which followed his every move, scanned the PQ leader from head to toe. The moment the limousine door opened, the camera focused on the guest of honour’s feet: René Lévesque was wearing Wallabees!
“Your Monsieur Lévesque is so nice,” people said just about everywhere.
His nonchalance had a certain something that captivated those who approached him. He was relaxed – or “cool,” to use the in word of the mid-seventies: he came by it naturally. This first trip to France led to the signing of many economic agreements and sealed the friendship between France and Quebec, which had been growing since the late sixties. On this visit, René Lévesque was named Grand Officer of the Légion d’honneur. The ceremony was impressive: beneath the chandeliers of the gilded salon, Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, President of the Republic, placed the rosette on the lapel of René Lévesque’s jacket. Lévesque, uncomfortable with all the pomp and circumstance, thanked him.
“He always wears the same suit,” quipped one reporter. “Is it the only one he owns?”
Forced to remain in the background during this trip, not enjoying the privileges of a premier’s wife, Corinne was determined that her partner finally decide to divorce so he could marry her.
But Lévesque didn’t listen to his companion’s complaints; he had other priorities. Time was passing and the deadline for the referendum approaching. In his office, he took stock of his government:
“The real Quiet Revolution is what we’re making happen now. And we’re the ones who are truly modernizing Quebec. In just one session, we’ve passed more than twenty-four laws, and not inconsequential ones. I am proud to have helped put an end to the Maurice Duplessis-style messing around in hidden funds. Our law on political party financing is unique, ahead of the times,” Lévesque pointed out, a cigarette between his fingers and martini in hand.
Lévesque emphasized the determination of the Department of Consumer Affairs, Cooperatives, and Financial Institutions, which had managed to pass a law on car insurance. No-fault insurance, which guaranteed insurance to all drivers, regardless of whose fault the accident was, was far from receiving unanimous consent in Cabinet. “We made life hard for her,” admitted the premier, referring to the minister responsible, Madame Payette. Her courage reminded him of the struggle he himself had led in the sixties to nationalize electricity.
But Lise Payette and René Lévesque had never really hit it off. “He’s a male chauvinist,” she said. “He looks at women, undressing them from head to toe – and he’s no feminist!” And Lévesque replied: “She holds it against me because I say she’s moody, but it appears that I am as well.”
Like in a classroom where the teacher has favourites, Marc-André Bédard, Minister of Justice, was one of those Lévesque liked most. But the PQ leader’s circle of close friends wasn’t very large. In any case, those not benefitting from his consideration were better off going unnoticed. The man was caustic, pitiless to any minister not in control of his files. In the caucus, the offender would bear the brunt of Lévesque’s wrath. “Go back and do your homework!” he would lash out in front of his colleagues. Time was precious. He knew he could ask a lot of his troops, he who spared no effort in his own work schedule.
“What about the referendum?”
Halfway through his mandate, the question returned with renewed vigour. For two years now, the PQ had shown themselves capable of governing Quebec: the economy was on track and the media were their allies. The social climate was less agitated than under the Liberal government. For example, in 1972, the leaders of three central labour bodies had defied the back to work legislation passed by the Bourassa government. Sentenced to jail, they became heroes and martyrs of the workers’ cause. The PQ, learning from the Liberals’ mistakes, tried to attract unionized workers and recruited a great many in the public and quasi-public sectors. But this fragile harmony was by no means guaranteed. The PQ had to hold its sovereignty referendum without further ado: procrastination would serve no purpose. The honeymoon between the unions and the Péquistes would end one day; the grace period was fading fast and at a second’s notice would be over for good.
In the flying saucer that was the bunker, the cabinet meetings continued to be contentious. As was his habit, Claude Morin would say: “Okay, whose life shall we make difficult today?” In fact, he said aloud what certain people thought to themselves: the government was taking on too much: “we’re getting up the backs of many voters who believe we are playing at being socialists.”
The gap between the radicals and the conservatives was widening. Fortunately for the PQ, René Lévesque’s charisma was still effective. Even when he resolved in favour of one side or another, he managed to make it unanimous. But all the pointless bickering left him perplexed.
“Lévesque embodies our contradictions,” remarked Doctor Camille Laurin. “He always seems to be sitting on the fence, unresolved, lukewarm.”
That morning, the aroma of burnt toast in the bunker confirmed the PQ leader’s presence. With his blackened toast, cup of strong coffee, and omnipresent cigarette, the premier was already at work. He would always remain a journalist. He opened Le Monde: in Cambodia, Vietnamese troops had overturned Pol Pot. Keen on international politics, he was interested in what was happening beyond the border. The front page of the New York Times described trouble brewing in Iran: the shah was fleeing his country, where Ayatollah Khomeini was being greeted as a redeemer. Quebec’s problems didn’t hold much weight alongside the human misery festering in the world.
His work finished, he set aside the quarrels of the various factions and quickly began a game of poker! This leaning of his was a source of contention. Certain people insinuated cynically that for Lévesque there were two kinds of members of the Assembly: card players – and others.
“There is a full committee at eight o’clock,” Lévesque announced to Marc-Andre Bédard who understood that that evening they would be playing cards till late in the night.
At the end of the session, René Lévesque gave a press conference. Reporters took notes. Yes, he would go on vacation. Where? He didn’t know yet. Before they asked “with whom?” Lévesque rose. There were persistent rumours. Recently divorced, he would not be free for long. On April 12, 1979, the premier tied the knot with Corinne Côté. He was fifty-six, she thirty-five. There would be no more unpleasant incidents like on that winter evening when Madame Barre refused to speak to Monsieur Lévesque’s secretary. He married a second time, in order to legalize a union over ten years old. And to please the woman he said he loved fiercely. Fidelity was another story.
After a week in the south of France, it looked as if the return to Quebec would be difficult.
While the Parti Québécois managed to rev up its troops for the referendum deadline, chaos reigned in Ottawa. At the end of March, Pierre Trudeau called an election that he lost on May 22 to the Conservatives. In his office, at the cocktail hour, with his close advisors, René Lévesque gloated:
“Things will be easier with Joe Clark in power.”
Trudeau was a thorn in the side of the sovereigntists. The worst was that he had star charisma: he was the man the majority of Quebecers
