René Lévesque. Marguerite Paulin
“For heaven’s sake, stop frightening everyone by exaggerating so much!”
But at the same time, he added that the Parti Québécois had the right to francize the city because Montreal should no longer have “this bastard face it used to when you couldn’t even ask for a pair of socks in French from a saleswoman at Eaton’s!” The session rose; they would have to find a middle ground.
The day before presenting the proposed Bill 101 to the National Assembly, René Lévesque summoned Camille Laurin to his office. The problem of signage was bothering him: having language police measure the size of letters to the nearest centimetre in store windows was out of the question. “Our law mustn’t prevent little pizzerias with three or four employees from surviving!” Doctor Laurin reassured him; Lévesque returned to the attack. He wanted to suppress Section 73, which said that at the request of either parent, “a child whose father or mother received his or her elementary instruction in English, in Quebec” could receive their instruction in English. He preferred reciprocity, giving anglophones from other provinces the opportunity to study in their language, providing that francophone minorities could enjoy the corresponding rights.
“We are still in Canada; you must not make your proposed legislation more difficult to swallow than sovereignty-association.”
The premier rose then sat down, agitated, smoking one cigarette after another.
“Listen up – if a problem arises, you, Camille Laurin, are the one who will suffer the consequences,” stated René Lévesque, who urged his minister to go himself and sell his Bill 101 to the people, clearly letting them know that he alone was responsible for this notion.
During its first mandate, aside from the Charter of the French Language and legislation on the financing of political parties, the Péquiste government undertook significant reforms. Suffice it to mention the anti-scab legislation, legislation on occupational health and safety, consumer protection, and agricultural zoning, the creation of the Régie de l’assurance automobile du Québec, and aid to small and medium-sized businesses through the employee stock savings plan. As premier, René Lévesque presided over this energetic social and economic catch-up, but sometimes confessed to his ministers that he would rather trade places with them than be head of state. Fortunately, he was lucky enough to lead diplomatic missions outside Quebec, a role that reminded him of his profession as correspondent. After New York came Paris. The tour of the great capitals continued. But this time, improvising was out of the question. Above all, the premier must not make a gaffe: France had a long aristocratic tradition.
“You will go to Colombey-les-Deux-Églises, of course.”
Lévesque remained indifferent. Was it necessary to make this pilgrimage to the tomb of General Charles de Gaulle?
“We’ll see – if I have time!”
This reply disconcerted his entourage, but they remained calm. They felt this was “no mere whim,” to use the expression employed by Lévesque for ending a pointless discussion. Colombey was a symbolic place; it would be a mistake to head straight to the capital and bypass Lorraine. Hadn’t General de Gaulle been the first foreign politician to bring the sovereigntist option to the front pages of international news?
The date was July 24, 1967. The president of the French Republic, during Expo in Montreal, had gone to City Hall. Then, to the amazement of the authorities, he had walked to the balcony where he made an impromptu speech. Carried along by the enthusiasm of the crowd, above a sea of fleurs-de-lis, his final words, distinct and direct, were “Vive le Québec libre!” These four words provoked one of the most commented-upon diplomatic incidents in history. “I was extremely upset,” remembered Lévesque who, near the balcony and crouching in front of a television set, had watched the speech broadcast live. Seeking to analyse the impact of this event, he’d been rivetted to the TV screen.
“I said: ‘Geez, De Gaulle, is going overboard!’ Comparing the euphoria of the Montreal crowd to the Liberation of Paris in 1944 was rather extreme. He was moving fast: in the summer of 1967, the Sovereignty-Association Movement hadn’t even been born yet! What I didn’t like was that the General, with all due respect, presented himself as a liberator with the idea of decolonizing us. We alone are the ones who will achieve independence, when we want, when the time is right.”
Then, after a few seconds went by, he added, grudgingly: “Okay, it’s fine. We’ll make a stop and visit Colombey. I’ll go meditate at the general’s tomb. After all, I do owe him this modest homage.”
Not in ten years had relations between Ottawa and Paris been so strained.
The Canadian Ambassador to France criticized President Valéry Giscard d’Estaing’s government for sympathizing with the sovereigntists. He feared above all that René Lévesque would take advantage of this to create special ties with the Élysée palace.
After a few days’ vacation in Provence, the Quebec delegation went to Lorraine, where it awaited dignitaries for the ceremony honouring Charles de Gaulle. Television, 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