"I thank you very much," Galtier said, accepting the brandy and the tobacco. He raised his glass in salute. "To your good health!"
"And to yours," his son-in-law answered. They both drank, as did Nicole. The applejack went down soft and sweet as a first kiss. Little Lucien ran off to play. O'Doull asked, "And how are you, mon beau-pere ?"
Lucien shrugged. "As well as I can be, I suppose. It is not easy." That was as much as he would say. It would also do for an understatement till he found a bigger one, which might come along.. . oh, a hundred years from now.
Dr. O'Doull looked sly. "But of course you have all the pretty ladies for miles around looking in your direction now that, however unfortunately, you are a single man once more."
He probably meant it for a joke. In fact, Galtier was almost sure he meant it for a joke. But that didn't mean it held no truth. He'd been amazed how many widows and maiden ladies had come to call on him, to say how sorry they were that Marie was gone… and, sometimes quite openly, to size him up. He'd been even more amazed that a couple of farmers, both in the most casual, offhand way imaginable, had brought up their marriageable daughters with him. True, he wasn't an old man-he wouldn't see sixty for a few years yet-but what would he do with an eighteen- or twenty-year-old girl? Oh, there was one obvious answer, but he couldn't even do that so often as he had when he was younger. And, if he were to have a wife younger than his youngest daughter, wouldn't making love to her feel like molesting a child? Some men his age, no doubt, would have thought themselves lucky to get offers like those. He didn't.
Making a production out of lighting his cigar meant he didn't have to answer his son-in-law. Once he had it going, once he'd savored the fine, mild smoke, he asked, "And how is it with you here?"
"Not too bad," O'Doull answered. Nicole nodded. Galtier did, too, in approval. The American sounded more like a Quebecois with each passing year. It wasn't just his accent, though the years had also meant that Riviere-du-Loup supplanted Paris in his French. But Americans, from everything Galtier had seen, liked to brag. Not too bad was about as much as a man from this part of the world was ever likely to say. Dr. O'Doull went on, "I wish I could do more about influenza and rheumatic fever and a dozen other sicknesses, but I don't know of any other doctors anywhere else in the world who wouldn't say the same thing."
"Your glass is empty, Papa," Nicole said, and then did something to correct that.
"Pour me full of applejack, yes, and how will I go home?" Galtier asked, not that he didn't want the freshened glass. "The one advantage a horse has over an automobile is that the horse knows the way."
"You can sleep here. You know you're welcome," his daughter said.
He smiled. He did know that. He'd even done it once or twice, on nights when he'd been too drunk to find the door, let alone to fit the Chevrolet's key into the ignition. He might even have slept better here than at home, and that wasn't because he'd been drunk. Trying to sleep alone in a bed where he'd had Marie beside him for so long… He grimaced and took a quick nip from the brandy. No, that wasn't easy at all.
To keep from brooding about that empty bed back at the farmhouse, he asked his son-in-law, "What do you think of the state of the world?"
That was a question usually good for a long, fruitful discussion. Galtier got one this time, too, but not of the sort he'd expected. The corners of Dr. O'Doull's normally smiling mouth turned down. He said, "Right this minute, mon beau-pere, I like the state of the world not at all."
"And why not?" Galtier leaned forward, ready to argue with what ever O'Doull said.
"Because I read the newspapers. Because I listen to what they say on the wireless," O'Doull replied. "How could anyone like it when the Freedom Party doubles its vote in the Confederate States? They hold more than a third of the seats in the Confederate Congress now, and heaven only knows what they'll do next."
With a shrug, Lucien said, "This, to me, is not so much of a much. The Confederate States are a long, long way from Riviere-du-Loup."
His son-in-law looked startled. "Yes, that's true," he said after a momentary hesitation. "I still think of myself as an American some ways, I suppose. I've been here more than fifteen years now, so it could be that I shouldn't, but I do."
"It is not so bad that you do," Galtier said. "A man should know where he springs from. If he does not know what he was, how can he know what he is?"
"You sound like a Quebecois, all right." Leonard O'Doull smiled.
"And why should I not?" Lucien replied. "By the good God, I know what I am. But tell me, mon beau-fils, why is this Freedom Party so bad for the United States?"
"Because it is the Confederate party for all those who don't want to live at peace with the United States," O'Doull replied. "If it comes to power, there will be trouble. Trouble is what its leader, this man Featherston, stands for."
"I see." Galtier rubbed his chin. "You say it is like the Action Francaise in France, then? Or that other party, the one whose name I always forget, in England?"
"The Silver Shirts." O'Doull nodded. "Yes, just like them." He cocked his head to one side, studying Galtier. "And what do you think of the Action Francaise?"
Lucien Galtier clicked his tongue between his teeth. "That is not an easy question for me to answer," he said slowly. As if to lubricate his wits, his son-in-law poured him more apple brandy. "Thank you," he murmured, and drank. The applejack might not have made him any smarter, but it tasted good. He went on, "I would not be sorry to see France strong again. She is the mother country, after all. And even if the Republic of Quebec is a friend of the United States, and so a friend of Germany, which is not a friend of France…" He could feel himself getting tangled up in his sentence, and blamed the applejack-certainly easier than blaming himself. He tried again: "Regardless of politics, I care about what happens in France, and I wish her well."
"Moi aussi," Nicole said softly.
Dr. O'Doull nodded. "All right. That's certainly fair enough. But let me ask you something else-do you think the Action Francaise will do well for France if they take power there? If France goes to war with Germany, for instance, do you think she can win?"
"My heart says yes. My head says no." Galtier let out a long, sad sigh. "I fear my head is right."
"I think so, too," his son-in-law agreed.
"But let me ask you something in return," Lucien said. "If the Confederate States were to go to war with the United States, do you think they could win?"
"Wouldn't be easy," O'Doull said. Then he shook his head. "No. They couldn't. Not a chance, not now."
"Well, then, why worry about this Freedom Party?" Lucien asked.
Before O'Doull answered, he poured his own glass of brandy full again. "Because I fear Featherston would start a war if he got the chance, regardless of whether he could win it or not. Because a war is a disaster whether you win or you lose-it's only a worse disaster if you lose. I'm a doctor; I ought to know. And because"-he took a long pull at the applejack-"who knows what might happen five years from now, or ten, or twenty?"
"Who knows, indeed?" Galtier wasn't thinking about countries growing stronger or weaker. He was remembering Marie, remembering her well, and then in pain, and then, so soon, gone forever. He gulped down his own glass of apple brandy, then reached for the bottle to fill it again.
Nicole reached out and set her hand on his own work-roughened one. Maybe she was remembering Marie, too. She said, "Hard times mean trouble, no matter where they land. And when they land everywhere.. ." She sighed, shook her head, and got to her feet. "I'm going to see how supper's doing."