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Chroniques du Plateau Mont-Royal #3
La duchesse et le roturier
Book by Tremblay, Michel
390 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1982
6 people are currently reading
140 people want to read
About the author
Michel Tremblay
137 books244 followersNé en 1942, Michel Tremblay grandit dans un appartement de Montréal où s'entassent plusieurs familles. Ses origines modestes marqueront d'ailleurs ses œuvres, souvent campées au cœur de la classe ouvrière, où misères sociale et morale se côtoient. En 1964, il participe au Concours des jeunes auteurs de Radio-Canada, avec une pièce de théâtre intitulée Le train, et remporte le premier prix. C'est à peine un an plus tard qu'il écrit l'une de ses œuvres majeures, Les belles-sœurs, dont le succès perdure. La pièce est jouée pour la première fois en 1968 au Théâtre du Rideau Vert.
Michel Tremblay est l'auteur d'un nombre considérable de pièces de théâtre, de romans, et d'adaptations d'œuvres d'auteurs et de dramaturges étrangers. On lui doit aussi quelques comédies musicales, des scénarios de films et un opéra. Ses univers sont peuplés de femmes, tantôt caractérielles et imparfaites, tantôt fragiles et attachantes, qu'il peint avec réalisme et humour. Vivant les difficultés du quotidien, ses personnages au dialecte coloré ont d'ailleurs contribué à introduire dans la dramaturgie et la littérature d'alors un niveau de langue boudé des artistes : le joual.
En 2006, il remporte le Grand Prix Metropolis bleu pour l'ensemble de son œuvre.
En 2017, le Prix Gilles-Corbeil lui est décerné pour l'ensemble de son oeuvre.
Michel Tremblay est l'auteur d'un nombre considérable de pièces de théâtre, de romans, et d'adaptations d'œuvres d'auteurs et de dramaturges étrangers. On lui doit aussi quelques comédies musicales, des scénarios de films et un opéra. Ses univers sont peuplés de femmes, tantôt caractérielles et imparfaites, tantôt fragiles et attachantes, qu'il peint avec réalisme et humour. Vivant les difficultés du quotidien, ses personnages au dialecte coloré ont d'ailleurs contribué à introduire dans la dramaturgie et la littérature d'alors un niveau de langue boudé des artistes : le joual.
En 2006, il remporte le Grand Prix Metropolis bleu pour l'ensemble de son œuvre.
En 2017, le Prix Gilles-Corbeil lui est décerné pour l'ensemble de son oeuvre.
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Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews
April 7, 2021
Un homosexuel d’une quarantaine d’années décide de profiter de la mort de sa mère pour sortir du placard. Il se lance avec éclat comme artiste-travesti sur la scène de vaudeville. L’idée est prometteuse mais le roman ne m'a pas touché.
Mon problème est peut-être que j’ai vécu la plupart de ma vie à Toronto et « La duchesse et le roturier » est très Montréalais. On y trouve des très longs passages qui décrivent l’ambiance du Théâtre National où on présentait attirant les vedettes du burlesque francophone montréalais. Parmi les personnages du roman, il y a plusieurs vraies personnes de l’époque, notamment Rose Ouellette « La Poune », la directrice célèbre du Théâtre National pendant ses années de gloire. Tremblay parle aussi dans son roman du Monument-National l’autre salle de spectacle l’importante de l’époque.
« La duchesse et le roturier » est certainement plein d’ambiance mais j’ai trouvé l’intrigue faible et je n’ai pas été capable de m’intéresser aux personnages.
Mon problème est peut-être que j’ai vécu la plupart de ma vie à Toronto et « La duchesse et le roturier » est très Montréalais. On y trouve des très longs passages qui décrivent l’ambiance du Théâtre National où on présentait attirant les vedettes du burlesque francophone montréalais. Parmi les personnages du roman, il y a plusieurs vraies personnes de l’époque, notamment Rose Ouellette « La Poune », la directrice célèbre du Théâtre National pendant ses années de gloire. Tremblay parle aussi dans son roman du Monument-National l’autre salle de spectacle l’importante de l’époque.
« La duchesse et le roturier » est certainement plein d’ambiance mais j’ai trouvé l’intrigue faible et je n’ai pas été capable de m’intéresser aux personnages.
January 20, 2025
Pas mon préféré, l'histoire s'en va dans toutes les directions mais je comprends mieux à la fin..... j'ai hâte de lire la suite....
November 17, 2025
My love for this series continues. Another absolutely beautiful segment. The writing is still technically annoying—pages and pages with no paragraph breaks. I did not personally relate to this one as closely, because it focuses on Edouard, the gay uncle, whereas the prior two books focused more on the female characters. But despite all this, another 5-star book!
“She wrapped her arms around herself as if to hug or rock herself, rested her chin in the hollow of her shoulder, and died—sitting up and radiant with joy. Marcel rushed to her, put his arms around her,
sniffing the old woman’s neck, peering, sniffing, visiting the wrinkles and folds with his eyebrows, his mouth, placing his ear against the old heart that was no longer beating. He didn’t find what he was looking for and he turned towards the four women whose heads were still bowed. ‘You lied to me! I didn’t see a thing! I didn’t see anything at all! Her soul didn’t fly away! It’s still inside her!’.... Rose, Violette and Mauve moved away from Victoire’s bed and sat on their coats while Florence reached out her arms towards Marcel. ‘Keep your hands off me!’ Florence ran her finger over Marcel’s forehead. ‘Come here! I’ll explain...’ There was such tenderness in her eyes that Marcel threw himself into her arms the way he often took refuge in the arms of the fat woman, his aunt, when he was too unhappy. Rose, Violette and Mauve raised their right foot at the same time, then the left, and the distant rhythm of a jig rose in a little room, tenuous, frail nearly timid, while from Florence’s mouth came a melody from another time, a lament, rather, that soared above the syncopated rhythm of heels on hardwood. Marcel picked up Duplessis and took off, raised by the music, carried by it, straddling it as if it had to be tamed, whirling in this wave of sound that he recognized perfectly but whose existence hadn’t even been hinted at till now. All at once there was a smell of pine resin, of wild roses and rutting bear, of pipe tobacco to drive mosquitoes away and of slowly simmering beef soup; the laundry had been done and a dog was rummaging in the white sheets spread out in the dew; you could hear its joyous barking blend with the music that was becoming more and more present until it merged with the heartbeats of Marcel who was holding his cat against him, astonished swooning, overwhelmed with happiness. A flight of whippoorwills crossed a lemon sky and Marcel cried out: “A birds’ wedding!” dropping Duplessis who began to float at his side. A woman was singing as she kneaded her bread, another was baking pies that scented the air. Rose (or Violette, or Mauve) began to warble an old song and whole landscapes filed past Marcel’s eyes: sunrises that could break your heart, flash storms that dried up as quickly as they’d come, and nights so transparent that you could simply reach out your arm and unhook the moon; snowstorms that swooped down on silent forests or floods that made the wildlife run away; and most of all, motionless middays filled with the buzzing of flies, when the mountains vibrate in the suffocating heat and eyelids grow heavy. All that was turning, spinning, jigging, and Marcel could call all those things by name and even—yes, if he forced himself a little he could have sung them. And when Florence added words to her song a great void appeared; Marcel could see slipping by beneath his feet an entire section of the country, from Duhamel to Saint-Jerome from Papineauville to Saint-Andre-Avellin, and, in the distance, shining there bright as a threat but still so lovely, Montreal with its Cross, with all its crosses. When the music stopped, Marcel felt his head spin and he held out his arms to Duplessis. ‘I’m falling!’ He opened his eyes. Rose, Violette and Mauve had taken their knitting from their sleeves and the needles for clicking at a good clip. Florence ran her hand over the little boy’s damp forehead while Duplessis daintily licked his wrist. Marcel looked at his grandmother, still upright in her bed. Florence carefully closed his eyes as if he himself were the dead person. ‘That was her soul.’” p17-18
“...so many kicks, so many punches, so many humiliating failures that you think you’ll never get over before the first successes, which are nearly as depressing as the failures because they rarely come for the right reasons.” p28
“And he liked to control his daydreams. For instance, before he fell asleep at night, when his parents were quiet again he could easily take everything he’d heard during the day and transform it into a great journey with bright colors, clear sounds and precise odours; mornings too, while his mother and his aunt Albertine were listening to La Fiancée du Commando or Big Sister, exclaiming indignantly when the heroines were made to suffer too much, it was easy for him to escape from the house, from Fabre Street, from Plateau Mont-Royal, and take refuge in some land of his own invention, where children didn’t have to take naps and bread didn’t have crusts.” p136
“One world had replaced another. Two minutes earlier she’d been a mother, somewhat disheartened by her two children, poor but proud and clean, as she’d been taught to be, ignorant, yes, practically illiterate even, intellectually lazy because she’d never been challenged, neither in her thinking nor her sensitivity, nor most of all—her soul, which had been fed a constant diet of obtuse beliefs, stupid practices, narrow creeds foods—that fill but don’t nourish, that clog more than inspire; and suddenly her younger child, the difficult one, the one who‘d been put in an auxiliary class because he didn’t want to learn, who saw things no one else could see, that sick little boy, so sweet but so hopeless, was submerging her in unbearably beautiful sounds whose existence she categorically refused to accept. She closed her eyes on this world that was too beautiful and she’d have plugged her ears too if she’d really thought she could kill these waves of exultation that were swamping her.” p151-152
“The little boy didn’t understand what it was all about, but he felt vaguely that it came from long, long ago, from the very depths of their souls and the source of a slow and lethal pain, ending up nowhere because the future was frightening. He couldn’t have given a name to any of the sensations he was experiencing but he knew they were there, and they terrified him.” p193
“But he couldn’t find the words either. It was obvious now that words between them were pointless; both had used an abundance of the ones they knew, had drained them of their substance, of significance, and now they could only repeat them without ever being touched by them, because they’d already heard them too often, and once that happens they have no effect.” p195
“She wrapped her arms around herself as if to hug or rock herself, rested her chin in the hollow of her shoulder, and died—sitting up and radiant with joy. Marcel rushed to her, put his arms around her,
sniffing the old woman’s neck, peering, sniffing, visiting the wrinkles and folds with his eyebrows, his mouth, placing his ear against the old heart that was no longer beating. He didn’t find what he was looking for and he turned towards the four women whose heads were still bowed. ‘You lied to me! I didn’t see a thing! I didn’t see anything at all! Her soul didn’t fly away! It’s still inside her!’.... Rose, Violette and Mauve moved away from Victoire’s bed and sat on their coats while Florence reached out her arms towards Marcel. ‘Keep your hands off me!’ Florence ran her finger over Marcel’s forehead. ‘Come here! I’ll explain...’ There was such tenderness in her eyes that Marcel threw himself into her arms the way he often took refuge in the arms of the fat woman, his aunt, when he was too unhappy. Rose, Violette and Mauve raised their right foot at the same time, then the left, and the distant rhythm of a jig rose in a little room, tenuous, frail nearly timid, while from Florence’s mouth came a melody from another time, a lament, rather, that soared above the syncopated rhythm of heels on hardwood. Marcel picked up Duplessis and took off, raised by the music, carried by it, straddling it as if it had to be tamed, whirling in this wave of sound that he recognized perfectly but whose existence hadn’t even been hinted at till now. All at once there was a smell of pine resin, of wild roses and rutting bear, of pipe tobacco to drive mosquitoes away and of slowly simmering beef soup; the laundry had been done and a dog was rummaging in the white sheets spread out in the dew; you could hear its joyous barking blend with the music that was becoming more and more present until it merged with the heartbeats of Marcel who was holding his cat against him, astonished swooning, overwhelmed with happiness. A flight of whippoorwills crossed a lemon sky and Marcel cried out: “A birds’ wedding!” dropping Duplessis who began to float at his side. A woman was singing as she kneaded her bread, another was baking pies that scented the air. Rose (or Violette, or Mauve) began to warble an old song and whole landscapes filed past Marcel’s eyes: sunrises that could break your heart, flash storms that dried up as quickly as they’d come, and nights so transparent that you could simply reach out your arm and unhook the moon; snowstorms that swooped down on silent forests or floods that made the wildlife run away; and most of all, motionless middays filled with the buzzing of flies, when the mountains vibrate in the suffocating heat and eyelids grow heavy. All that was turning, spinning, jigging, and Marcel could call all those things by name and even—yes, if he forced himself a little he could have sung them. And when Florence added words to her song a great void appeared; Marcel could see slipping by beneath his feet an entire section of the country, from Duhamel to Saint-Jerome from Papineauville to Saint-Andre-Avellin, and, in the distance, shining there bright as a threat but still so lovely, Montreal with its Cross, with all its crosses. When the music stopped, Marcel felt his head spin and he held out his arms to Duplessis. ‘I’m falling!’ He opened his eyes. Rose, Violette and Mauve had taken their knitting from their sleeves and the needles for clicking at a good clip. Florence ran her hand over the little boy’s damp forehead while Duplessis daintily licked his wrist. Marcel looked at his grandmother, still upright in her bed. Florence carefully closed his eyes as if he himself were the dead person. ‘That was her soul.’” p17-18
“...so many kicks, so many punches, so many humiliating failures that you think you’ll never get over before the first successes, which are nearly as depressing as the failures because they rarely come for the right reasons.” p28
“And he liked to control his daydreams. For instance, before he fell asleep at night, when his parents were quiet again he could easily take everything he’d heard during the day and transform it into a great journey with bright colors, clear sounds and precise odours; mornings too, while his mother and his aunt Albertine were listening to La Fiancée du Commando or Big Sister, exclaiming indignantly when the heroines were made to suffer too much, it was easy for him to escape from the house, from Fabre Street, from Plateau Mont-Royal, and take refuge in some land of his own invention, where children didn’t have to take naps and bread didn’t have crusts.” p136
“One world had replaced another. Two minutes earlier she’d been a mother, somewhat disheartened by her two children, poor but proud and clean, as she’d been taught to be, ignorant, yes, practically illiterate even, intellectually lazy because she’d never been challenged, neither in her thinking nor her sensitivity, nor most of all—her soul, which had been fed a constant diet of obtuse beliefs, stupid practices, narrow creeds foods—that fill but don’t nourish, that clog more than inspire; and suddenly her younger child, the difficult one, the one who‘d been put in an auxiliary class because he didn’t want to learn, who saw things no one else could see, that sick little boy, so sweet but so hopeless, was submerging her in unbearably beautiful sounds whose existence she categorically refused to accept. She closed her eyes on this world that was too beautiful and she’d have plugged her ears too if she’d really thought she could kill these waves of exultation that were swamping her.” p151-152
“The little boy didn’t understand what it was all about, but he felt vaguely that it came from long, long ago, from the very depths of their souls and the source of a slow and lethal pain, ending up nowhere because the future was frightening. He couldn’t have given a name to any of the sensations he was experiencing but he knew they were there, and they terrified him.” p193
“But he couldn’t find the words either. It was obvious now that words between them were pointless; both had used an abundance of the ones they knew, had drained them of their substance, of significance, and now they could only repeat them without ever being touched by them, because they’d already heard them too often, and once that happens they have no effect.” p195
November 17, 2025
Un peu plus difficile de bien embarquer à cause de la façon que c'est écrit et que l'histoire va un peu dans tous les sens.
Mais au final une très bonne histoire. J'aime la complexité des personnages et de leurs relations.
J'aime aussi l'abondance de détails qui nous permet de nous visualiser dans un Montréal des années 40 recouvert de neige.
C'est une bonne lecture d'hiver et on a envie d'en apprendre plus sur les personnages et ce qu'ils deviendront.
Un livre que tout le monde devrait avoir lu au moins une fois dans sa vie.
Mais au final une très bonne histoire. J'aime la complexité des personnages et de leurs relations.
J'aime aussi l'abondance de détails qui nous permet de nous visualiser dans un Montréal des années 40 recouvert de neige.
C'est une bonne lecture d'hiver et on a envie d'en apprendre plus sur les personnages et ce qu'ils deviendront.
Un livre que tout le monde devrait avoir lu au moins une fois dans sa vie.
June 27, 2018
The third novel in Michel Tremblay's sexology "Chronicles of the Plateau Mount-Royal," starts with the death of Victorine, the family matriarch, and its effect on her mystical grandson, Marcel. The main focus, however is on her son Edouard, a gay shoe salesman who in this novel discovers his true calling as a drag queen. The novel is filled with memorable scenes, particularly a late-night walk through the snow and Edouard's attendance at a concert in drag, where he sits next to his sister, Albertine, without her recognizing him. This may just be the height of magic in the sexology, or at least the most effective use of it. Throughout, Tremblay contrasts the magical world of Marcel's visions and Edouard's fantasies with the harsh realities of the their life in Montreal.
October 12, 2021
C'est tout comme retrouver sa famille après une longue période d'absence. J'en avais de besoin. Merci Michel.
October 31, 2023
Ce livre m'a pris une éternité parce que c'était ma "lecture de midi" - et 10-15 minutes à la fois ne font pas une lecture rapide. Il faut noter que, même s'il n'est pas mon préféré de la série, jusqu'à présent, il a été très agréable à lire.
Les deux premiers livres étaient plus axés sur les filles et les femmes de la maison et celui-ci est consacré à Edouard, le frère homosexuel qui veut absolument arrêter de vendre des chaussures et entrer dans la cour des grands en tant qu'artiste. Il ne faut pas oublier que l'histoire se déroule après la Seconde Guerre mondiale et que ce qui est acceptable aujourd'hui ne l'était pas à l'époque.
Le livre se déroule entre août 1946 et février 1947, mais il est raconté de temps en temps, ce qui permet de combler les lacunes, mais peut aussi prêter à confusion.
La lecture de cette série est également difficile parce que Michel Tremblay ne semble pas croire aux paragraphes et aux séparations entre les participants au dialogue. Il pourrait aussi donner du fil à retordre à Virginia Woolf en ce qui concerne la longueur des phrases ! L'une d'elles occupait une page et demie !
Cela dit, l'an prochain, après une pause de quelques livres, je lirai le quatrième et, ce que j'ai appris récemment, pas le dernier de la série.
Les deux premiers livres étaient plus axés sur les filles et les femmes de la maison et celui-ci est consacré à Edouard, le frère homosexuel qui veut absolument arrêter de vendre des chaussures et entrer dans la cour des grands en tant qu'artiste. Il ne faut pas oublier que l'histoire se déroule après la Seconde Guerre mondiale et que ce qui est acceptable aujourd'hui ne l'était pas à l'époque.
Le livre se déroule entre août 1946 et février 1947, mais il est raconté de temps en temps, ce qui permet de combler les lacunes, mais peut aussi prêter à confusion.
La lecture de cette série est également difficile parce que Michel Tremblay ne semble pas croire aux paragraphes et aux séparations entre les participants au dialogue. Il pourrait aussi donner du fil à retordre à Virginia Woolf en ce qui concerne la longueur des phrases ! L'une d'elles occupait une page et demie !
Cela dit, l'an prochain, après une pause de quelques livres, je lirai le quatrième et, ce que j'ai appris récemment, pas le dernier de la série.
July 20, 2017
Difficile à lire dû au manque de paragraphe. Ça a commencé à m'intéresser quand on s'est attardé à Édouard. Pas le meilleur de Tremblay selon moi.
September 28, 2020
Lu il y a plusieurs années
July 14, 2015
Ouf! C'est pas pour rien que ça m'a pris deux essais pour le terminer. Le style d'écriture tout pogné sans paragraphe, je comprends pas. Me semble que c'est utile, un paragraphe, mettons que ton enfant de trois ans te dérange au milieu d'une page et que tu es pognée pour recommencer au début? Cinquante fois d'affilée? Ça ne me dérange pas une fois de temps en temps, comme effet de style - comme à la fin de La grande mêlée - mais sinon, bof.
C'est sûr que ça n'aide pas que la première partie se passe essentiellement lors d'une soirée de théâtre avec Édouard et d'autres personnages qui ne m'intéressaient pas pantoute. Moi, j'aime Rhéauna, et la plupart des autres habitants de la rue Fabre... Je pourrais par contre me passer de Marcel et de ses élucubrations (sauf pour la scène du piano avec Albertine, qui était très forte). Alors bref, c'était pas un livre pour moi. Quand même contente de pouvoir continuer de traverser le siècle, par contre.
Grand défi de littérature québécoise : Catégorie 1980-1989. 3 points (total: 191 points).
C'est sûr que ça n'aide pas que la première partie se passe essentiellement lors d'une soirée de théâtre avec Édouard et d'autres personnages qui ne m'intéressaient pas pantoute. Moi, j'aime Rhéauna, et la plupart des autres habitants de la rue Fabre... Je pourrais par contre me passer de Marcel et de ses élucubrations (sauf pour la scène du piano avec Albertine, qui était très forte). Alors bref, c'était pas un livre pour moi. Quand même contente de pouvoir continuer de traverser le siècle, par contre.
Grand défi de littérature québécoise : Catégorie 1980-1989. 3 points (total: 191 points).
December 22, 2022
Inutile de dire à quel point Michel Tremblay a un énorme talent de conteur! Cet auteur excelle pour mettre en mots les misères quotidiennes et les tiraillements intérieurs de ses personnages, tous plus attachants, pathétiques et complexes les uns que les autres.
March 3, 2012
My favourite in the series so far.
January 26, 2023
Tome 3 des Chroniques du Plateau Mont-Royal.
Rencontre avec la duchesse et le monde des dragues
Rencontre avec la duchesse et le monde des dragues
Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews