A Trick of the Light - Louise Penny [7]
Reine-Marie was quiet, considering what she’d just heard.
“I wonder how his friends feel about that,” said Reine-Marie at last.
So did Gamache.
* * *
“Olivier is the one who hates my father?” asked Annie. “But how could that be? Dad got him out of prison. He took him back to Three Pines.”
“Yes, but the way Olivier sees it, I got him out of prison. Your father put him in.”
Annie stared at Beauvoir, then shook her head.
Beauvoir went on. “Your father apologized, you know. In front of everyone in the bistro. He told Olivier he was sorry for what he did.”
“And what did Olivier say?”
“That he couldn’t forgive him. Not yet.”
Annie thought about that. “How did Dad react?”
“He didn’t seem surprised, or upset. In fact, I think he’d have been surprised had Olivier suddenly decided all was forgiven. He wouldn’t have really meant it.”
Beauvoir knew the only thing worse than no apology was an insincere one.
Jean Guy had to give Olivier that. Instead of appearing to accept the apology, Olivier had finally told the truth. The hurt went too deep. He wasn’t ready to forgive.
“And now?” asked Annie.
“I guess we’ll see.”
TWO
“Remarkable, don’t you think?”
Armand Gamache turned to the distinguished older man beside him.
“I do,” nodded the Chief Inspector. Both men were silent for a moment, contemplating the painting in front of them. All around was the hubbub of the party in full swing, talking, laughing, friends getting caught up, strangers being introduced.
But the two men seemed to have formed a separate peace, a quiet little quartier.
In front of them on the wall was, either intentionally or naturally, the centerpiece of Clara Morrow’s solo show. Her works, mostly portraits, hung all around the white walls of the main gallery of the Musée d’Art Contemporain. Some were clustered close together, like a gathering. Some hung alone, isolated. Like this one.
The most modest of the portraits, on the largest of the walls.
Without competition, or company. An island nation. A sovereign portrait.
Alone.
“How do you feel when you look at it?” the man asked and turned his keen gaze on Gamache.
The Chief Inspector smiled. “Well, it isn’t the first time I’ve seen it. We’re friends of the Morrows. I was there when she first brought it out of her studio.”
“Lucky man.”
Gamache took a sip of the very good red wine and agreed. Lucky man.
“François Marois.” The older man put out his hand.
“Armand Gamache.”
Now his companion looked more closely at the Chief and nodded.
“Désolé. I should have recognized you, Chief Inspector.”
“Not at all. I’m always happier when people don’t,” smiled Gamache. “Are you an artist?”
He looked, in fact, more like a banker. A collector, perhaps? The other end of the artistic chain. He’d be in his early seventies, Gamache guessed. Prosperous, in a tailored suit and silk tie. There was a hint of expensive cologne about the man. Very subtle. He was balding, with hair immaculately and newly cut, clean-shaven, with intelligent blue eyes. All this Chief Inspector Gamache took in quickly and instinctively. François Marois seemed both vibrant and contained. At home in this rarified, and quite artificial, setting.
Gamache glanced into the body of the room, packed with men and women milling about and chatting, juggling hors d’oeuvres and wine. A couple of stylized, uncomfortable benches were installed in the middle of the cavernous space. More form than function. He saw Reine-Marie chatting with a woman across the room. He found Annie. David had arrived and was taking off his coat, then he went to join her. Gamache’s eyes swept the room until he found Gabri and Olivier, side-by-side. He wondered if he should go and speak with Olivier.
And do what? Apologize again?
Had Reine-Marie been right?