Forty years ago, I began a novel set in Quèbéc circa 1860. What

began as an historical novel transformed into what I would soon describe

as an allegorical novel of the French-Canadian separatist movement. The

issue was a hot topic. The FLQ was active. Canada was close enough for

me to travel for research.

Forty years later, the world has caught up to my novel. The following

is an excerpt. A conversation between the haves and the have-nots.

Jean Paul Duffet, is a successful young attorney in Quèbéc who

began life on a farm in the shadows of his step-aunt’s wealth. His father’s

step-sister, Helen MacMasters.

Robert, grew up in penury, in Lowertown, Ville-bas. Robert’s often-

absent father is a Sans-Coulotte.

Jean Paul escaped poverty through the beneficence of his Uncle

Antoine. Robert never did.

The difficulty in marketing my manuscript is revealed in the two

responses from two Canadian publishers.

“You have captured the spirit of the French-Canadians at that point in

history and every point in history up to the present.”

“The French-Canadian culture is filled with so many subtle nuances

that it is impossible for an outsider to comprehend.”

100% Spot on v. No clue.

In an effort to find a Canadian publisher to turn my manuscript into a

proper book, I am turning to the internet. The conversation, the excerpt

follows. Thank you all. Sincerely, Slim.

It was Roulét who came out to take the reins as Jean Paul and

Robert climbed down and went inside.

Robert followed Jean Paul up the stairs, along the carpeted hall,

and to the doorway to his private quarters. Jean went in first to light a

lamp. Robert waited. As he stood by the door he saw the shadow he

cast across the room from the lamp in the hall. He surveyed the room

and saw the artifacts of affluence veiled by the darkness: the green

leather arm chair and ottoman by the fireplace; the dark wood table

beside it; the tobacco jar, pipes, afghan, and law journals on the table;

these seemed to exist apart from Jean Paul. He sometimes dreamed

about the green leather chair, covered with a blanket, smoking a pipe,

reading the law, staring at him over the tops of its spectacles. The lights

went up and Robert’s shadow vanished from the room.

“Come in. Relax.” Jean placed another piece of wood across the

grate and poked at the smoldering logs, and soon the room was bathed

in a warm, orange glow. “I’ll pour some brandy.”

Robert Duval hung his coat and scarf on a peg by the door and

walked slowly over to the fire and collapsed onto the divan directly in

front of it. Jean rattled a few bottles, then rejoined his friend bringing

with him a crystal decanter and two glasses.

“Here.” Jean extended a brandy to his friend. He put the bottle on

the table then sat down.

“Salu.” Robert took a deep swallow. “This is nice.”

Jean laughed. Robert looked at him.

“It’s just that you always say that.”

“I meant the divan. New?”

Jean nodded.

Robert caressed the cushions with the tips of his fingers, then ran

them over the carved wooden arm. His fingernails clicked past each

groove of the filigree in the dark wood.

“Would you prefer to sit here?”

“This is fine. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Robert drained his glass. Jean Paul replenished it.

Jean began stuffing tobacco into the thick bowl of a large

Meerschaum pipe; he reached for a sliver of cedar to light it. Robert

shifted on the divan and looked back at the rest of the room.

The solid, bulky table still sat in the middle of the long room. It

dominated the room with its size, its bulk, its presence. It was

surrounded by four chairs that swiveled. Their presence seemed only to

reinforce the presence of the large table; a table sturdy enough to

support the weight of food enough for a large feast.

Behind the divan, the silver tea set still sat on the parson’s table.

The two large windows were white with frost. They contrasted the dark

wood surrounding them. Between them a bookcase. And there was

Jean Paul. Jean Paul Duffet. He sat puffing his pipe, staring into the

fire, deep in thought.

“Wine?”

“No. Thank you.”

“With dinner?”

“Oh. Yes. Please.”

Both men sat, staring into the fire, contemplating what each knew

very well to be the chasm between them. So deep in thought, they sat

undisturbed by the proceedings: Madame Genêt announced twice that

dinner was on the table.

Robert and Jean Paul sat down to eat.

“If he says grace, Robert thought, I will bow my head, but I will not

pray.

After dinner, the two men were again in front of the fire.

Throughout dinner, Robert could think of nothing but whether or not

Jean Paul noticed. With every mouthful of food, Robert felt his throat

close. He choked down each piece of meat, each piece of bread; the

wine burned in his throat as he swallowed and in his stomach as he

continued to eat. He mouth filled with saliva as he blinked back his tears

and swallowed hard. Now, his hand trembled as he lifted his glass to

drink.

“I expect an explanation.”

Robert sat mute. Explain what? He thought. Why am I upset?

Why have I come to see you? Robert Shrugged.

Jean leaned forward, took two cigars from the humidor, and

handed one to Robert; Robert bit the end from his cigar and spit it into

the fire, then lit the cigar in the flame of the candle on the table behind

them. He puffed. A cloud of smoke obscured his face. Jean watched.

Then Jean leaned back and readied his cigar. He slit the end, set a

sliver of cedar-wood on fire and lit his cigar. He held the flame over the

tip of his cigar and a flame rose. With his cigar lit, he sipped gently.

Jean Paul thought about Robert’s father, Monsieur Duval, and

what Robert must be thinking, even perhaps at this moment, about a

man who leaves his wife and child for months at a time to the mercy of

God knows what; a man who, Madame Duval tells him, sends her

money for them to live, but a creature she describes as a man who lives

in cellars with rats, who stalks the streets at night looking to do dirt.

“I choke on the food I buy with his money wondering if it means

someone is lying dead in a gutter,” she’d told him and showed him the

money.

Jean took the money from her and threw it into the river.

Madame Duval was numbed by the sight.

“Now how will we eat?”

Jean took his own money and pressed it into her hand.

She looked at it. Twice what her husband had sent her. She

looked up at Jean Paul.

“Tell my son the food I serve him is bought with your money and I

swear I will kill you.”

Jean froze. Then nodded.

Madame Duval smiled, leaned up, and kissed his cheek.

Jean’s hand went to his face. The touch of it startled him. He

looked at his friend sitting on the divan, smoking.

“She’s scrubbing floors again.”

“She’s doing what?”

Robert buried his forehead into the heel of his hand. Smoke

curled up around his head.

Jean looked at the smoke and saw an evil spectre dance. He saw

Robert’s hand move and the spectre disappear.

“She’s home, on her hands and knees, scrubbing clothes. That’s

why she didn’t want you in the parlour.”

Jean felt a chill up his spine. He saw Robert looking at him. His

face clenched like a fist. Then, it went soft and tears streamed down his

cheek—he looked back into the fire. He closed his eyes. He took a

deep breath. He gulped his brandy. Jean heard him swallow.

“I hate it.” Robert pounded the arm of the couch as he came alive

again. And again he rested his head against the heel of his hand. “I see

her carrying heavy baskets filled with dirty clothes up the stairs. She

tells me she’s helping old ladies with crippled fingers. I know different.

It hate it.”

Robert pitched forward as if about to leap from the sofa. Only there

was no safe place to leap to.

“I’m sorry, Jean. I knows she’s done laundry before. But it was

different then. It was a job. She did it for people up here in Haute-ville.

For the rich. Like you. Now, it’s not even for a wage. And it’s for people

on the same street. In the same building. She washes clothes for poor

people. For pennies, for food, for crumbs. She…Bread so stale I

couldn’t choke it down if it wasn’t damp with her sweat. Her sweat. And

I choke on it because it’s wet with her sweat and not my own.”

Jean felt a knot in his gut. He thought of the money he’d pressed

into Madame’s fist. He felt humiliated. And he watched silently as tears

streamed down his friend’s face.

“You don’t see it when she kneels by the tub scraping her little

fingers on the washboard. When she sits by the table on a rainy day

between dripping laundry hanging from the line strung across the

kitchen. The Sun never shines for her, Jean.

“You weren’t supposed to know about it. And never tell her I told

you. My mother, my own mother, would never forgive me if she found

out you knew. And that I was the one who told you. And don’t say

you’re sorry. It’s my fault. I should be working to help my father support

her. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“It isn’t your fault. A lot of people aren’t’ working. There isn’t any

work. But there will be. And soon.”

Jean remembered the damp handkerchief he’d gripped tightly,

jealous of its fibres, tasting her sweat as he’d kissed her cheek.

“Still, I should do something. I do eat there.”

“You can’t stop eating.”

“Don’t defend me.”

“I’m not. But self-pity is disgusting. And useless. Warm weather

is coming. You will find work.

For a while, the two men are silent. Jean had offered Robert jobs

before. Robert refused. Jean never pressed him. Never pressed him

because he coveted the blame for Madame Duval’s meagre existence;

coveted the blame to justify all he wanted to do for her. He craved the

privilege of serving her and serving her well, and dared not share it with

any man—not even her son.

Jean wanted to do for her what he could not do for his own

mother. Or what he believed he would be doing for his own mother if she

were alive.

Instead, when she was alive, he was across the fields at Aunt

Helen’s mansion. Each night throughout the frigid winters, he carried

the wood for the fire that would warm her and his cousin, Annette, as his

Aunt Helen read to them. He remembered his cousin Annette calling

him ma coussin as his Aunt read them stories, read them in English.

Still, for him it was deemed a privilege. A privilege she granted him to

help him learn English—unlike his cousin Annette who had tutors to

teach her French. However, ungrateful as Aunt Helen declared him to

be, the stories she’d read, in a language he could scarcely understand,

while he lay on the floor between the sofa and a warm fire, only put him

to sleep; but it was a privilege nonetheless. And one of the many which

had obligated him. And obligates him still.

Meanwhile, his mother, in exchange for the food she ate, would

pitch in and help with what had to be done. A family member, a guest, a

servant. His father, exhausted from working the farm since before

sunrise, ate his meals in the kitchen before dinner was served, then

went to sleep. Coussin Jean Pauvre.

Robert gulped his brandy again as Jean watched him, examined

him: his nails were bitten and dirty; his beard knotted and matted; his

oily hair heavy with the stench of cheap tobacco. Madame Duval’s son,

he thought. His thoughts were interrupted when Robert began to speak.

“I went into one of her drawers the other day. I never did before.

She wanted me to get something. Anyway, I saw it. All of it.” Robert let

out a heavy sigh. His eyes were damp again. Now swollen. He looked

at Jean Paul. “The muff you gave her was in there.”

Jean did not know why, but he shrugged. He remembered giving

it to her. It was at the beginning of winter. He’d felt the soft fur. He

bought it. Jean remembered the flash in her eyes when she the brightly

decorated box. Only the box. Madame beamed, when she caressed the

muff.

He remembered how she’d caressed it, how she’d clutched him

and pressed her cheek to his.

“It was with her shawls—the ones you bought her; with the Rosary

beads and the Crucifix, and the handkerchiefs and the combs and the

music box and the books and the—.”

Jean felt the lump rising in his throat. That’s too much, he thought.

But too much is not enough. And he stared into the distant past at the

riches lavished on his cousin each Christmas, and again tasted the bitter

tears of his abject poverty. Bitter not for his meagre, worthless life in the

shadows of her wealth, but for the meagre worthless gifts that he’d been

able to give to her. And to Aunt Helen. And he could almost feel, almost

taste how Robert felt, but he had been blinded not by the glitter of the

gifts, but by the joy the others radiated by giving to Annette. He coveted

that bit of happiness. He’d never dreamed of being rich, himself, only of

being able to bestow riches upon his cousin: fur trimmed coats and

brightly colored toys, pure white porcelain dolls with brightly painted

faces, games and puzzles and handmade quilts. He envied those who

brought her gifts, but never thought his envy a sin so never prayed for

forgiveness.

Instead, he’d sat in shame and in the shadows. And Annette

always made a great fuss over his worthless gifts. More so than over

the great ones. And felt a greater shame. His gifts so worthless they

begged for pity. And pity they received. But Annette never thanked him.

Unless the privilege of kissing her hand as she extended it—‘You may

kiss my hand’—defined an expression of gratitude. Jean kissed her

hand and thanked her. He thanked her for every gift he gave her, every

gift she accepted, every gift she praised in front of the others present. It

was a privilege indeed. The privilege of admittance, but not of

acceptance. And not without its price.

Madame Duval, he thought, a woman so different now from the

woman he remembered as he was growing up. A woman, a mother,

nearly a child herself. He remembered her scolding him for arriving late

for Mass, or late when he and Robert returned. He remembered warm,

fruit-filled pastry for breakfast. He remembered how Monsieur was there

less and less, or drinking, or drunk. He remembered how it seemed to

him, after a while, that Madame was not married, had never been

married. Jean saw her still as the child she herself might feel herself to

be with each present she received. Jean wondered if she took delight in

them because she’d never received them as a child, or if she had; if she

delighted in them because she’d given them or if she’d received them.

He felt privileged to serve Madame Duval. In his heart he idolised her,

valourised her, and—by serving her—rose in his own mind to a position

worthy enough to serve her just as those whom he’d remembered from

his childhood as being worthy enough to bestow grand presents upon

his cousin Annette.

Jean Paul looked at Robert. Robert was looking down at a loose

thread that once held a button.

“I sometimes wonder about my father. How he feels. He tries. I

know.

“I know you think my mother is pretty. If you do then so do others.

It must be hard for a man to have a pretty wife and not be able to do

right by her. But maybe she didn’t do right by him. Maybe she should

be with him. Maybe we both should. Maybe not. But maybe she

doesn’t want to leave here. And it isn’t easy with you. You’re like one of

the family but you’re not. I suppose my mother feels bad for you. Not

having a mother.” Robert pulled at the thread.

“And I’m no better. She lets you fawn on her, I guess, because

you can give her what I can’t as a son. Someone to be proud of. And

what my father can’t as a husband.” He looked at Jean Paul. “Food to

eat. Knowing that more food is coming.”

Jean Paul felt the sting of Robert’s words; words that pierced, then

dripped with bitterness.

“Knowing that there is going to be another meal?”

Robert Shrugged. “Can I know what’s in her heart? If she takes

anything from you at all it can only be to spare me guilt. But not shame.”

Jean Paul watched as Robert Duval stated into the flames. His

coal black eyes glistening like those of an evil demon sent to sow the

seeds of doubt and discontent. To taunt him. And Jean was too

stunned to resist and too confused to pray.

“I suppose she enjoys being treated special. You do that. And

you are special to her in some way. I can’t say it isn’t true.”

“Maybe your mother enjoys being appreciated and cared about,

did you ever suppose that? Or that she’d like to pretend that I really am

her son? A son who cares. As son who appreciates her. Who—.”

“Loves her?”

“As a son.”

“Of course.”

“Not to say that you don’t.”

“But don’t show it.”

Jean Paul fell back into his chair. He sipped his brandy, puffed his

cigar, and sat quietly with his eyes closed.

“The devil makes the pot, he but doesn’t make the lid.”

“Why did you drive down to my house tonight? Drive yourself?

Generosity of spirit? Pity? Embarrassed by your riches? You changed

from your costume d’affairs into a tweed suit.

“You smoke English cigars, English tobacco. You worship the

culture des Anglais: wealth, power, everything you can never really

have. And you do worship your Aunt Helen. But you worship her not

out of love like a Catholic but out of fear—like the Anglais. You forget

she is your step-aunt and you are Canadien. You forget yourself, Jean.

Moi? Je me souviens.

“And the way you fawn over my mother, pretending you would

treat your own mother as well. Well, she’s not your mother, Jean. She’s

my mother. Your mother is dead.”

Jean stiffened. The two never discussed the death of Jean’s

mother, tonight, Robert mentioned twice. Robert could see he’d gone

too far. Still, Robert could see that Jean Paul did not cry.

Robert stared up at the ceiling. He continued.

“My mother isn’t the only woman who wants food for her children.

Is your morality now so selective? Can you pick and choose justice?

Charity? Mercy?”

If you were wrong, Jean thought as he sat in silence, I could forget

every word you said. Qu’il s’excuse s’accuse. Jean kept silent.

“Do you really blame me when I tell you this world isn’t just? That

too few have too much and that too many have too little?”

“Then you have read this manifesto,” Jean said, deciding that this

was what everything was leading up to.

Robert did not respond.

“Do you believe in it?”

“If you were me, and still felt about my mother the way you do,

would you believe in it? Would you feel the same?”

“I didn’t think you still had those radical ideas in your head. I

thought you saw the stupidity of it. If not from my talking to you, I

thought history would have taught you a lesson.”

“I didn’t learn history.”

“When everyone owns everything, no own owns anything. And

you say you want to provide for your mother. You don’t want to work for

your mother. You want to work for a rabble of malcontents.

“You talk about destroying society. You want to seize what isn’t

yours as if the rightful owners will let you. As if others like you won’t take

it away from you after you get it. Take what you didn’t earn. What you

have not right to possess. If I want what’s out there, and I destroy it,

what good will I have done for myself? Or my mother? Or yours?”

“Don’t be a fool. They won’t let you have it. They won’t accept

you. Even with Helen McMasters for a step-aunt. Both sides will spit on

you for what you are. For who you are. Vendu!”

“And what would you do differently? Not everyone thinks the way

you do. Or the way the malcontents do.”

“But many of us do. And more all the time. The French, the

workers, the poor. Mostly all the same. Même-chose.”

“And the Anglais? They will let you carry out this plan?”

“We can’t live under the same roof with them and be free.”

“Did you forget the lessons of the Revolution? Bastille Day? The

Committee for Public Safety? The collective you will have as precious

little after the revolution as the singular you has now. But you, in

particular, are better off now.”

“I don’t care just about me.”

“Well, I’m concerned about you. And about your mother. That is

part of my responsibility. Freely chosen. All right; the people may not

be so well off. But this revolution. Is it any way for a Christian to

behave. You have that to consider. Or are you now and atheist? The

Bible says—.”

“The Bible is the handbook of self-denial.”

“And what is this manifesto you and your friends are circulating?”

“Christ said it all. It’s the same thing.”

“Then this manifesto of yours is the handbook of self-denial.”

Robert did not answer.

“You’re not talking about what Christ said. You’re talking about

what Marx said. The two are not the same.”

“Marx is saying what Christ said.”

“Christ said give. Marx says take. There is a difference.”

Tempers left the two men drained. Speechless. Limp in their

chairs.

Jean, now, felt no guilt. He’d purged himself arguing on behalf of

the Church, the good of society, of Madame Duval. Robert felt

vindicated for having met Tom Priou. He felt justified for what he was

going to do—no matter what it would be. Jean Paul did not understand,

would not understand, could not understand.

“I’ve read what is being circulated among the poor and the

intellectuals, and let me say this: there are dogs, Robert, mongrels who

roam the streets in search of food. And there are the finest breeds kept

in the best of homes. But whether a dog does his business in the gutter

or does it on the most expensive carpet, it is still poop. No less from a

mongrel, no more from a pedigree. And it is an odd man who refuses

good government from the dog’s owner but will cherish the poop from

his dog. Those who feed you these ideas are not better men because

they’ve suffered or because they’ve studied at University. And their

ideas are still poop.”

“You talk about us like we’re dogs, Jean. And a cry for justice is

shit.”

“But they—.”

“They aren’t giving, Jean. Not to me and not to my mother. And

now all you will do is lavish my mother with more trinkets while everyone

around her starves. And you will say it is, what? Divine providence? Is

that what they call it in the Anglais Church? And do you know what?

My mother will believe you. And she will believe that the pain in the

empty stomach of those starving around her is punishment for the sins

they’ve committed. I’m sure your Aunt Helen has taught you nothing

less. How many sins have you committed in her eyes, Jean Paul

Duffet?”

Jean sighed. “All right. But your mother still has to eat until your

revolution is a success. Even if only because no one will after.”

“I know you help out, Jean. But it isn’t enough. And you aren’t

one of them. You can become as rich as you can and give it all away

and it would be spit in the sea. And don’t you think I would like to take

care of my own mother? But I can only do what I can. Together, we can

do more. I don’t want charity. I want a job. A decent job. For decent

pay. I want to eat. I want to sit by a warm fire on a cold night and not

have to see my mother scrubbing clothes. Anyone’s clothes. You won’t

see it. She won’t let you. I have to see it. I have to see her scrub and

sew and cook and clean. I have to see he shiver on a cold night. If you

had to live with that, you would feel different. But you don’t. Then she

kisses you and tells you what a fine friend you are for her son. Merd.

You be the one to fight with her to let you carry her laundry, chop her

wood, boil her water; then have her send you away say, ‘you’re no good’

That is what she said to me. ‘You are good for nothing.’ Then I watch

her soak her fingers, fall asleep at the table with a cup of coffee in her

hand, and then I carry her to bed and hear her thank my best friend in

her dreams. I cried myself to sleep. Well, I promise you this: I am never

going to cry again.”

Robert’s anger was not abated by the tears he was sniffing back.

Jean went over to him and put his arm around him—Robert Duval—his

best friend.

“Do what you have to do. But expect me only to understand that

you sincerely believe you have to do it. Not what you are doing.”

Robert nodded.

“Good.”

“I’m sorry, Jean.”

Jean Paul did not reply.

“See me. Tomorrow.”

“I’ll come by for you for Mass. Maybe it will help.”

Robert nodded. They had always attended Mass together as

children. But lately, not so much.

“Come. I will drive you home.”

“No. I’ll walk.”

Jean did not argue. He didn’t think he could bear not going up and

did not think he could bear to see what was up there.

“I’ll let myself out.”

“Salu.”

Jean rang for Madame Genêt. He tried to think about anything

except what he’d heard.

Suddenly, MacCreaigh’s offer had an odd appeal. But the words

of St. Denis echoed. It was time to make peace with Aunt Helen. And

for that, he could teach even Robert Duval about the lack of human

dignity.

Sincerely,

Slim

slimfairview@yahoo.com

slimviews@gmail.com

Copyright © 2016 Bob Asken

All rights reserved