Still she cried herself to sleep every night over Wilfrid. She felt hopeless. Until Dr. Gauthier intervened.
Dr. Gauthier wasn’t only their landlord, he was a stern and affectionate father to them both, given to a brusque, old-fashioned imperiousness. He sent Wilfrid a telegram summoning him to Montreal “on a matter of urgent importance.” Arriving on the overnight train from Arthabaska, Wilfrid went straight to Dr. Gauthier’s consulting room, where he was ordered to strip off all his clothes. At the end of a lengthy examination, Dr. Gauthier matter-of-factly informed him he wasn’t suffering from consumption at all: his ailment was chronic bronchitis. It was a troublesome condition, requiring careful management, but it certainly wouldn’t kill him. In fact, Dr. Gauthier observed tartly, he’d probably outlive Zoë, the way she was carrying on lately. Her misery and tears were making the whole household miserable. And now, wasn’t it time he acted like a man?
Dr. Gauthier sent for Zoë, leaving her alone with Wilfrid in the consulting room. With bewildered relief they fell into each other’s arms. They were married that night, since Wilfrid had an important case to argue in court the next morning in Arthabaska. . . .
She was about to indulge in the maelstrom of emotion surrounding their instant wedding, but they’d arrived at City Hall. Madame Laurier descended the carriage on her husband’s arm, to be ushered inside and cheered by the overdressed crowd at the Mayor’s reception.
The guest of honour was a British vice-admiral named Erskine. Heavily bearded, with an astounding quantity of gold braid on his chest, he was accompanied by several officers in ceremonial uniform, all visibly deferring to him. The Royal Navy men stood together with the Mayor, punch glasses in hand, preparing to repel boarders. As Wilfrid and Zoë proceeded through the throng, accepting congratulations from all sides, shaking hands with old colleagues, it became obvious to Erskine that his distinguished presence was being upstaged. All eyes were on Wilfrid: his magnificent forehead, his thick, wavy chestnut hair silvering at the temples.
Introduced by the Mayor, Wilfrid shook the Vice-Admiral’s hand and asked a succession of questions displaying his knowledge of naval matters. He hadn’t prepared a speech for the occasion. When he did speak, he’d told Zoë in the carriage, he’d be very brief. Constitutionally, he still wasn’t Prime Minister.
The Mayor proposed a series of toasts to the Queen, her navy, her officers. Erskine made his reply. He stressed how much the British people and Her Majesty’s government counted on Canada’s loyalty. The Royal Navy patrolled the seven seas not only to defend Great Britain, he reminded everyone, but the entire Empire. He concluded heartily, if somewhat condescendingly, by congratulating Mr. Laurier on his accession to power in the Dominion.
In response Wilfrid kept his voice light and musical. The acoustics in the room were good, he didn’t need to declaim. He’d taken just three sips of champagne punch, one for each toast. Zoë had counted.
He now appreciated more than ever, Wilfrid said, the significance of Nelson’s words at the Battle of Trafalgar, “England expects every man to do his duty.” He himself would try his utmost to do his duty, by both Canada and the Empire. And if ever the occasion should arise when Britain must stand against the world in arms, she could always count on the support of the Canadian people.
Vice-Admiral Erskine beamed as he absorbed these fine imperial sentiments. Then Wilfrid delivered the coup de grace: the Canadian people were free, he said, and they were loyal—loyal because they were free.
It made a good start, he told her afterwards.
The train slows on its entry into Ottawa, and Zoë realizes she’s drifted off. They’ve enjoyed a good supper in the dining car: trout, boiled potatoes and asparagus, accompanied by a little Muscadet and a dessert of fresh strawberries with crème anglaise. Now the sun is setting. In the parlour car the atmosphere is still hot and close, acrid with cigar smoke. She hoists herself up in her chair and straightens her hat and notices Wilfrid is grinning.
“You shouldn’t stare at me like that,” she says. “I must look a fright.”
“My dear, you look rested and refreshed,” he replies. It’s a description that fits him better.
Up ahead, around a bend in the tracks, she sees the bridge over the Rideau Canal and the Canada Atlantic station on the far side, enveloped in long shadows. The porters open the doors to the evening. A sound of distant cheering enters from up the tracks, coming from the station.
Young Murphy approaches clutching his bowler. He’s excited. “There’s a huge crowd at the station, sir. The railway wired ahead to warn us.”
Wilfrid betrays his pleasure. “I’m surprised. Our arrival was supposed to be unannounced. I haven’t prepared a speech.”
“Somebody in Ottawa must have told your supporters, sir.”
“There will be no police escort,” Wilfrid observes.
Murphy beams. “No, sir. We’re your bodyguard tonight.”
The train comes to a halt, the entourage steps aside, the Lauriers emerge onto the rear platform, Wilfrid already waving. A great deep-throated roar goes up, followed by three cheers. Standing behind him, feeling the humid, sooty air caress her cheeks, Zoë watches faces in the crowd contort with happiness. The men in front press up against the train, pushed by the force of those behind. She feels marooned. Nobody appears to be in charge. She’s alarmed that neither the police nor the Liberal Party have made arrangements for the leader’s arrival.
Wilfrid raises his long arms high into the air, and gradually the mob settles down, except for a drunken cry of “Long live Laurier! To hell with Tupper!”
“My friends,” Wilfrid begins in his best platform voice, “my friends, mes chers amis, Madame Laurier and I thank you for coming out this evening to welcome us. I must tell you, I had no idea there was going to be such a grand reception. When I saw you massed at the station, I asked my colleagues on the train, ‘What city is this? Have we stopped at the wrong place?’ Because I well remember the day, not so many years ago, when there were precious few Liberals to be found in Ottawa. Clearly that sad situation is no more! I feel enormous pride in the fact that two Liberal candidates have been elected to represent you in my new government.”
As the cheering dies down, Wilfrid retains his triumphant smile and slips naturally into French. Ottawa, after all, is one-third French-speaking. He’s on his second sentence when a voice bawls out, “For God’s sake, speak English!”
Wilfrid stops in mid-sentence. Returning to English, he tells the voice, “I don’t know who you are. But I did not fight and win this election, nor have I laboured in politics all these years, to elevate one language, one race, over the other. Our Liberal victory is a shared victory. Our two peoples made it together. Our country is a shared country, which we also made together, and nothing and no one will stop me from speaking my mother tongue—especially in our nation’s capital.” Which he proceeds to do.
“Now,” he continues, “we have much ahead of us. His Excellency the Governor General has asked me to visit him at Rideau Hall without delay. Thank you! But by the same token, until I have seen His Excellency I am not yet your Prime Minister, and I may not speak as if I were. For now I will simply assure you that your loyalty is deeply gratifying. I will have more to tell all my good friends in the days to come. Madame Laurier and I will now try to reach our carriage, which I’m told is waiting to take us off for a good night’s rest. I wish you all a happy evening!”
Zoë hopes the mob will respond by applauding and melting away, but it has no such intention. It stays
