“Will it be all right, Armand?” she finally asked. There was no neediness, no fear in her voice. It was strong and clear. And curious.
He also stirred his cider. Looking up, he held her eyes and once again she marveled at the quality of calm in them. And something else. Something she’d first noticed in that packed amphitheater years ago.
Even from halfway back, she could see the kindness in his eyes. A quality some had mistaken, to their regret, for weakness.
But there wasn’t just kindness there. Armand Gamache had the personality of a sniper. He watched, and waited, and took careful aim. He almost never shot, metaphorically or literally, but when he did, he almost never missed.
But a decade ago, he’d missed. He’d hit Arnot. But not Francoeur.
And now Francoeur had assembled an army, and was planning something horrific. The question was, did Gamache have another shot in him? And would he hit the target this time?
“Oui, Thérèse,” he said now, and as he smiled his eyes crinkled into deep lines. “All shall be well.”
“Julian of Norwich,” she said, recognizing the phrase. All shall be well.
Through the frosted window she could see Gilles and Nichol carrying equipment up the slope and into the woods. Superintendent Brunel returned her gaze to her companion, noting the holster and gun on his belt. Armand Gamache would do what was necessary. But not before it was necessary.
“All shall be well,” she said, and went back to her reading.
Gamache had given her the documents he’d found on the Ouellet Quints while researching in the Bibliothèque nationale, with the comment that something was bothering him after watching the films the night before.
“Just one thing?” Thérèse had asked. She’d watched the DVD that morning on an old laptop Nichol had brought with her. “Those poor girls. I once envied them, you know. Every little girl wanted to be either a Quint or young Princess Elizabeth.”
And so they settled in, Superintendent Brunel with the file on the girls, and Chief Inspector Gamache with the book by Dr. Bernard. Thérèse put down the dossier an hour later.
“Well?” asked Gamache, taking off his reading glasses.
“There’s a lot in here to damn the parents,” she said.
“And a lot in here,” said Gamache, laying a large hand on the book. “Did anything strike you?”
“As a matter of fact it did. The house.”
“Go on.”
She could see by his face it was what bothered him too.
“The documents show Isidore Ouellet sold the family farm to the government shortly after the Quints were born, for a huge profit. Well beyond its worth.”
“In effect, a payment for the girls,” said the Chief.
“The Québec government would make them wards of the state, and the Ouellets would go on their merry way, unburdened by mouths they couldn’t feed.” Thérèse put the manila folder on the table with distaste. “They suggest the Ouellets were too poor and ignorant to care for the quintuplets and would have eventually had the girls taken away by the welfare officials anyway.”
Gamache nodded. The documents failed to mention it was also the depths of the Depression, when every family struggled. An economic crisis the Ouellets did not bring on themselves. And yet, again, there was the insinuation that they, uniquely, were to blame for their plight. And the benevolent government would save them and their daughters.
“They were doing the Ouellets a favor,” said Gamache. “Buying their burden. Madame Ouellet had given birth to their ticket out of the Depression. Dr. Bernard’s book says much the same thing. The language is couched, of course. No one wanted to be seen to criticize the parents, but the image of the ignorant Québécois farmer wasn’t a hard sell in those days.”
“Except they didn’t cash in at all,” said Thérèse. “Not according to the film. That bénédiction paternelle was when the girls were almost ten, and the Ouellets were still in their old home. They hadn’t sold it.”
Gamache tapped the manila folder with his glasses. “This is a lie. The official documents are fabricated.”
“Why?”
“To make the Ouellets look bad, in case they ever went public.”
Suddenly the letters by Isidore Ouellet took on another flavor. What had appeared wheedling, demanding, whining was in fact simply stating the truth.
The government had stolen their children. And the Ouellets wanted them back. Yes, they were poor, as Ouellet stated, but they could give the girls what they needed.
Gamache remembered the old farmhouse, and Isidore lacing up his daughters’ skates, and Marie-Harriette, haggard, handing them each a hat.
But not just any hat. She handed them their own hats. Each different.
And then, annoyed, she’d tossed one offscreen.
Gamache’s attention had been taken by that. The angry act had overshadowed the tenderness of a moment earlier, when she’d treated them as individuals. Had knitted them their own unique tuques. To protect them against the harsh world.
“Could you excuse me?”