How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,47

of Montréal. The designers had created a long, wide pedestrian boulevard that ran from the street straight to the front door. Except that the church had been built on the side of the mountain. And the only way in was up. Up, up the many stone stairs. Ninety-nine of them.

And once inside? The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with crutches and canes. Left because they were no longer needed.

Thousands of weak and crippled pilgrims had dragged themselves up those stone steps into the presence of the tiny old man. And Brother André had healed them.

He was ninety years old when Marie-Harriette Ouellet made her pilgrimage, and walking off the end of his life. It would be understandable if he conserved what strength he had left. But the wizened little man in the simple black robes continued to heal others while growing weaker himself.

Marie-Harriette Ouellet had traveled alone from her small farm to beg the saint for a miracle.

Gamache spoke without need of his notes. What happened next was not easily forgotten.

“Saint Joseph’s Oratory wasn’t what it is today. There was a church there, and a long promenade and stairs, but the dome wasn’t completed. Now it’s overrun with tourists, but back then almost everyone who visited was a pilgrim. The sick, the dying, the crippled, desperate for help. Marie-Harriette joined them.”

He paused and took a deep breath. Myrna, who’d been looking into the dying fire, met his eyes. She knew what almost certainly came next.

“At the gate, the foot of the long pedestrian boulevard, she dropped to her knees and said the first of the Hail Marys,” said Gamache.

His voice was deep and warm, but neutral. There was no need to infuse his words with his own feelings.

The images came alive as he spoke. Both he and Myrna could see the young woman. Young by their standards, elderly by the judgment of her time.

Twenty-six-year-old Marie-Harriette, dropped to her knees.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, she prayed. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

Into the quiet loft, Armand Gamache spoke the familiar prayer.

“All night she crawled on her knees along the promenade, stopping to say the Hail Mary at every step,” said Gamache. “At the bottom of the stairs Marie-Harriette didn’t hesitate. She headed up them, her bloody knees staining her best dress.”

It must have looked, thought Myrna, like menstruation. Blood staining a woman’s dress. As she prayed for children.

Blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

She imagined the young woman, exhausted, in pain, desperate, crawling up the stone stairs on her knees. Praying.

“Finally, at dawn, Marie-Harriette reached the top,” said Gamache. “She looked up, and standing at the door of the church was Brother André, apparently waiting for her. He helped her up and they went in together and prayed. He listened to her pleas, and he blessed her. Then she left.”

The room fell silent and Myrna took a deep breath. Relieved the long climb was over. She could feel the sting in her knees. Could feel the ache in her own womb. And she could feel Marie-Harriette’s belief, that with the help of a chaste priest and a long-dead virgin, she might finally have a child.

“It worked,” said Gamache. “Eight months later, in January 1937, the day after Brother André died, Marie-Harriette Ouellet gave birth to five healthy daughters.”

Even though she knew how the story ended, Myrna was still amazed.

She could see how this would be considered a miracle. Proof that God existed and was kind. And generous. Almost, thought Myrna, to a fault.

SIXTEEN

“It was, of course,” said Gamache, voicing Myrna’s thoughts, “considered a miracle. The first quintuplets to have ever survived childbirth. They became sensations.”

The Chief leaned forward and placed a photograph on the coffee table.

It showed Isidore Ouellet, their father, standing behind the babies. He was unshaven, his farmer’s face weather-beaten, his dark hair unkempt. It looked like he’d spent the night running his immense hands through it. Even in the grainy picture, they could see the dark circles under his eyes. He wore a light shirt with a collar, and a frayed suit jacket, as though he’d thrown on his Sunday best at the last minute.

His daughters lay on the rough kitchen table in front of him. They were tiny, newborn, wrapped in hastily brought sheets and dish towels and rags. He was looking at his children in amazement, his eyes wide.

It would be comical if there wasn’t so much horror in that beaten face. Isidore