“Oh, I know,” said Pineault. “The Miracle Babies. You’d have thought Jesus Christ had delivered them himself. Marie-Harriette was just a poor farmer’s wife who wanted a family. But I’ll tell you something.” Pineault leaned his thick body closer to Gamache. “If God did that, he must’a hated her.”

“Did you read the book by Dr. Bernard?” Gamache asked.

He’d expected Pineault to get angry, but instead he grew quiet and shook his head.

“Heard about it. Everyone did. It was a bunch of lies. Made Isidore and Marie-Harriette out to be dumb farmers, too stupid to raise their own children. Bernard heard about the visit to Brother André and turned it into some Hollywood crap. Told the newsreels, the reporters. Wrote about it in his book. Marie-Harriette wasn’t the only one to go to the Oratory for Brother André’s blessing. People still do. No one talks about all the others climbing those stairs on their Goddamned knees.”

“The others didn’t give birth to quintuplets.”

“Lucky them.”

“You didn’t like the girls?”

“I didn’t know them. Every time they came home, there were cameras and nannies and that doctor and all sorts of people. At first it was fun, but then it became…” he looked for the word. “Merde. And it turned everyone’s lives into merde.”

“Did Marie-Harriette and Isidore see it that way?”

“How would I know? I was a kid. What I do know is that Isidore and Marie-Harriette were good, decent people just trying to get by. Marie-Harriette wanted to be a mother more than anything, and they didn’t let her. They took that from her, and from Isidore. That Bernard book said they’d sold the girls to the government. It was bullshit, but people believed it. Killed her, you know. My sister. Died of shame.”

“And Isidore?”

“Got even quieter. Didn’t smile much anymore. Everyone whispering behind his back. Pointing him out. He stayed pretty close to home after that.”

“Why didn’t the girls visit the farm once they grew up?” Gamache asked. He’d asked before and been rebuffed, but it was worth another try.

“They weren’t welcome and they knew it.”

“But Isidore wanted them to come, to look after him,” said Gamache.

Pineault grunted with laughter. “Who told you that?”

“The priest, Father Antoine.”

“What does he know? Isidore wanted nothing more to do with the girls. Not after Marie-Harriette died. He blamed them.”

“And you didn’t keep in touch with your nieces?”

“I wrote to tell them their father was dead. They showed up for the funeral. That was fifteen years ago. Haven’t seen them since.”

“Isidore left the farm to you,” said Gamache. “Not to the girls.”

“True. He’d washed his hands of them.”

Gamache brought the tuque from his pocket and put it on the table. For the first time in quite a few minutes, he saw a genuine smile on André’s face.

“You recognize it.”

He picked it up. “Where’d you find it?”

“Constance gave it to a friend, for Christmas.”

“Funny kind of present. Someone else’s tuque.”

“She described it as the key to her home. Do you know what she might’ve meant by that?”

Pineault examined the hat, then returned it to the table. “My sister made a tuque for all the kids. I don’t know whose this is. If Constance was giving it away it probably belonged to her, don’t you think?”

“And why would she call it the key to her home?”

“Câlice, I don’t know.”

“This tuque didn’t belong to Constance.” Gamache tapped it.

“Then one of the others, I guess.”

“Did you ever see Isidore wearing it?”

“You must’ve fallen harder on the ice than you think,” he said with a snort. “That was sixty years ago. I can’t remember what I wore, never mind him, except that he wore plaid shirts summer and winter, and they stank. Any other questions?”

“What did the girls call their mother?” Gamache asked, as he got up.

“Tabarnac,” Pineault swore. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’ve started asking stupid questions. What did the girls call their mother?”

“Well?”

“How the fuck should I know? What does anyone call their mother?”