Page 113 of The Grey Wolf
Gamache shook hands with the robust and jovial cleric, then followed him into his private office. Armand had wondered how he’d feel, seeing the Archbishop again. Looking into those eyes. Would it be a trigger?
But the fact was, he thought of those young agents all the time. Carried them with him, every step of every day. He did not need to be reminded.
And indeed, seeing the Archbishop now brought only a sense of calm.
The senior Sûreté officer was waved to an armchair as the senior cleric sat across from him in the comfortable, bright, somewhat chaotic office.
“Forgive the mess. I can’t think if everything is too orderly. Between us, I find that intimidating. Father Thomas”—he tilted his head toward the door and the young man on the other side—“scares the hell out of me.”
The Archbishop’s handsome face cracked into a smile. He was, Armand knew, in his mid-seventies, and as active and engaged as people half his age.
“He tells me you were asking after Dom Philippe. How can I help?”
The smile disappeared, and those shrewd eyes remained on Armand. Thoughtful and still kindly. But there was so much more there. As there was in Armand Gamache’s eyes.
“I need to know something of his background.”
“Is there a reason?” The voice was no longer quite so warm.
“I just have a few questions. He’s done nothing wrong, I promise you that.”
“Then why don’t you ask him?”
“I prefer to be discreet. I hope you understand. We both need to guard confidences, Your Grace.”
The Archbishop nodded. “I’m not sure you know that Philippe and I studied together, centuries ago. In the Grand Séminaire deMontréal. I didn’t know him well, but I can tell you that his name wasn’t Philippe. He took that when he took his vows.”
“Can you remember his birth name?”
“No. As I say, I didn’t know him well. The only reason I remember him at all is that he was a strange character even then. Eccentric. Of course, his accent didn’t help.”
“Accent?”
“Yes. He had a broad accent and a strange vocabulary.”
“Joual?” Gamache felt a stab of excitement. Is that how Charles Langlois knew the Abbot? How he came to hide the map in the monastery? Were they related? Or perhaps from the samequartier? Different generations, but both growing up on the streets, speaking joual?
“Non, not that. I know joual. This was odder. And yet quite musical. Of course, even then he was making a name for himself for his singing voice.”
“What years were you together in the seminary?”
The Archbishop told him. “Philippe was very bright. It came as a surprise when he chose the monastic life instead of the priesthood. It was even more surprising when he decided to join the Gilbertines. To be honest, most of us didn’t realize that order still existed.”
“Why do you think he did?”
“Where better to hide than in an all but forgotten cloistered order in the middle of nowhere.”
“You think he was hiding? From what?”
“Perhaps from that voice inside most young men that whispers they’re unlovable.”
“Not just young, and not just men.”
“True. But some, when they realize God loves us no matter what, choose to build a wall round themselves. Hiding behind it for fear if they leave, that voice will be waiting.”
Gamache thought of the high, thick walls of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.
Armand wondered if this cleric knew more than he was letting on. But then, he did too. Yes, they were both good at keeping secrets.
