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“So the two are unrelated?” asked Lacoste.
“Must be, don’t you think?” He paused and looked at her. “What do you think?”
“Oh, I agree. They have to be unrelated, except maybe that one inspired the other. Les frères Tardif were both in custody, so someone else was responsible for last night.”
Still, Beauvoir could see that Lacoste was uncomfortable. As was he, though he couldn’t see how the two attacks could be connected in any way, except by the intended target.
“Where’s the Chief?” asked Isabelle.
“Going over some things at home. He’ll be here soon.”
Jean-Guy looked around and wondered how the Chief would react to their new Incident Room.
Not well, he thought. Gamache, better than most, knew the wraiths hidden in this basement. He could even name them. Not actually an advantage, when it came to wraiths.
Stephen leaned against the doorjamb into the study. “You wanted to speak with me.”
Armand got up from his desk. “I do, thank you. How are you doing?”
“Like everyone else,” said the elderly man, walking stiffly to the straight-backed chair he always chose. “Sad and tired. It doesn’t seem possible that actually happened.”
He sat with a groan, then pointed to the desk. “I haven’t seen that book in years. Is it the one I gave your father?”
“You gave it to him?”
“I did. Given what he was going through, I thought he might find it comforting.”
Armand picked up the volume he’d found that morning in the bookcase in their living room. Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.
“Chancellor Roberge was in the library of the Auberge last night reading it,” said Armand. “I remembered seeing the same one in our collection. I was curious.”
Opening it, he saw on the title page, For Honoré, who knows a lot about the madness of crowds. Stephen.
It was dated the year Armand had been born.
Honoré Gamache, Armand’s father, had been a conscientious objector when Canada declared war on Germany. He gave impassioned speeches against conscription, arguing that Quebeckers shouldn’t give up their lives to protect far-off imperial powers. He became the face of Québec resistance to the war.
He did, however, join the Red Cross and worked as a medic and ambulance driver.
But after going into the concentration camps, seeing what had happened, Honoré Gamache deeply regretted his stand.
Profoundly ashamed of himself for not recognizing his moral duty sooner, he spent the rest of his short life making amends. Including sponsoring two refugees. The woman, Zora, who would become Armand’s de facto grandmother, and raise him after his parents died. And Stephen Horowitz, Armand’s godfather, who defended Honoré at every turn. Pointing out to his detractors the great courage it took to be a medic. To be on a battlefield without a weapon. There to save lives, not take them.
And the great courage it took to admit a mistake.
Still, the name Honoré Gamache remained for a generation synonymous with cowardice, and Armand’s father was often heckled when he gave speeches in support of the Red Cross and refugees. He took his son to the events, knowing what would happen.
He’d bend down and assure little Armand that ça va bien aller. That these people had a right to their opinion, and many had died for that right.
Armand, from a young age, knew a lot about courage, and a lot about the madness of crowds.
“I’ve never read it.” Armand handed the book to Stephen.
“You should. It’s about what happens when gullibility and fear meet greed and power.”
“Nothing good?” said Armand, with a small smile.
“You’re smarter than you look, garçon.” Stephen tapped the cover. “People will believe anything. Doesn’t make them stupid, just desperate. Interesting that the Chancellor would be reading this. She’s friends with Professor Robinson, right?”
