“And yet now that he’s gone life feels emptier, less vibrant. I envied him his passion. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that strongly about anything. And he wasn’t a fool, you know, he knew the price he paid, but he was willing to pay it.”
“And what was that price?” Émile asked.
“He was mocked and ridiculed, but more than that, no one liked him.”
“Except you,” said Gamache.
She said nothing. “He was lonely, you know, in the end. But still he couldn’t stop, couldn’t trade a dead explorer for living friends.”
“When did he bring these books to you?” Gamache asked.
“About three weeks ago. There’re four boxes. He said his apartment was too crowded.”
Émile and Gamache exchanged a quick glance. Renaud’s apartment was certainly cramped, but it was already a disaster, four more boxes would have made no difference.
No. He’d brought them to his wife for another reason. For safekeeping.
“Did he bring you anything else?” Émile asked.
She shook her head. “He was secretive by nature, some might say paranoid,” she smiled. She was a woman of good cheer and Gamache wondered at Augustin Renaud, who’d chosen her as his wife. For a few bright years had he known happiness? Had that been his one shining attempt to change course? And find a place on the shore with this jovial, kind woman? But he couldn’t, of course.
Gamache watched Madame Renaud chat with Émile. She still loved him, despite all that, thought Gamache. Was that a blessing or a curse?
And he wondered if that would go away, with time. Would the voice fade, the features blur? Would the memories recede and take their place with other pleasant, but neutral events from the past?
Avec le temps. Do we love less?
“Do you mind if we go through the boxes?” Gamache asked.
“Not at all. The other officers took a look but didn’t seem very interested. What are you looking for exactly?”
“Two books,” said Gamache. They’d walked to the back of the apartment, into the large, old-fashioned kitchen. “Unfortunately we don’t know what they are.”
“Well, I hope you find them here.” She opened a door and turned on a light.
Gamache and Émile saw wooden steps going straight down into a dark cellar with a dirt floor. A slight musky aroma met them, and as they headed down the stairs it felt a bit like wading into water. Gamache could feel the cool air creep up his legs until it was at his chest, his head and he was submerged in the dank and the chill.
“Watch your heads,” she called but both men were familiar with these old homes and had already ducked. “The boxes are over by the far wall.”
It took a moment for Gamache’s eyes to adjust, but finally they did and he saw the four cardboard boxes. Walking over he knelt at one while Émile took another.
Gamache’s box contained a variety of books in different sizes. First he checked their catalog numbers. All were from the Literary and Historical Society, a few even had the name Charles Chiniquy written in but none matched the numbers in the diary. He moved to another box.
That box was filled with bound sermons, reference books and old family bibles, some Catholic, some Presbyterian. He opened the first book and checked the number. 9-8495. His heart quickened. This was the box. Opening the next book and the next, the numbers mounted. 9-8496, 8497, 8498. Gamache brought out the next book, a black leather collection of sermons and opened it. 9-8500.
He stared at it, willing the numbers to change, then he carefully, slowly opened again and replaced each of the twenty books in the box. One was indeed missing.
9-8499.
It had sat between that book of sermons and Chiniquy’s confirmation bible.
“Maudits,” Gamache swore under his breath. Why wasn’t it there?
“Any luck?” He turned to Émile.
“Nothing. The damned book should be right here,” Émile shoved a finger between two volumes. “But it’s gone. 9-8572. Do you think someone got here first?”
“Madame Renaud said only Langlois’s team has been.”
“Still, what is here might be helpful,” said Émile.
Gamache peered into the box. It contained a series of black leather volumes, spine out, all the same size. Gamache took one out and examined it. It was a diary. Émile’s box contained the diary and journals of Charles Paschal Télesphore Chiniquy.
“Each book is a year,” said Émile. “The missing one is for 1869.”
