All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16)(10)

He smiled. And squeezed her arm. As they passed men and women, young and old, lovers and strangers, strolling like them along rue des Quatre-Fils.

“Ready?” Daniel called upstairs.

“Can’t we come with you, Daddy?” Florence asked.

She and her sister were already in the flannel pajamas their grandparents had brought from Québec.

Moose roamed Florence’s pajamas, while baby black bears played on Zora’s.

The sisters stood side by side in the living room, looking up at their father.

“Non, mes petits singes,” Daniel said, kneeling down. “My little monkeys. You need to stay here and play with your cousin.”

They looked over at Honoré, asleep on a blanket on the floor.

“He’s not much fun,” said Zora, uncertainly.

Tante Annie laughed from the depth of the chair she’d sunk into. The babysitters had arrived. They just needed Roslyn.

“Judging by the kicks,” Annie said, putting a hand on her stomach, “the next one might never sleep. Want to feel?”

The girls raced each other over, and while they placed their tiny hands on the enormous belly, Jean-Guy and Daniel drifted together.

“I remember that,” said Daniel. His deep voice was wistful, soft. “When Roslyn was pregnant. It seemed incredible.”

Jean-Guy watched Annie as she smiled and nodded, listening to the girls. Florence, the eldest at six, took after her mother. Slender, athletic, extroverted.

Zora took after her father. Large-boned, slightly awkward, shyer. Where Florence could be impetuous, chasing balls, running into lampposts, skinning her knees leaping off swings, Zora was calmer, gentler. More thoughtful.

Where Florence decided she was afraid of birds, shrieking in the park and running away, Zora stood with a handful of bread, feeding them.

Watching them, Jean-Guy was so grateful that their unborn daughter would have them to play with, and Honoré, who was fiercely loyal, as her brother. She’d need it. Him. Them.

And what would Honoré get, in his sister?

A lifetime of love, he hoped. And responsibility, he knew.

He looked at his sleeping son, and felt that pang of guilt, for what he was being given, without his consent.

“I’m here,” said Roslyn, hurrying down the stairs from their bedroom. “Sorry I’m late. Here, let me help you.”

She put out her hand, and together with Jean-Guy and Daniel, they hauled Annie out of the chair.

“Did you hear a thucking sound?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Thuck off,” said Annie.

She put her arm through his, and he held her close as they stepped into the cool September evening.

Armand and Reine-Marie got off the bus at the familiar stop. The Bibliothèque nationale.

Armand glanced around. It would appear, to any fellow passenger also alighting, as though he was just getting his bearings.

In fact, the head of homicide for the S?reté du Québec was scanning the street. Taking in, instinctively, the brasseries, the shops. The doorways, the alleyways. Their fellow pedestrians. The cars and trucks.

Paris was far from immune to violence. And had a tragic recent history of terrorist attacks.

While comfortable in the city, he was still keenly aware of his surroundings. But then, he did the same thing while walking the dogs through the forest at home.

They strolled down rue de Richelieu and in less than a minute had arrived at the bar à vins, with its window display of bottles.

They were greeted with kisses and embraces by the owner’s daughter, Margaux.

Now a grown woman and married, Margaux had been there thirty-five years earlier when the Gamaches had run into Juveniles, soaked through in a sudden downpour, and decided to stay for dinner.

Margaux had been just five years old and was working the bar.

Her father had bent down and whispered in her ear, pointing to them. She’d walked over to the newcomers, a white linen towel over her raised forearm, and gravely suggested a nice red wine from Andalusia.

She’d pronounced it carefully. Then looked back at her father, who nodded approval and smiled at the young couple.

Margaux had now taken over the restaurant and her husband, Ro-main, was the head chef. But Tim remained the owner and was still known as the Big Boss.

This evening the familiar carafe was already on the table waiting for them. They were the first of their party to arrive and were seated at their regular long table by the wooden bar.

Armand and Reine-Marie chatted with the Big Boss, while jazz played softly in the background. Within minutes Daniel and Roslyn arrived, with Annie and Jean-Guy.

There were shouts of delight as Margaux put her hand on Annie’s belly and the two women discussed the upcoming birth, while the others exchanged greetings.

Once the hubbub died down, they sat. Daniel poured the wine, and Margaux brought over fresh-squeezed juice for Annie and a Coke for Jean-Guy. Warm baguettes were placed on cutting boards on the table, along with a terrine de campagne, whipped butter, and small bowls of olives.

“I thought Stephen was coming,” said Annie, looking at the empty chair.

“He is,” said her father. “We saw each other this afternoon.”

“Let me guess,” said Daniel. “At the Musée Rodin?” He turned to Roslyn. “Did you ever hear about when Dad decided to propose to Mom?”