Breakthroughs

“Charles…” Lucien murmured warningly. Speaking of it as the so-called Republic of Quebec before an American, one of the people who called it that, was something less than the wisest thing his son might have done.

But Leonard O’Doull, fortunately, took no offense. “Not a corps, certainly, for there are not nearly enough volunteers for a Quebecois corps,” he replied. “But a regiment, perhaps two regiments of Quebecois from the Republic-yes, I know they are in the line, for I have treated some of their wounded, being called upon to do so because I am lucky enough to speak French.”

It was a straightforward, reasonable, matter-of-fact answer. Lucien waited with some anxiety to hear how his son replied to it. If Charles denounced the Republic, life could grow difficult. But Charles said only, “I do not see how Quebecois could volunteer to fight Quebecois.”

“In the War of Secession, brother fought brother in the United States-what was the United States,” O’Doull said. “It is not an easy time when such things happen.”

“But no one outside created the Confederate States, n’est-ce pas?” Charles said, doggedly refusing to let go. “They came into being of themselves.”

To Lucien’s relief, his son once more failed to get a rise out of Dr. O’Doull. “Perhaps at the beginning, yes,” the American said, “but England and France have helped prop them up ever since. Now, though, the props begin to totter.”

Charles could have said something like, Just as the United States prop up the Republic of Quebec. But O’Doull made it plain he was likely to agree with a statement like that, not argue with it. That took half-more than half-the fun away from making it. To his father’s relief, Charles kept quiet.

After Marie, Nicole, Susanne, Denise, and Jeanne cleared the plates away from the supper table, Lucien got out a bottle of the homemade apple brandy that helped keep nights warm in Quebec. “Is it possible, M. Galtier, that I might talk to you alone?” Dr. O’Doull asked, staring at the pale yellow liquid in the glass in front of him as if he had never seen it before.

Lucien’s head came up alertly. Charles and Georges looked at each other. “Well, I can tell when I am not wanted,” Georges said, and stomped upstairs in exaggerated outrage. Charles said nothing. He simply rose, nodded to O’Doull, and left the dining room.

“And for what purpose is it that you desire to talk to me alone, Dr. O’Doull?” Galtier said, also examining his applejack with a critical eye. He could without much difficulty think of one possible reason.

And that proved to be the reason Dr. Leonard O’Doull had in mind. The American physician took a deep breath, then spoke rapidly: “M. Galtier, I desire to marry your daughter, and I would like your blessing for the match.”

Galtier lifted his glass and knocked back the applejack in one long, fiery gulp. No, O’Doull’s words were not a surprise, but they were a shock nonetheless. Instead of answering straight out in brusque, American fashion, the farmer returned a question: “You have, I take it, had somewhat to say of this matter with Nicole.”

“Oh, yes, I have done that.” Dr. O’Doull’s voice was dry. “I will tell you, sir, she likes the idea if you will give your approval.”

“And why would she not?” Galtier replied. “You are a personable man, you are a reasonable figure of a man, and you are skilled in your profession, as I have reason to know.” He patted the leg O’Doull had sewn up. “But even so, before I say yes or no, there are some things I must learn. For example, suppose that you marry her. Where would you live when the war ends? Would you take her back to the United States?”

“As a matter of fact, I was thinking of setting up shop in Riviere-du-Loup,” O’Doull answered. “I’ve been asking around when I go up into town, and you folks here can use a good surgeon. I am a good surgeon, M. Galtier; any doctor who works in a military hospital turns into a good surgeon because he has so many chances to practice his trade.” He gulped down his own applejack, then muttered in English: “Damn the war.”

“You would speak French, then, and mostly forget your own language, except”-Galtier’s eyes twinkled-“when you need to swear, perhaps?”

“I would,” O’Doull said. “I speak French better than many people who come to the United States speak English. They do well enough in my country. I should be able to do well enough in yours.”

“I think you have reason there,” Galtier said. “That you can do this, I do not doubt. The question I was asking was whether you were willing to do it, and I see you are. And you are a Catholic man. That I have known for long and long.”

“Yes, I am a Catholic man,” O’Doull said. “I am not a perfectly pious man, but I am a Catholic.”

“The only man I know who believes himself to be perfectly pious is Bishop Pascal,” Galtier said. “Bishop Pascal is surely very pious, as he is very clever, but he is neither so pious nor so clever as he believes himself to be.”

“There I think you have reason, M. Galtier,” Leonard O’Doull said, chuckling. He blinked a couple of times; if a man drank apple brandy when he was tired, it hit even harder than usual. After a moment’s thought, he went on, “May I now tell you something to help you decide?”

“Speak,” Galtier urged. “Say what is in your mind.”

“No-what is in my heart,” O’Doull replied. “What I want to tell you is that I love your daughter, and I will do everything I can to take care of her and make her as happy as I can.”

“Well,” Lucien Galtier said, and then again: “Well.” He picked up the bottle of applejack and poured a hefty dollop for Dr. O’Doull and another for himself. He raised his glass in salute. “I look forward to my grandchildren.”

O’Doull’s long face was normally serious almost to somberness. Galtier had not imagined such a wide smile could spread over it as happened when the doctor understood his words. Still smiling that broad smile, Dr. O’Doull reached out and shook his hand. The doctor’s skin was soft, uncallused from manual labor, but not smooth-poisons to kill germs had left it rough and red.

“Thank you, my father-in-law to be,” O’Doull said. “Thank you.”

“Now you make me feel old,” Galtier said in mock severity. He raised his glass. “Let us drink, and then let us tell the rest of the family-if Nicole has not already done as much in the kitchen.”

Only as the brandy slid warmly down his throat did he reflect on how, after the United States had overrun his country, he had been certain-he had been more than certain; he had been resolved-he would hate the invaders forever. And now his daughter was going to marry an American. He had just given permission for his daughter to marry an American. He shook his head. Life proved stranger than anyone could imagine.

When he called, his wife and daughters flew out of the kitchen and his sons came leaping down the stairs like mountain goats. They might not know what he would say, but they knew what he was going to talk about. He got up, walked over to Leonard O’Doull, and set a hand on his shoulder. “We are going to have in our family a new member,” he said simply. “Our friend, monsieur le docteur O’Doull, has asked of me permission to marry Nicole, and I have given to him that permission and my blessing.”

He remembered then that O’Doull had not asked for permission, only his blessing. He wondered what would have happened had he refused it. Would O’Doull have done something foolish? Would Nicole? He had no way of finding out now. Perhaps-no, probably-that was just as well.

And then he forgot about might-have-beens, because Nicole squealed with joy and threw herself into his arms, her three little sisters squealed with excitement and started jumping up and down, Charles and Georges went over to O’Doull and pounded him on the back (that Charles did so rather surprising Lucien), and Marie squeezed between them to kiss the American doctor on the cheek.

“Thank you, Papa. Thank you,” Nicole said over and over.

He patted her on the back. “Do not thank me now, my little one,” he said. “If you thank me ten years from now, if you thank me twenty years from now, if le bon Dieu permits me to remain in this world so that you may thank me thirty years from now, that will be very good.”

“If I want to thank you now, I am going to thank you now,” Nicole said. “So there!” To prove it, she kissed him.

He glanced over to O’Doull, one eyebrow upraised. “See how disobedient she is,” he said. “You should know what you are getting into.”

“I’ll take my chances,” O’Doull said with a laugh.

“And we will at last get our older sister out of the house!” Georges said. If the dance he and Charles danced