Kamouraska by Anne Hébert

rolling. Shouting, all by herself: “The child is damning her soul! And we’re damning ours to protect her!”
    Suddenly, the crowd, struck by her confession, bursts out laughing. Row by row, the crackle of laughter spreads like fire, leaping from branch to branch. The three little sisters, caught in the thundering laughter, rush headlong from the arena. Shaking, trembling, leaving a drunkard’s zigzag tracks in the sand.
    The judge orders the clerk to take note: “The child is damningher soul! And we’re damning ours to protect her!” Over and over the clerk rewrites the sentence. Ad infinitum. Fills up pages and pages. Fast and furious, taking special care with the capitals.
    â€œThe child is damning her soul! And we’re damning ours to protect her! . . .”
    Big thick peals of lusty laughter. Filth showered on our heads. Madame Rolland tosses and turns on Léontine’s little bed, dreaming she can’t escape from the arena. She has to stay and watch the next scene. A woman, breasts bare, is standing with her back against a board. Her hands are tied behind her. The crowd stops laughing, holds its breath. The three judges, in their white wigs, bend over to watch. Gazing in rapt attention, as if the fate of the world were suddenly at stake. An invisible hand is throwing daggers at the woman, held fast to the board. Aiming at her heart.
    Madame Rolland, on Léontine’s bed, struggles to shake herself free of the nightmare. Sees the metallic flash of the knife flying, striking the doomed woman square in the chest. Manages to close her eyes. Gropes through the blackness, feverishly looking for some hidden escape from the circus. Comes to a staircase in the darkness, climbs her way up. Thinks she’s waking at last. Makes out the flowered paper in Léontine’s room and clutches her breast. Feels a biting pain.

Why this calm? Why this soft, gentle light spreading over a little deserted town? Sorel. Its streets with their handful of houses. Wooden houses. Brick houses. Square Royal. Rue Charlotte. Rue Georges. The corner of Rue Augusta and Rue Philippe. Close by, the river flows between its level banks. The long green islands, property of the parish, where cows and horses, sheep and goats are grazing.
    Life here is calm, radiant. Not a soul to be seen. I feel I’m going to be happy in all this light. The river, unruffled. The pasturelands, down to the water’s edge. This frieze of peaceful creatures, grazing as far as the eye can see. I stretch. I heave a deep, deep sigh. Is it for my early innocence, suddenly mine again in this childhood setting?
    But something seems to be happening. Something over by the light. A kind of glow, rising, getting brighter and brighter. Getting stronger, too strong, almost unbearable. I want to raise my arm and shield my eyes from the dazzling glare.
    Now, all at once, it comes to a stop, singles out a red brick house on the corner of Rue Philippe and Rue Augusta. Set off from its neighbors, bathed in light, the house begins to shine. So clearly.As if magnified under a glass. Gleaming. All glazed and bright. In back, the little garden pales beneath so powerful a sun. The blue hydrangeas seem to be all powdered white. Two floors of brick. Green wooden shutters, scrupulously shut. A wooden balcony, narrow columns. The façade, cut into the surface of the wood, fine fretwork, whitewashed. So very white, so elegant, so absurd. I could reach out and touch it. Each notch, each figure in the molding, alive in a blaze of awesome brilliance. Hard, sharp, yellow . . . A sun, stock-still above the house, off a little to the left.
    Try as I may, I can’t move away from this circle of light. The whole town seems to be plunged in darkness. All except my house on Rue Augusta, corner of Rue Philippe, standing out, glittering like a chunk of broken glass. Oh, how I’d like to leave it behind me. Go back to Rue Georges and the house where I