The Victorious Opposition (56 page)

“Why, of course.” The librarian gave them to her.

Alec’s face clouded up when she went back. “It’ll only be a minute,” she said. “I want to see something.” He didn’t burst into tears on the spot, which was something. If he had, she would have had to take him home—and she would have warmed his fanny, too.

As things were, she found what she was looking for inside of two minutes. She wrote down what she needed to know, gave the pencil back to Miss Montague with a nod of thanks, and walked out of the library. Alec behaved on the way back. Why not? He was getting what he wanted. As Mary walked past the building that housed the
Rosenfeld Register
, she gave the newspaper a nod of thanks, too.

L
ucien Galtier started up his motorcar. The Chevrolet roared to life right away. He’d finally had to replace the battery. The new one was much stronger than the old one had been, but he still grumbled at the expense. When he was driving a horse, he hadn’t had to buy new pieces for it every so often.

Once the motor warmed up, he put the auto in gear and drove up toward Rivière-du-Loup. Today was his sixty-somethingeth birthday (he didn’t care to contemplate the exact number), and Nicole and Dr. Leonard O’Doull had invited him to their house for supper to celebrate.

Part of him wondered why people celebrated getting older. Another part, the part that still ached for Marie, told him the answer: because the alternative was
not
getting older, and that was dreadfully final.

It had been a quarter of a century now since war’s clawed hand raked across the countryside. Young men said you couldn’t see the scars any more. Lucien knew better. Time had softened those wounds, but they were still there if you knew where to look. And shells still lay buried in the ground. Every so often, they worked their way to the surface. Most of the time,
démineurs
took them away and disposed of them. Once in a while, one of them went off when a plowshare struck it or it suffered some other mischance of that sort. The Great War was still killing people, and would go on killing for years to come.

He drove past the post office. The Republic of Quebec’s fleur-de-lys flag fluttered in the breeze in front of it. He was used to that flag now, but it still didn’t feel like the flag of his country. He didn’t suppose it ever would, not when he’d spent his first forty years in the province of Quebec rather than the Republic. Were things better now? Worse? Or just different? For the life of him, he had trouble saying.

There was the house where Nicole lived with Leonard O’Doull. He parked in front of the walk that led to the front porch. The grass on the lawn was green again. When he got out of the auto, he took the key with him. On the farm, he left it in the ignition half the time. That probably wouldn’t do here in town, where a stranger might hop in and decide to go for a spin.

The door opened before he could knock. There stood his oldest grandson. By what magic had Lucien O’Doull grown taller than the man for whom he was named? “Happy birthday,
mon grandpère,
” he said. “Come in.” That same magic, whatever it was, had given him a man-deep voice, too.

“Merci,”
Lucien Galtier said, and then, after an appreciative sniff, “What smells so good?” An instant later, he held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me. I’ll find out.”

He followed his grandson down the short entry hall to the living room. As soon as he got there, a flashbulb went off in his face. What sounded like a million people shouted,
“Surprise!”

“ ‘Osti,”
Lucien muttered, flinching with what was indeed surprise—shock probably came closer. With a large purplish-green spot swimming in front of his eyes, he needed a moment to see how jammed with people the living room was. He’d expected Nicole and Leonard and little Lucien, and they were there, but so were Denise and Charles and Georges and Susanne and Jeanne and their spouses and their children. And, he realized after another startled heartbeat, so was Éloise Granche.

“Surprise!”
they all shouted again, even louder than before. Nicole wriggled through the crowd and kissed Galtier on the cheek. “Happy birthday,
cher papa
!” Her husband raised the camera again. Another flashbulb froze the moment.

Lucien was at least partly braced for the second blast of light. He wagged a finger at his offspring. “You are a pack of devils, every one of you,” he said. “You did your best to make this the last surprise I would ever have, this side of the Pearly Gates.” He mimed clutching his breast and falling over dead.

His children and grandchildren laughed and cheered. Éloise Granche said, “If they are a pack of devils, where do you suppose they get it?” That brought more laughter yet. Éloise rose from the sofa and threaded her way past children and out to Lucien. As Nicole had, she said, “Happy birthday,” and kissed Galtier. Leonard O’Doull took yet another photograph.

“Well, well,” Lucien said. “I suspect you have all been plotting this for a very long time.”

“Oh, no, Papa.” Georges shook his head. “Your American son-in-law drove round to our houses a couple of hours ago, and since we weren’t doing anything special tonight. . . .”

“Nonsense,” Galtier said. If there hadn’t been so many women and children there, he would have said something more colorful than that. But
nonsense
would do. His younger son’s head had always been full of it. Most of the grownups had glasses close by them, some full, some empty. Plaintively, Galtier asked, “Could it be that I might get something to drink?”

“Well, seeing that it
is
your birthday,” Leonard O’Doull said with the air of a man granting a great concession. “And it could also be that I should prescribe something for that green-around-the-gills look you have. Would you like whiskey or apple brandy?”

“Yes,” Galtier said: a reply worthy of Georges.

His son-in-law made a face at him. “Which, you cantankerous creature?”

“Apple brandy, by choice,” Lucien answered. He would drink whiskey readily enough, but he wasn’t wild about it. He turned to Éloise. “And what are you doing here?”

“Why, wishing you a happy birthday, of course,” she answered demurely. “I hope it
is
a happy birthday?”

“It seems to be, so far,” he answered; coming right out and admitting he was happy struck him as a show of weakness. He turned to Leonard O’Doull. “You see? You have been listening to gossip again.”

“And what if I have?” O’Doull replied. “Are you complaining?”

“Me? Not at all. I am glad I am here. I am glad everyone is here,” Galtier said. “And I do mean everyone.” He smiled at Éloise. He wanted to kiss her again, but he wouldn’t do that, not in front of his children and grandchildren. They might—most of the ones old enough to understand surely did—know he and Éloise were more than friends, but there was a difference between knowing and showing. One little kiss had been all right. Two would have been excessive. The difference mattered to him. That it might matter much less to his offspring never once crossed his mind.

Nicole disappeared into the kitchen. When she came out, it was with some of the most arresting words in any language: “Supper’s ready!”

Fried chicken, lamb fragrant with garlic, rabbits stewed with plums, fresh spinach and peas, stewed turnips, endless snowy mounds of mashed potatoes, plenty of whiskey and applejack and beer to wash them down . . . Any man who couldn’t be happy after a feast like that wasn’t trying hard enough. Lucien ate till he wanted to curl up on his chair and go to sleep. Nor was he the only one who went above and beyond the call of duty; Georges could easily have built a whole new chicken from the mound of bones on his plate.

Everyone groaned with horrified pleasure when Nicole brought out an enormous birthday cake. A single large candle topped it. Leonard O’Doull grinned evilly at Lucien. “We did not want to put a candle for each year,” he said, “for fear you would burn the house down when you tried to blow them out.”

“An old man hasn’t got enough wind to blow out that many candles anyhow,” Georges put in.

“I gave you the strap when you were little,” Lucien told his younger son, “but not enough of it, I see. Well,
le bon Dieu
is still listening. I did not know ‘Dishonor thy father and mother’ was one of the commandments.”

“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t think of saying a word against
maman
.” Georges’ face was the picture of innocence. Galtier snorted.

Charles struck a match and lit the candle. “Blow it out, Papa, so we can eat the cake,” he said sensibly. Unlike Georges, he had no wildness in him, but he made a good, solid man.

Blow it out Lucien did. Everybody cheered. Nicole cut the cake. She gave her father the first piece. He had no idea how he found room for it, but he did. His children and their spouses groaned as they ate. His grandchildren might have been a swarm of locusts. Lucien marveled that they left any of the cake undevoured.

“Now,” Nicole said briskly, “presents.”

Galtier tried to wave them away. “That I am here with my family is enough—more than enough,” he said. Nobody listened to him. He hadn’t thought anyone would. Now that he’d made the protest, he could enjoy his gifts and not be thought greedy.

From Charles, he got a soft tweed jacket better suited to a gentleman of leisure than to a working farmer. That was how it seemed to him, anyhow. But Éloise said, “It’s perfect to wear to a dance.” He hadn’t thought of that. Once she said it, though, he saw she was right.

Georges gave him a fancy pipe and some even fancier tobacco. When he opened the tin, the rich fragrance filled the room.
“Calisse,”
he said reverently. “That smells so good, I won’t even have to smoke it . . . And what’s this?”

This
came from Nicole and Leonard O’Doull. It was a big bottle of real Calvados, not the imitations turned out by local craftsmen who didn’t care for the Republic of Quebec’s tedious excise-tax regulations. “ ‘This fine brandy is patronized by his Majesty, King Charles XI, King of France,’ ” Galtier read from the label.

“Mais certainement,”
his son-in-law said. “I personally wrestled this very bottle from King Charles’ own hands.”

“You certainly are a muttonhead,” Lucien said.

Éloise Granche gave him a maroon wool sweater. Everyone said it was very handsome. Again, Lucien thought it finer than what he usually wore, but it was thick and warm. It would do nicely in spring and fall and, under a coat, in wintertime, too. “I hope you like it,” Éloise said.

“I do, very much,” he said. “It is always pleasant when a friend thinks of me.” He spoke with a straight face. Éloise nodded. So did Galtier’s children and their spouses. Most of his grandchildren were too young to care one way or the other. Decorum was preserved.

Later, when he was carrying booty out to the Chevrolet, Éloise said, “Could you give me a ride back to my house,
cher
Lucien? I would not care to impose on Dr. O’Doull to drive me both ways.”

“It would be no trouble at all,” Leonard O’Doull said politely.

“No, no, don’t put yourself to the trouble,” Galtier said. “Everyone has done so much for me today. It would be my pleasure to do this.” His son-in-law let himself be persuaded.

“I hope you had a happy birthday,” Éloise said as they rolled out of Rivière-du-Loup and into the countryside.

“Very happy.” Now Lucien could admit it. He chuckled. “I have not had a surprise party since I was eight years old.”

When they pulled up in front of her house, she smiled and asked, “And is there anything else you might like for your birthday?”

“It could be,” he said. “Yes, it could be.” They went inside together.

E
xcept from the roof of the U.S. embassy, the Stars and Stripes had not flown in Richmond for almost eighty years. Only a handful of ancient men and women remembered the days when Virginia was one of the United States. Now, though, as Jake Featherston waited in the June heat inside the railroad station to receive the special train southbound from Washington, U.S. and C.S. flags flew side by side throughout the Confederate capital. No president of the United States had ever made an official visit to Richmond . . . till now.

Featherston wore the uniform of a Freedom Party guard, almost identical in cut and color to that of the Confederate Army. The summer-weight cotton cloth was cooler and more comfortable than a suit would have been. With Jake’s rangy height, the uniform was also much more impressive on him.

Photographers snapped away. Newsreel cameras ground out footage. Reporters waited for quotes. Jake reminded himself that he had to be extra careful about what he did and said in public. The Confederate press crews would make him look and sound the way he and Saul Goldman thought he should. The crews from the USA were a different story, though. Half—more than half—of them were here hoping to see him look and sound like a fool. And he couldn’t keep them out of the CSA, not when President Smith was coming.
Just have to be smarter than they are,
he thought, and smiled a little nastily.
Shouldn’t be hard.

A stalwart in white shirt and butternut trousers put down a telephone and hurried over to him. “The train’s about two minutes away, boss,” he said.

“Thanks, Ozzie,” Jake answered. The stalwart drew back.
Are you loyal?
Featherston wondered.
Are you really loyal?
Ever since Willy Knight tried to do him in, he’d wondered about almost everyone around him—everyone except Ferd Koenig and Saul Goldman and a handful of other old campaigners. He’d chosen his new vice president, a senator from Tennessee named Donald Partridge, not least because Don was an amiable nonentity who couldn’t hope to threaten him.

Here came Al Smith’s train. Schoolchildren on the platform started waving the Stars and Stripes and the Stars and Bars. A military band struck up “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” a tune both sides had used—with different lyrics—during the War of Secession.

The train came to a stop. A colored attendant brought up the little stepped platform people used to descend to the station. Freedom Party guards—not stalwarts, who were less likely to be trustworthy—with submachine guns fanned out to make sure there were no unfortunate international incidents. The door to Smith’s Pullman car opened. The first men out were the U.S. president’s bodyguards. They wore civilian suits, not butternut uniforms, but otherwise were stamped from the same hard-faced mold as the Freedom Party men.