Maurice Duplessis. Marguerite Paulin
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finish his legal studies and then return to Trois-Rivières to open his own law practice. Maurice intends to climb the rungs of the profession step by step. And afterwards? When he is admitted to the Bar, there will be time enough to redirect his life. He doesn’t hide his ambitions, but he wants to consolidate his chances and learn the rules of the game before going into battle. Easy does it. This young man is not in a hurry. For the moment, he is busy making contacts and asking advice from his elders.
During a political meeting, he talks to Louis-Olivier Taillon, the patriarch with the white beard and the easygoing manner who seems to incarnate a wise man. Despite being defeated several times, the man’s authority has never been questioned. The elderly politician, feeling nostalgic, casts his mind back to the ultramontane movement. Ah! Those were wonderful times when the Zouaves marched to save the Pope. In 1868, one hundred and thirty-five volunteers left from Bonaventure Station, feeling brave and bold.
“Remember, Maurice, our faith and our language have saved the French-Canadian people. In politics, the Church is our ally. The Conservatives’ strength is based on the respect for tradition. The Liberals like to show off their great orators like Ernest Lapointe, but you’ll see, one day we’ll be back in power.”
Young Duplessis’s reply is lively and prompt:
“I also believe that. Henri Bourassa wants to be our new saviour, but Louis-Joseph Papineau’s grandson is in fact an imposter. On today’s political stage, the head of the nationalist movement doesn’t measure up. As for Lomer Gouin, he’s a Liberal with an eye on Ottawa. He is betting on both sides. We just have to be patient. The Conservative Party will rise from the ashes, believe me. It is never as much alive as when everyone is singing its swan song.”
The young man turns onto Saint-Hubert Street by way of Sherbrooke Street. Université Laval, located in the heart of the Latin quarter, is farther down Saint-Denis Street. This evening, Maurice is meeting friends at the Ouimetoscope movie house. They are showing the documentary Chutes du Niagara en hiver [Niagara Falls in Winter] and the silent film Le papillon humain [The Human Butterfly]. A novelty. Movies are in fashion and the archbishop of Montreal is starting to be wary of this kind of entertainment on a Sunday. But for the moment, at the corner of Montcalm and Sainte-Catherine streets, Maurice slips into the theatre along with the rest of the crowd. On the verge of obtaining his law degree, he cuts a fine figure. He is wearing a suit with a matching tie and breast pocket hanky. His hair is slicked back with perfumed pomade, and he sports a well-trimmed moustache. Son of a bourgeois family, he is a member of the privileged class. He exudes the good manners of his family. During a recent “model parliament” organized by the students of the law faculty and staged at the Monument National Theatre, he impressed his fellow students. He has talent, especially as a public speaker. He can control any audience. And he knows how to hold their attention.
“He is charismatic,” someone remarked. “The only problem is, he knows it.”
Before being admitted to the Bar in September 1913, Maurice Duplessis articles in Montreal in the offices of Monty & Duranleau, friends of his father’s. With them he is free to discuss legal affairs and political ideas. The two old-timers from the Bleus are furious at seeing the rising popularity of Nationalist leader Henri Bourassa who, in January 1910, founded the newspaper, Le Devoir. He is a pundit. When he speaks in the name of the French-Canadian nation, one can hear the voice of his ancestor, Papineau, leader of the Patriots of 1837. Duplessis, amused, watches this new leader of the defrocked ones from the past: “He makes me think of the Titanic that sank last year: a big ship that boasted it was unsinkable and was destroyed by an iceberg.”
Maurice, very perceptive, understands that French Canadians need political heroes. Since Confederation, it has always been the great orators who have defended the bastion of the French-Canadian nation threatened by assimilation. In Ontario, Bill 17, which declared English as the only language in the schools, cranked up Quebec patriotism by a notch. This is where the battle lies, thinks the young man. A wise decision, made at a time when those who want to run for office hesitate between Ottawa and Quebec City.
Prior to 1874, several politicians chose to represent both a federal and a provincial riding. Louis-Olivier Taillon, at the time leader of the Conservative Party and former premier of Quebec, had also been an MP in Ottawa, and even minister of postal services in the Tupper cabinet. But Maurice Duplessis is convinced Quebec is the battleground where the political rights of the French Canadians must be defended.
Already, at twenty-three, he is telling his friends that one day, he will run for office. But he doesn’t want to throw himself into the arena like a rookie, without experience or the necessary preparation. He wants to take the time to study the plans, tactics, and strategies of the Liberals and the Nationalists. He believes that one should never underestimate one’s adversaries. To win, one needs time – and he is patient.
These are troubled times. Maurice follows closely what is happening around the world. He reads the newspapers. Small conflicts are breaking out all over the planet, like in the Balkans. But these events happening so far away are of little concern to him. Robert Borden, the Conservative who won against Wilfrid Laurier, has been directing the destiny of the country since 1911. Canada is coping pretty well with its internal problems. Life goes on, with its highs and its lows, without too many problems. Today the weather is beautiful. On Sainte-Catherine Street, it is the end of June and already summer. By chance, he bumps into a friend.
“Did you hear the news? The Archduke of Austria, Crown Prince Franz Ferdinand, has just been assassinated.”
“It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go…”
It is Sunday afternoon. The gramophone needle slides along the grooves of the record. Maurice is in his parents’ parlour. He and his father are talking about Trois-Rivières, Montreal, and the events that have inflamed the planet. It has been more than two years since Canada entered the First World War on the side of Great Britain. The war is dragging on. Who would have thought that the shot fired by terrorist Gavrilo Princip on June 28, 1914 against Franz Ferdinand, Archduke and heir to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian empire, would have plunged so many countries into fire and bloodshed?
“What a shame that Borden had to pass a law on conscription,” confides Maurice to his father. “Once again, French Canadians will criticize their government for having duped them. In Ottawa, the government had promised that it would send only volunteers. Quebecers won’t soon forget that it was the Bleus who forced unmarried men to sign up.”
“Particularly since the province clearly voted against conscription. The Conservatives are only just recovering from their blunder in the Louis Riel affair and they are once again showing their contempt of French Canadians.”
“Yesterday I saw our young neighbour who was called up and has to report to Montreal next week. He is leaving to go halfway around the world. This will be the first time he crosses the Atlantic, and it is to go and fight… And he’s just eighteen.”
Maurice is certain that the entry of the United States into the war will hasten the end of the struggle. At least that is what he hopes. Even though he is not afraid of going to the front – as a professional he is exempt – he has seen pictures in the newspapers of mutilated poilus1 and young men lying in the trenches on their bayonets. It’s a dirty war. Although his own law practice is going well, the mood everywhere is dark.
Nérée guesses that his son is hiding something from him. Getting up, he walks to the window. Turning his back on Maurice, he speaks in stinging tones:
“I heard that you’re seeing young Augustine Delisle. Tell me: what does her father do?”
The answer is long in coming. The silence is heavy.