"Well, Charles has three, Susanne has three, Denise has four, my Sophie's expecting her third, and even Jeanne is going to have her second in a few weeks," Georges said. "Lucien may lack for brothers and sisters, but he doesn't lack for cousins."
"This is good. This is all good," Galtier said. Repeating himself-was the applejack hitting so hard? Was he getting old, so he couldn't hold his liquor? Or was he getting old, so he talked too much whether he was drunk or not? He was getting old. However much he'd been at pains to deny it to Georges, he knew better than to deny it to himself.
Georges said, "Sure enough, we Galtiers will end up taking over Quebec before we're through."
"And why not?" Lucien said. "After all, someone has to. And if we don't, it's liable to be people like Bishop Pascal's-excuse me, Pascal Talon's-twins."
His son laughed. "Not all children can have such a distinguished father."
"He was always out for whatever he could get. Always," Lucien said. "He served God so he could help himself. He served the Americans so he could help himself. And if the Americans had lost, if the English-speaking Canadians and the British had won instead, he would have wormed his way back into their good graces, too."
"He certainly wormed his way into his lady friend's good graces," Georges said. "Twins!"
"That's what I said at the time," Lucien agreed. "A priest-even a bishop-is also a man. This is true, beyond a doubt. But twins are excessive."
"Excessive. There's a good word." Georges nodded. This time, he was the one who filled the glasses with apple brandy. "Tell me, Papa-do you not think it is also excessive to begin sending our young men from Quebec to help the Americans hold down the parts of Canada they occupy?"
"They have asked us to do this for a long time," Galtier said slowly. "Up till now, we have always managed to get around it."
"Now they say that, because they are fighting this war with Japan, they need our help more than ever," Georges said. "I don't see how we can get around it any more. So what do you think?"
"What I always thought. When the Americans recognized the Republic of Quebec, they didn't do it for us Quebecois. They did it for themselves. They are the big brother, the rich brother; we are the little brother, the poor relation, and we have to do what they say. That is how they see it, anyhow."
"How do you see it?"
Before answering, Lucien drained the glass Georges had poured for him. "How do I see? Blurrily… But that is not what you asked. The United States are very large. They are very rich. They are the ones who made us a country they say is free. But if we truly are free, we can tell them no if we like."
"And suppose they don't like it after that?"
"Will they go to war with us because they don't like it? I have my doubts. Whether our politicians in Quebec City have the wit to see this… Malheureusement, that is another question. We will probably end up doing what the Americans want without even thinking about whether we should. What do you think?"
"I think you're right. I think it's too bad. And I think nobody cares what either one of us thinks," Georges answered.
Lucien reached for the jug of applejack. "I think that calls for another drink," he said.
C larence Potter smelled trouble as soon as he walked into Whig headquarters in Charleston. The first thing he did was go over to a neat rank of bottles set against one wall and pour himself a whiskey. Thus armed, he buttonholed Braxton Donovan, who, by his red face, had started drinking quite a while before. Donovan was typical of the men in the halclass="underline" more than whiskey, which he held well, made him look as if he'd been hit in the head with a club. A speechless lawyer was a novelty Potter had thought he would relish, but he turned out to be wrong.
"God damn it, snap out of this funk," Potter said crisply.
"Why?" Donovan answered, breathing whiskey fumes into his face. "I don't even know why I'm going through the motions. It's only March, but you can already see how the Freedom Party is going to kick our ass come November. What's the use of pretending anything different?"
"Of course those know-nothing bastards will win-if nobody stands up and tries to stop 'em," Potter said. "That's what we're here for, isn't it?"
"What can we do? What can anybody do?" Donovan said. "Who's going to vote for us, with one white man in four out of work? Christ, if I'd lost my job I wouldn't vote Whig, either."
"Yes, I believe that." Withering scorn filled Potter's voice. "You'd be out there yelling, 'Freedom!' and wondering how to spell it."
The lawyer glared. "Fuck you, Clarence."
Potter beamed. "Now you're talking!" Donovan stared at him. He nodded emphatically and repeated himself: "Now you're talking, I say. If you can get pissed off about me, you can get pissed off about the Freedom Party, too. And you'd better-if you don't, the Confederate States are going right down the drain."
But Braxton Donovan, no matter how angry at Potter he might be, couldn't or wouldn't turn that anger where it might do some good. He said, "I can deal with you. How are we supposed to deal with Featherston? Grady Calkins' way?"
"If you want to know the truth, I've heard ideas I liked less," Potter answered. "The Freedom Party without Jake Featherston is like a locomotive without a boiler. Odds are it wouldn't go anywhere, and it wouldn't take the country with it."
"Fine sort of republic you want," Donovan said. "Anybody disagrees with you, off with his head."
"Oh, rubbish," Potter said. "I've got no quarrel with the Radical Liberals. I think they're wrong, but the world wouldn't end if they got elected. And you know why, too: they play by the same rules we do. But the only thing the Freedom Party cares about when it comes to the republic is using the rules to take it over. If Featherston wins the election, look out."
"What can he do?" Donovan asked. "We've got the Constitution. If he does get in, he has to play by the rules, too."
He had a point-of sorts. It was enough of a point to make Potter draw back from more direct argument. He said, "I hope you're right," and let it go at that.
"Of course I am," Donovan said, which made Potter regret being conciliatory. The lawyer fixed himself another drink, then added, "The regular meeting's going to start in a few minutes. If you intend to fortify yourself before it does, you'd better do it now."
"God forbid I should face it sober." Potter built himself a tall one.
After the minutes and other routine business, the meeting might have been a reaction against the Freedom Party. People talked about more effective campaigning on the wireless. They talked about recruiting tough young men to protect Whig street rallies and even to try to break up the Freedom Party's. They talked about getting the Whig message out to disaffected voters.
That made Potter raise a hand. With the look of a man doing something against his better judgment, Robert E. Washburn recognized him. "Mr. Chairman, what is our message?" Potter asked. " 'Sorry you're out of work, and we'll see if we can do better next time'? That didn't do the Socialists up in the USA much good."
Bang! went the gavel. "Mr. Potter, you are out of order-again," Washburn said.
"Not me-I'm fine," Potter insisted. "The country's out of order. We're supposed to be trying to make it better."
"I was under the impression that was what we were doing," the chairman said. "Forgive me if I'm wrong."