"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 Йloise 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.
Йloise 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," Йloise said.
"I do, very much," he said. "It is always pleasant when a friend thinks of me." He spoke with a straight face. Йloise 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, Йloise 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," Йloise said as they rolled out of Riviиre-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.
Except 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.
When President Smith himself emerged, the band began to play "The Star-Spangled Banner," a tune heard as seldom in Richmond as the Stars and Stripes were seen. Under a jaunty fedora, Smith's hair was snow white. He looked older and wearier than Jake Featherston had expected. But he managed a smile for the swarm of cameramen and reporters, and walked up to Jake with a friendly nod. "Pleased t'meetcha, Mr. President," he said.
"Right pleased to meet you, too, Mr. President," Jake answered. Flash photographs and the newsreel cameras recorded their handshake for posterity. Jake had heard Al Smith on the wireless and in newsreels. He'd found the other president's New York City accent hard to follow then. It proved no easier in person. Smith highlighted sounds anyone from the Confederate States would have swallowed, and chopped up what a Confederate would have stretched out.
"Looking forward to hashing things out wit' you," Smith said.
"Welcome to Richmond," Featherston said. "About time we did sit down and talk face to face. Best way to settle things." Best way for you to give me what I want.
"You betcha," Smith said. Jake took that to be agreement. The military band switched from the U.S. national anthem to "Dixie." President Smith took off his hat and stood at attention.
Also at attention beside him, Jake Featherston admitted to himself it was a nice touch. When the Confederate anthem ended, Jake said, "Shall we go on to the Gray House and do a little horse-trading?"