Beauvoir ignored him, but Gamache gave him a twenty.
“Twenty, patron? Really?” Beauvoir asked, his voice low.
“Who do you think’ll be handing out places in the lifeboat?”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” said Gamache.
They stepped inside. Almost. The three of them could barely get in standing up, and it wasn’t clear how they’d all manage to lie down.
“This’s the Admiral’s Suite? There must be a mistake,” said Chartrand, trying to turn around without getting engaged to either man.
“There must’ve been a mutiny,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache raised his brows. This did look more like the brig. And smelled like a latrine. They were indeed in the bowels of the ship.
The Loup de Mer lurched, and left the dock.
“Bon voyage,” said the steward as he shut the door.
Out of the slimy porthole the men saw the land recede.
* * *
Myrna turned off the taps and swished the water, making sure it was the right temperature. The aroma of lavender, from the bubble bath, filled the mahogany bathroom.
Candles were lit, and their steward had brought two strong cappuccinos and a basket of warm croissants and jams.
Armand had called to tell them that their steward had definitely recognized Peter. Clara was relieved and felt she could finally relax.
She tore the tip off a flaky croissant and sat back on the sofa in their cabin.
They were under way.
Across the suite, in the bathroom, Clara saw Myrna sink deeper into the copper tub, the bubbles forming foaming mountains and valleys over her body.
“I see your ship has finally come in,” said Clara, as Myrna hummed “What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?”
“I’m a born mariner,” she said.
While Myrna bathed, Clara took a sip of cappuccino and gazed through the large window, watching the thick old forests and bays slip by as the Loup de Mer headed east.
* * *
Jean-Guy and Armand leaned on the railing of the Loup de Mer. The ship was pointed directly into the waves, and both men stared over the side, almost hypnotized by the rhythm. The ship’s bow rose and fell, cutting the waves, sending light spray into their faces.
It was both refreshing and lulling.
Had Gamache been humming an old Québécois lullaby, Jean-Guy knew he’d have dropped off to sleep right there and then.
C’est un grand mystère
Depuis trois nuit que le loup, hurle la nouvelle
Just remembering the tune, Jean-Guy felt his eyelids beginning to droop. Then fluttering open. Heavier, heavier. C’est un grand mystère. It’s a big mystery. The voice of his mother sang to him. About the wilderness. The wolves and foxes. About being afraid. And being saved. Being safe.
His head slowly lowered, then jerked up as he came to.
“Let’s get some breakfast,” said Gamache. “There must be a cafeteria.”
They’d let Marcel Chartrand use the toilet first. When they were paying for the room, the clerk had assured them it was an en suite.
It was not. Unless “en suite” in maritime terms meant sharing a tiny, grimy water closet at the end of the dark corridor.
“If we have the Admiral’s cabin, can you imagine how bad the Captain’s must be?” said Jean-Guy.
“When I called to tell them about Peter, I asked how they were. They didn’t complain.”
“Amazing,” said Jean-Guy. “I sure would, if I were them.”
“If you were them?” Gamache asked.
They found the cafeteria, but it had just closed.
“Désolé,” said the steward. “You can get coffee over there.”
He pointed to a coin-operated machine.
“I don’t have any change,” said Gamache, feeling in his pockets. “Do you?”
Beauvoir, increasingly frantic, turned his pockets inside out.
“Merde.”
They stared at the machine.
* * *
“That was wonderful,” said Myrna, leaning back in her chair at their mahogany dining table.
Their breakfast of bacon and eggs, with the unexpected treat of a small fillet of smoked trout, was finished, and now they sipped their coffee and nibbled on the fruit.
“If our cabin’s this good,” said Clara, getting up to run her own bath, “can you imagine how great the men’s must be? The Admiral’s Suite. Wow.”
Myrna changed from the fluffy bathrobe the ship provided into clean clothes and heard Clara moan as she slid into the tub.
