How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,58

lip? You wrote those words.”

“Yes, so? I’ve written a lot of words.”

“This was the first poem of yours to be published, and it remains one of your most famous.”

“I’ve written better.”

“Perhaps, but few more heartfelt. Yesterday, when we were talking about Constance’s visit, you said she told you who she was. You also said you didn’t ask her any more questions. Alas.”

She met his eyes, then her face cracked into a weary smile. “I thought maybe you’d picked up on that.”

“This poem is called ‘Alas.’” He closed the book and quoted by heart, “Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again / or will it be, as always was, / too late?”

Ruth held her head erect as though facing an attack. “You know it?”

“I do. And I think Constance knew it too. I know the poem because I love it. She knew it because she loved the person who’d inspired it.”

He opened the book again and read the dedication, “For V.”

He carefully placed it on the table between them.

“You wrote ‘Alas’ for Virginie Ouellet. The poem was published in 1959, the year after her death. Why did you write it?”

Ruth was quiet. She bent her head and looked at Rosa, then she dropped her thin, blue-veined hand and stroked Rosa’s back.

“They were my age, you know. Almost exactly. Like them, I grew up in the Depression and then the war. We were poor, my parents struggled. They had other things on their mind than an awkward, unhappy daughter. So I turned inward. Developed a rich imaginary life. In it, I was a Quint. The sixth quint,” she smiled at him, and her cheeks reddened a bit. “I know. Six quints. Didn’t make sense.”

Gamache chose not to point out that that wasn’t the only leap of logic.

“They always seemed so happy, so carefree,” Ruth went on.

Her voice became distant and her face took on an expression Gamache had never seen before. Dreamy.

* * *

Thérèse Brunel followed Clara from the bright kitchen into her studio.

They passed a ghostly portrait on an easel. A work-in-progress. Thérèse thought it might be a man’s face, but she wasn’t sure.

Clara stopped in front of another canvas.

“I’ve just started this one,” she said.

Thérèse was eager to see it. She was a fan of Clara’s work.

The two women stood side-by-side. One disheveled, in flannel and a sweatshirt, the other beautifully turned out in slacks, a silk blouse, a Chanel sweater and thin leather belt. They both held steaming mugs of tisane and stared at the canvas.

“What is it?” Thérèse finally asked, after tilting her head this way and that.

Clara snorted. “Who is it, you mean? It’s the first time I’ve done a portrait from memory.”

Thérèse wondered how good Clara’s memory could be.

“It’s Constance Ouellet,” Clara said.

“Ah, oui?” Again Thérèse tilted her head, but no amount of twisting could make this look like one of the famous Quints. Or any other human. “She never finished sitting for you.”

“Or started. Constance refused,” said Clara.

“Really? Why?”

“She didn’t say, but I think she didn’t want me to see too much, or reveal too much.”

“Why did you want to paint her? Because she was a Quint?”

“No, I didn’t know it then. I just thought she had an interesting face.”

“What interested you? What did you see there?”

“Nothing.”

Now the Superintendent turned from her study of the canvas to study her companion.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, Constance was wonderful. Fun and warm and kind. A great dinner guest. She came here a couple of times.”

“But?” Thérèse prompted.

“But I never felt I got to know her better. There was a veneer over her, a sort of lacquer. It was as though she was already a portrait. Something created, but not real.”

They stared at the blotch of paint on the canvas for a while.

“I wonder if you could suggest someone to put up a satellite dish,” Thérèse asked, remembering her mission.

“I can, but it won’t help.”

“What do you mean?”

“Satellite dishes don’t work here. You can try rabbit ears, but the TV signal’s still pretty blurry. Most of us get our news from radio. If there’s a big event we go up to the inn and spa and watch their TV. I can lend you a good book though.”

“Merci,” said Thérèse with a smile, “but if you could find the satellite person anyway that would be great.”

“I’ll make some calls.” Clara left Thérèse alone in the studio contemplating the canvas, and the woman who’d been not quite real and now was dead.

* * *

Ruth held the volume of poetry in her thin hands, pressing