“You tell me, Inspector. What generally paralyzes people?”
Beauvoir knew that answer. “Fear.”
Frère Antoine nodded. “Frère Luc is gifted. By far the best voice we have here, and that’s saying something. But he’s frozen with fear.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. Of belonging. And not belonging. He’s afraid of the sun and afraid of shadows. He’s afraid of creaks in the night and afraid of the morning dew. That’s why I know Frère Mathieu wouldn’t have chosen him to be the soloist. Because his voice, while beautiful, is full of fear. When that fear is replaced by faith he’ll be the soloist. But not before.”
Beauvoir thought about that as they inched down the row, his basket growing heavy with produce.
“But suppose the prior had chosen him? Suppose he decided most people wouldn’t hear the fear, or care. Maybe it even made the music more attractive, richer, more human. I don’t know. But suppose Frère Mathieu had chosen Luc. How would you’ve felt?”
The monk took the straw hat from his head and wiped his brow. “You think I’d care?”
Beauvoir met the stare. It really was like looking into a mirror. “I think you’d care very deeply.”
“Would you? If a man you admired, respected, revered even passed you up in favor of someone else, what would you do?”
“Is that how you felt about the prior? You revered him?”
“I did. He was a great man. He saved the monastery. And if he wanted a monkey to sing solo I’d happily plant bananas.”
Beauvoir found himself wanting to believe this man. Perhaps because he wanted to believe he’d react the same way himself.
But he had his doubts.
And Jean-Guy Beauvoir also doubted this monk. Beneath that robe, beneath that ridiculous hat, wasn’t the son of God but the son of man. And the son of man, Beauvoir knew, was capable of almost anything. If pushed. If betrayed. Especially by a man he revered.
Beauvoir knew that the root of all evil wasn’t money. No, what created and drove evil was fear. Fear of not having enough money, enough food, enough land, enough power, enough security, enough love. Fear of not getting what you want, or losing what you have.
Beauvoir watched Brother Antoine collect hidden squash. What drove a healthy, smart young man to become a monk? Was it faith or was it fear?
*
“Who’s leading the choir now that the prior is gone?” Gamache asked. They’d walked to the end of the garden and were wandering back. Their cheeks were red from the cold morning air.
“I’ve asked Brother Antoine to take over the choir.”
“The soloist? The one who challenged you last night?”
“The one who is by far the most accomplished musician, after Mathieu.”
“You weren’t tempted to take over?”
“I was tempted, and still am,” said the abbot with a smile. “But I passed up that fruit. Antoine is the man for the job. Not me.”
“And yet, he was one of the prior’s men.”
“What do you mean by that?” The abbot’s smile faded.
Gamache cocked his head slightly and examined his companion. “I mean that this abbey, this order, is divided. The prior’s men on one side, the abbot’s men on the other.”
“That’s preposterous,” the abbot snapped. Then snapped back into place. But it was too late. Gamache had had a glimpse of what hid beneath the face. A serpent’s tongue had lashed out, and retreated just as quickly.
“It’s the truth, mon père,” said Gamache.
“You’re mistaking dissent for dissension,” said the abbot.
“I’m not. I do know the difference. What’s happening here, and has probably been going on for quite a while, is far more than healthy disagreement. And you know it.”
The two men had stopped walking and now stared at each other.
“I don’t know what you mean, Monsieur Gamache. There’s no such creature as an abbot’s man. Or a prior’s man. Mathieu and I worked together for decades. He looked after the music, I looked after their spiritual life—”
“But weren’t they one and the same? Frère Luc described the chants as both a bridge to God and God himself.”
“Frère Luc is young and tends to simplify.”
“Frère Luc is one of the prior’s men.”
The abbot bristled. “The chants are important, but only one aspect of our spiritual lives here at Saint-Gilbert.”
“Does the split cut along those lines?” asked Gamache. His voice was calm but unrelenting. “Those for whom the music was paramount joined with the prior. Those whose faith came first joined with you?”
“There was no joining,” said the abbot, his voice raised in exasperation. Desperation, even, thought Gamache. “We’re united. We can sometimes disagree, but that’s all.”
“And did you disagree about the direction of the abbey? Did you disagree about something as fundamental as the vow of silence?”
“I lifted that.”
“Yes, but only after the prior was dead, and only to answer our questions, not to allow the monks to go into the world. Do concerts, give interviews.”
“The vow of silence will never be permanently lifted. Never.”