Again my mother says we have to find me a husband. Of course, the governor is a man of forty. The interesting age. And all the rest? Just what I said, a lot of little piglets, all dressed up . . . I really must have a talk with you, Aurélie. What do I do? I want to know . . . All about boys . . . About boys . . .

It’s out on a hunt that I first meet Antoine Tassy. The islands. The flat-bottom boat. The sound of the oars in the early morning silence. The drops of water, thick and round, falling from the oars. The narrow, winding inlets, green with weeds. The long hours waiting, hidden in the rushes. The rain, the mud. The shotgun hitting its mark. The smell of the powder. The bird, plummeting like a feathered stone. The dogs lying in wait. Their raucous barking. The taste of the mist against my face.
    â€œGod, but I love this life! Oh, how I love it!”
    My male companions. Their cheeks black with a growth of beard. Their deep voices. Their brash looks at “the huntress,” as they call me. Their bare hands on my shoulder sometimes. And Antoine Tassy’s large, pale blue eyes, dimming with tears as he stares at me. Autumn. The ground carpeted with leaves. Blue smoke from the shotguns
    â€œIt’s not a nice way for a young lady to be spending her time!”
    â€œBut my dear aunties, you simply don’t understand! I love to go hunting, and I’m going to go hunting!”
    My three chaperones in the gamekeeper’s cabin, chilled to the bone. Surrounded by doleful, discreet young wives, all bundledup against the cold, waiting for their husbands. And our black dog, on a leash, suckling her brood and dreaming of game. Whining softly at every shot, her snout between her paws. Her sad-eyed stare, fixed on the cabin door.
    â€œWhat a beautiful shot! I’d say you’re in trim, Mademoiselle d’Aulnières!”
    I smile. Yes, in fine trim, Antoine. You’re on my trail now, stalking me, like a good hunting dog. And I’m getting your scent too, and tracking you down. Squire of Kamouraska. Worthless game. Easy prey, hip-deep in the mud, lurking in wait for goose and duck, finger on the trigger.
    â€œAfter you, Mademoiselle.”
    I fire. Hit my mark. A bundle of feathers, white and gray, spinning against the gray sky, falling into the rushes.
    â€œCongratulations, Mademoiselle.”
    The handsome red setter retrieves the quivering bird, a red star on its breast. Antoine Tassy weighs it in his hand with gluttonous admiration.
    â€œYou know how to aim. That’s rare for a woman.”
    His full face, plump and pink. That lower lip of his, protruding, like a pouting child. That sensual glimmer lighting his cheeks in bright tittle waves. He’d like to lay me down then and there, in the mud and the rushes. And I wouldn’t mind it at all, feeling his body on top of me, struggling