But Armand always said people react differently to death, and it was folly to judge anyone and double folly to judge what people do when faced with sudden, violent death. Murder. They weren’t themselves.
But privately Reine-Marie wondered. Wondered whether what people did in a crisis was, in fact, their real selves. Stripped of artifice and social training. It was easy enough to be decent when all was going your way. It was another matter to be decent when all hell was breaking loose.
Her husband stepped deliberately into all hell every day, and maintained his decency. She doubted the same could be said for the Morrows.
She’d interrupted him. She could see he was on the phone and began to leave the room. Then she heard the word Roslyn.
He was speaking to Daniel and asking after their daughter-in-law. Reine-Marie had tried to speak to Armand about Daniel, but it had never seemed the right time and now it was too late. Standing on the threshold she listened, her heart pounding.
“I know Mom told you about the names we’ve chosen. Geneviève if it’s a girl—”
“Beautiful name,” said Gamache.
“We think so. But we also think the boy’s name is beautiful. Honoré.”
Gamache had promised himself there’d be no awkward silence when the name was said. There was an awkward silence.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is my own, my native land!”
The words of the old poem, spoken as always in the deep, calm voice in his head, filled the void. His large hand clasped gently shut as though holding on to something.
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand?
Daniel was in Paris, so far away, but he also felt Daniel was in danger of making a very serious mistake that could propel him further still.
“I think that might not be the best choice.”
“Why?” Daniel sounded curious, not defensive.
“You know the history.”
“You told me, but it is history, Dad. And Honoré Gamache is a good name, for a good man. You more than anyone know that.”
“It’s true.” Gamache felt a tinge of anxiety. Daniel wasn’t backing down. “But more than anyone I also know what can happen in a world not always kind.”
“You’ve taught us we make our own world. What was that Milton quote we were raised with?
“The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.
“It’s what you believe, Dad, and so do I. Remember those walks in the park? You’d take Annie and me and recite poetry all the way there. That was one of your favorites. And mine.”
Gamache felt a fizzing in his throat as he remembered walks, tiny, pudgy fingers in what seemed a massive hand. Not so much holding as being held.
“One day soon it’ll be my turn. I’ll be taking Florence and Honoré to Parc Mont Royal blabbing poetry all the way.”
“Blabbing? Don’t you mean reciting in a strong yet musical voice?”
“Of course. Breathes there the man with soul so dead. Remember that one?”
“I do.”
“All the ones you taught me, I’ll teach them, including Milton, including that the mind is its own place and we make our own reality, our own world. Don’t worry,” Daniel continued, his voice full of reason and patience. “Honoré will know the world starts between his ears and is his for the making. And he’ll be taught as I was what a beautiful name that is.”
“No, Daniel, you’re making a mistake.” There, he’d said it. The one thing he’d promised himself not to say. Still, Daniel had to be made to see it, had to be stopped from making this well-intentioned but tragic mistake.
In his peripheral vision he saw a movement. Reine-Marie had taken a step into the room. He looked at her. Her body was composed but her eyes were filled with surprise and anxiety. Still, it had to be done. Sometimes parenting was standing up and doing what was unpopular. Risking censure. Daniel must not be allowed to name his son Honoré.
“I’d hoped you’d feel differently, Dad.”
“But why would I? Nothing’s changed.”
“Time has changed. That was years ago. Decades. You need to let it go.”
“I’ve seen things. I’ve seen what willful parents can do to a child. I’ve seen kids so deeply wounded—” they can’t even jump, he almost said. Their feet never leave the ground. No leap for joy, no skipping rope, no jumping from the dock, no dangling in the arms of a loving and trusted parent.
