And when, a few weeks ago, Gamache had marched in the achingly slow cortege behind the flag-draped coffins he had with each halting step remembered his agents and with each step remembered his first Chief. His superior then, his superior now and always.
And when, finally, Gamache could take the pain no longer he and Reine-Marie had come here. Not to be healed, but to be helped.
I need help.
The owner of the bistro brought their breakfasts of
“I respect people who have such passion,” Emile was saying. “I don’t. I have a lot of interests, some I’m passionate about, but not to the exclusion of everything else. I sometimes wonder if that’s necessary for geniuses to accomplish what they must, a singularity of purpose. We mere mortals just get in the way. Relationships are messy, distracting.”
“You sound as though you don’t believe it.”
“It depends where you’re going, but no, I don’t. I think you might go far fast, but eventually you’ll stall. We need other people.”
“What for?”
“Help. Isn’t that what Champlain found? All other explorers failed to create a colony but he succeeded. Why? What was the difference? Pere Sebastien told me. Champlain had help. The reason his colony thrived, the reason we’re sitting here today, was exactly because he wasn’t alone. He asked the natives for help and he succeeded.”
“Don’t think they don’t regret it.”
Gamache nodded. It was a terrible loss, a lapse in judgment. Too late the Huron and Algonquin and Cree realized Champlain’s New World was their old one.
“Yes,” said Emile, nodding slowly, his slender fingers toying with the salt and pepper shakers. “We all need help.”
He watched his companion. He’d been heartened by Gamache taking an interest in this case. It was somewhere else to put his mind, other than that scalded spot. But then early that morning, while everyone else slept, he’d heard Armand and Henri, quietly leaving. Again.
“It’s not your fault, you know. So many lives were saved.”
“And lost. I made too many mistakes, Emile.” It was the first time he’d talked about the events to his mentor. “Right from the start.”
“Like what?”
The farmer’s voice, with its broad country accent, played again in Gamache’s head. All the clues were there, right from the start. “I didn’t put things together fast enough.”
“No one else even came close. Jesus, Armand, when I think what might have happened if you hadn’t done what you did.”
Gamache took a deep breath and looked down at the table, his lips tight.
Emile paused. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Armand Gamache looked up. “I can’t. Not yet. But thank you.”
“When you’re ready.” Emile smiled, took a sip of strong, aromatic coffee, and picked up Renaud’s diary again. “I haven’t read it all, of course, but what strikes me immediately is that there seems very little new in this. Certainly nothing we haven’t heard a million times before. The places he’d marked as possible sites for Champlain’s grave are all places we’ve known about. The Cafe Buade, rue de Tresor. But they’ve all been investigated and nothing’s been found.”
“Then why did he believe Champlain might be there?”
“He also thought Champlain was in the Lit and His, let’s not forget. He saw Champlain everywhere.”
Gamache thought for a moment. “There’re bodies buried all over Quebec from hundreds of years ago. How would you even know if you’d found Champlain?”
“That’s a good question. It’s had us worried for a long time. Would the coffin say Samuel de Champlain? Would there be a date, an insignia perhaps? Maybe by his clothes. He apparently wore a quite distinctive metal hat, Renaud always thought that’s how he’d know him.”
“When he opened the coffin he’d see a skeleton in a metal hat and decide it’s the father of Quebec?”
“Genius might have its limits,” admitted Emile. “But scholars think there might be a few clues. All the coffins made back then were wood, with a few exceptions. Experts believe Champlain would be an exception. His coffin was almost certainly lined in lead. And it’s easier these days to date remains.”
Gamache looked unconvinced. “Pere Sebastien at the Basilica said there were mysteries surrounding Champlain and his birth. That he might be a Huguenot or a spy for the King of France or even his illegitimate son. Was that just romanticizing or is there more to it?”
“It’s partly romantic, the noble bastard son. But a few things feed that rumor. One is his own near maniacal secrecy. For instance, he was married but only mentions his wife of twenty-five years a couple of times, and even then not by name.”
“They didn’t have any children, did they?”
Emile shook his head. “But others were also pretty tight lipped about Champlain. A couple of the Jesuit priests and a Recollet lay brother mention him in their journals, but even then it was nothing personal. Just daily life. Why the secrecy?”
