How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,66
of baking bread. It mingled with the rosemary chicken and he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “I have a favor to ask. I’ve transferred some old film onto a disk and I’d like to watch it, but Emilie’s home doesn’t have a DVD player.”
“You want to use mine?”
When he nodded she waved a piece of cutlery like a wand in the direction of the living room. “It’s in the room off the living room.”
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I’ll set you up. Dinner won’t be for at least half an hour.”
Gamache followed her through to a small room with a sofa and armchair. An old box television sat on a table, with a DVD player beside it. He watched while Clara pressed some buttons.
“What’s on the DVD?” asked Gabri. He stood at the door holding the platter of crackers and pâté. “Let me guess. Your audition for Canada’s Got Talent?”
“It would be very short if it was,” said Gamache.
“What’s going on?” Ruth demanded, pushing through, holding Rosa in one arm and a vase of Scotch in the other.
“The Chief Inspector’s auditioning for Canadian Idol,” Gabri explained. “This’s his audition tape.”
“Well, not—” Gamache began, then gave up. Why bother?
“Did someone say you’re auditioning for So You Think You Can Dance?” asked Myrna, squeezing onto the small sofa between the Chief and Ruth.
Gamache looked plaintively over at Clara. Olivier had arrived and was standing next to his partner. The Chief sighed and pressed the play button.
A familiar black and white graphic swirled toward them on the small screen, accompanied by music and an authoritative voice.
“In a small Canadian hamlet a tiny miracle has occurred,” said the grim newsreel announcer. The first grainy images appeared, and everyone in Clara’s small television room leaned forward.
TWENTY-ONE
“Five miracles,” the melodramatic narration continued, as though announcing Armageddon. “Delivered one bitter winter night by this man, Dr. Joseph Bernard.”
There on the screen stood Dr. Bernard, in full surgical smock, a mask over his nose and mouth. He waved a little maniacally, but Gamache knew that was the effect of the old black and white newsreels, where people lurched and movements were either too static or too manic.
In front of the doctor lay the five babies, wrapped up tight.
“Five little girls, born to Isidore and Marie-Harriette Ouellet.”
The sonorous voice struggled with the Québécois names. The first time they’d been pronounced on the newsreels, but would soon be on everyone’s lips. This was the world’s introduction to—
“Five little princesses. The world’s first surviving quintuplets. Virginie, Hélène, Josephine, Marguerite, and Constance.”
And Constance, noted Gamache with interest. She would go through life hanging off the end of that sentence. And Constance. An outlier.
The voice became suddenly excitable. “Here’s their father.”
The scene switched to Dr. Bernard standing in a modest farmhouse living room, in front of a woodstove. He was handing a large man one of his own daughters. Like a special favor. Not a gift, though. A loan.
Isidore, cleaned up for the camera and giving a gap-toothed smile, held his child awkwardly in his arms. Unused to infants but, Gamache could see, he was a natural.
* * *
Thérèse felt a familiar hand on her elbow, and was drawn, reluctantly, away from the television.
Jérôme led her to a corner of Clara’s living room, as far from the gathering as possible, though they could still hear the Voice of Doom in the background. Now the Voice was talking about rustics, and seemed to imply the girls had been born in a barn.
Thérèse looked at her husband inquiringly.
Jérôme positioned himself so that he could see the guests standing around the doorway, focused on the television. He switched his gaze to his wife.
“Tell me about Arnot.”
“Arnot?”
“Pierre Arnot. You knew him.” His voice was low. Urgent. His eyes flickered between the other guests and his wife.
Thérèse could not have been more surprised had her husband suddenly stripped. She stared at him, barely comprehending.
“Do you mean the Arnot case? But that was years ago.”
“Not just the case. I want to hear about Arnot himself. Everything you can tell me.”
Thérèse stared, dumbfounded. “But that’s absurd. Why in the world would you suddenly want to know about him?”
Jérôme’s eyes shot to the other guests, their backs safely turned, before returning to his wife. He lowered his voice still further.
“Can’t you guess?”
She felt her heart drop. Arnot. Surely not.
In the background the bleak voice implied that the hand of God had assisted in the delivery. But the hand of God felt very far from this little room, with