The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 4

Chief Inspector Gamache took off his parka and boots and followed the Chancellor into her living room.

“S’il vous plaît, Armand.” She indicated a comfortable armchair by the fireplace.

The room was lined with books, and above the mantel there hung an A. Y. Jackson. Gamache glanced at it but kept walking to the French doors at the end of the gracious room. Standing in front of them, his hands clasped behind his back, he looked out over Lac Massawippi. The large lake, surrounded by thick forest, was frozen over. A great field of sparkling white. Except. Right in front of the house, just offshore, a rectangle had been cleared, and flooded, and frozen again so that it formed an ice rink.

A hockey match was under way, though how they could tell who was on which team he didn’t know. They all wore Montreal Canadiens, Habs, sweaters.

“Family?” he asked as she joined him.

“And some neighboring kids, but yes, mostly grandchildren. You and Reine-Marie have a couple now too.”

“Four.”

“Four? Not quite enough for a hockey team, but close.”

“They’ve just started skating,” he said, returning to the armchairs. “If only hockey could be played on hands and knees.”

The room was warm, inviting. It reflected the Chancellor perfectly.

Colette Roberge had held the mainly ceremonial post at the University for two years. Before that she’d retired as Dean of the mathematics department and been made a Professor Emeritus.

He considered her a friend, though not a close one.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Non, merci.”

“Tea?”

“Nothing for me, thank you, Colette.” He smiled and waited for her to sit before taking his own seat. “How’s Jean-Paul? I’d like to say hello.”

“He’s at the lake, refereeing the game. Your family? All got through the pandemic?”

“Yes, thriving, thank you.”

“And Stephen? After what happened in Paris?”

“His old self.”

“That can’t be good,” she said with a smile.

In her mid-seventies now, Chancellor Roberge was a tireless champion for the University, and an accomplished academic. And now, in the midst of her own holidays with her family, she’d made time for him, greeting him as though he’d been expected.

And maybe, he thought, he had been.

“What can I do for you, Armand?”

“It’s about Abigail Robinson.”

The shaped brows rose very slightly. Her manicured hands folded one on top of the other, and he noticed a slight squeeze. But her expression remained pleasant.

The Chancellor was smart enough not to feign ignorance.

“Yes? What about her?”

“You know she’s speaking tomorrow afternoon at the University.”

“I’d seen that, yes.”

“And you approve?”

“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove.” A very slight chill had crept into her voice. An early warning. “Nor is it for you.”

He crossed his legs, a subtle indication that he was just settling in and wouldn’t be intimidated.

Seeing that, the Chancellor rose and threw another log on the fire, sending giddy sparks up the chimney. And with it, her own message.

She had all day.

“I’ll come right to the point,” he said. “I think the event should never have been booked, but since it has, I think it should be canceled.”

“And you come to me with this? There’s nothing I can do even if I wanted to. My position is honorary, as you know. I have no real power.”

“I did ask the President.”

“Really? And what did he say?” There was, Gamache could hear, some amusement in her voice.

The President of the University, while a titan in his field, was far from that as a leader and policy maker.

“He declined.”

“Let me guess.” She shut her eyes. “The purpose of a university is to give safe harbor for dissenting voices.” Opening them, she saw her guest smiling.

“He’s not wrong,” said Gamache.

“No.”

“But this isn’t just a dissenting voice.” He leaned toward her. “You have influence, Colette. You could contact the Board of Governors. They respect you. Convene a conference call.”

“And what would I say?”

“That this sort of lecture wrapped in academic garb is not just nonsense, it’s dangerous. That in hosting her, the University risks giving her views legitimacy.”

She studied him for one beat. Two. Appearing to consider, though Armand would have been surprised if she hadn’t anticipated this conversation. And prepared her answer.

They had that in common. Anticipating events. Preparing. He’d done the same thing while driving over. He didn’t always win the argument, didn’t expect to. Some battles were unwinnable. But sometimes just showing up was enough.

And he had to try.

“If you think it’s dangerous, then stop it yourself,” she said. “You have the authority, as a senior Sûreté officer. That is, if you think Abigail’s breaking the law. Do you?”

“Non. If I did, I wouldn’t need to be here, as pleasant as this is.”

She smiled at that. “So, Armand, you want me to do your dirty work? You don’t want to be seen to abuse your power, but you want me to abuse mine?”

Though he could see the thin sheet of ice creeping toward him, he was nevertheless surprised by what she said next.

“You’d hide behind a seventy-three-year-old woman? Are you that much of a coward?”

He cocked his head to one side, quickly reassessing the situation. It was a direct, even coarse, personal attack. It didn’t hurt. He knew he wasn’t a coward. And, what’s more, she did too.

He’d been accused of many things in his career, but even his enemies hadn’t dared throw that in his face.

So why would the Chancellor? It was unworthy of the woman he knew and respected.

Far from allowing himself to be goaded, he grew even calmer. His focus and attention sharpened, even as his breathing steadied. As it always did when preparing for a confrontation, either physical or intellectual.

He’d known, as he drove over, that this might be a tense conversation, but he had not expected this reaction from the Chancellor.

“Well, I am afraid,” he said, his voice reasonable. “If that’s what you mean. Not just that it will turn violent—every public gathering has that potential and this more than most. But I am afraid that hosting this event will not just sully the University but help spread her message. It has the potential to infect the whole province. And beyond.”

“You consider free speech an infection? Ideas a virus? I thought you believed in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, or is that just for public consumption? Are your situational ethics showing? Free speech is fine, as long as it doesn’t bump into your personal beliefs, your ideology?”

“I have no ideology—”

Colette Roberge laughed. “Don’t kid yourself. Everyone has beliefs, values.”

“Those I have, yes. But that’s different. You didn’t let me finish. I have no ideology beyond finding and defending that spot between freedom and safety.”

She was quiet for a moment. “And you think the talk violates that?”

“Do you know what she’s saying? What she advocates?”

“In broad strokes, yes.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

“Again, it’s not for me to approve or disapprove. If we only ever allow lectures on topics we’re ‘okay’ with, the University wouldn’t be much of a place of learning, now would it? We’d never explore new ideas. Radical ideas. Even what might be considered dangerous ideas. We’d just keep going around and around saying and hearing the same old thing. The echo chamber. No, this university is open to new ideas.”

“This isn’t a new idea.” He stared at her. “It sounds like you agree with Professor Robinson.”

“I agree with the importance of dissenting voices, of unpopular stands, of even dangerous thoughts as long as they don’t cross a line.”

“And what’s the line?”

“That’s for you to decide, Chief Inspector.”

“You’re abdicating your moral responsibility to the University and giving it to the police?”

Their voices were rising, not quite shouting at each other, but intense. They were, Armand knew, on the verge of crossing a line themselves.

Indeed, Colette had crossed it when she’d called him a coward. And he might have just crossed it too when he accused her of abdicating her responsibility. But there was a reason he’d said it.

“You’re advocating an abuse of power,” she said. “Stifling free speech. And that’s called tyranny. Watch yourself, Chief Inspector. You’re on very thin ice. I thought you would assure that this event would go on safely. But now you’re sounding like a fascist.”

Gamache paused before he spoke. “You’re the reason I was given this assignment?”

The Chancellor realized she’d been provoked into saying too much. And, looking at the man across from her, she realized he’d almost certainly done it on purpose. Goaded, pushed. Prodded. Until she’d lashed out. Lost sight of the line she’d set for herself.

But she suspected she was already off balance before he’d arrived. Unsure of the stand she was taking, of the ground she stood on. Unsure she’d done the right thing. In fact, very much afraid she had not.

But it was too late. Still, he didn’t know everything.

Now she inclined her head, raising it again in acknowledgment.

“Was I wrong to ask for you?” she said. “I thought you’d be fair and professional. But maybe that’s asking too much. Given your personal circumstances, maybe you’ll find it difficult to protect Professor Robinson, if it comes to that.”

Now she really had crossed a line, but this time she’d done it on purpose. To shift the focus. She could see the shock on his face, quickly replaced by anger.

“I’m sorry,” she said, almost immediately, though her sincerity was in doubt. “I shouldn’t have said that. But it’s a fair question.”

“It is not, Madame Chancellor, and you know it. You just dragged my family into it. You accused me of tyranny. Even allowing a person to be hurt, maybe killed, because I don’t happen to agree with their ideology.”

“No. I accused you of being human. Of defending your family. And while we’re at it, you accused me of allowing thousands of young men and women to be compromised because I don’t want to get involved.”

They stared at each other. Seething. Each had lost their hard-won composure.

My God, thought Gamache, pulling back from the edge. This’s how it starts. This’s what Abigail Robinson does, even from a distance. Just discussing her can sow the seeds of anger. And, with it, fear.

And yes. He was afraid. That her statistics and graphs would take root. That people would come to believe, to support, the insupportable.

He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Colette. What I said went too far.”

She was quiet. Not yet ready, it seemed, to offer her own apology.

“Why did the University agree to this booking?” he asked.

“You’re asking me? I don’t okay events.” Still snippy.

“And why did Professor Robinson choose to come here?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you find it curious that while all her other lectures were out west, when she does come east, it’s not to the University of Toronto. Not to McGill or the Université de Montréal. Not to a big venue in a major city, but to a small university in a small town.”

“The Université de l’Estrie has a very good reputation,” said the Chancellor.

“C’est vrai,” he said, nodding. “It’s true. But it’s still surprising.”

His voice, though, had grown detached as he followed a train of thought. One that hadn’t occurred to him until now. He’d been so distracted by the moral, legal, logistical issues that he hadn’t paused to wonder why the Université de l’Estrie.

“Maybe the other places refused her,” he said, thinking out loud.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

He sighed. “I’ve struggled with this, Colette. Gone back and forth in my mind, until last night. That’s when I watched her most recent lecture and the aftermath. How the spectators turned on each other. Is she breaking the law? Is it hate speech?” He ran his hands through his hair. “No. But it’s already led to some very, very ugly confrontations.”

“Which is why I asked for you. I know it would be beyond campus security to protect Abigail.”

“Abigail?”

“Yes, that’s her name, isn’t it? Abigail Robinson.”

“Oui. But you used the familiar. Not ‘Professor Robinson.’” He uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. “Do you know her? Personally?”

And now something else occurred to him.

“Is that why she chose the Université de l’Estrie? Did you invite her?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Non.”

The Chancellor stared at him. Then relented.

“You’re right, I did know her. Years ago. But I didn’t invite her here.”

“How do you know her?”

“I don’t see how it matters, but since you ask, I knew her father. We did some studies together. He was a statistician too. A friend. He asked me to look after Abigail when I was a guest lecturer in Oxford. She went there to read Maths.”

“What was she like?”

“Does it matter?”

“It helps to know the personality of the one I’m protecting. Are they aggressive? Fearful? Compliant? Will they listen to instructions or argue?”

Chancellor Roberge gazed over his shoulder and into the past.

Seeing the bright young men and women, barely more than boys and girls, ranged in front of her. They were just beginning to realize a hard truth. While they’d easily outpaced the other students in their schools back home, here at Oxford they’d struggle just to keep up. They’d gone, in the blink of an eye, from exceptional to average.

Many did not thrive, couldn’t adapt. But Abigail had managed to adjust quite quickly.

“Unlike most of her cohort, who could be maladroit, she was easy to like,” said Colette. “She didn’t come from an affluent background. It was a home that valued intellectual achievement. She was focused, likable.”

“Ambitious?”

“No more than you,” said Colette with a smile.

“And her work?”

“Was exceptional.” Now that they were talking about academics, Chancellor Roberge relaxed. “I’m not sure if you realize that mathematics isn’t linear. It’s a curve. And in the brightest, most nimble minds, it arcs around to meet philosophy, music, art.” She laced her fingers together. “They’re intertwined. If you listen to Bach, it’s as much a work of math as music.”

Gamache had heard this before. Had listened as Clara Morrow, their friend and neighbor and a gifted painter, had mused on just such a convergence. Perspective. Proportion. Spatial reasoning. Logic and problem solving. And portraiture.

“A friend of ours quotes Robert Frost,” he said. “A poem begins as a lump in the throat. The artists I know feel the same way. Do mathematicians?”

This was, the Chancellor knew, more than a casual question. It was a hand grenade. An interesting one, but potentially explosive nevertheless.

“I wouldn’t say that. I think for mathematicians, statisticians, the lump in the throat comes at the end. When we see where our work has taken us.”

“And how it can be perverted?” When Colette didn’t answer, he said, “Do you think Professor Robinson has a lump in her throat when she looks at her graphs?”

“You’ll have to ask her. Look, I’m not defending her.”

“It sounds like you are. Letting this lecture go on is wrong,” he said. “I’ve gone over and over the laws on censorship. On what constitutes hate speech. If I could cancel it on those grounds, I would. And it’s possible that tomorrow, at the lecture, I’ll be able to cancel it on public safety grounds, but for now, I don’t have cause.”

His words hung in the warm air between them, as the fire muttered and shouts of joy drifted up from the rink on the frozen lake.

A goal had been scored, but for which side?

And then the room settled back to silence.

“I’m asking you,” said Armand, his voice low. “Begging you, Colette, to call it off. Use any excuse. The building’s heat is off. The workers need their holidays. A bureaucratic mistake was made in taking the booking. Please. This is not going to go well, for anyone.”

The Chancellor studied the man in front of her. She’d known him for decades. Seen his rise through the ranks. Seen his great fall.

And seen him put himself together again and go back to doing a job that was far more than a job for him.

It was written on his face. The lines and creases. Not age. Not all, anyway. They were a map of his life. Of his beliefs. Of the stands he’d taken and the blows he’d suffered.

She could see it in the deep scar at his temple.

No, this man was no coward, but he was, as he admitted, afraid.

But then so was she.

Rising to her feet, Colette Roberge said, “I will not cancel the event, Armand.”

Chief Inspector Gamache had known, before he’d even left his study, that this was a battle he almost certainly would not win. Still, while he didn’t leave this home with a concession, he did take away more information than he’d arrived with. Including that the Chancellor had known Abigail Robinson. Well enough to still call her by her first name.

He wondered if one of the Christmas cards on the bookshelves and along the mantelpiece was signed Abigail.

He couldn’t see how it mattered, but then no information was wasted.

“Thank you, Madame Chancellor, for hearing me out.”

“I’m sorry to have dragged you into this. I can see it’s causing you discomfort.”

“It goes with the territory.”

“When you have a grandchild with Down syndrome,” she said.

He paused at the door as he put on his gloves and looked at her. She obviously knew more than she let on.

“Non. Idola is the solace, the balm. The pain is making decisions like this.”

“I won’t ask where the pain is.”

He laughed. “Will you be there?”

“Moi? Non. I’ll be hiding under the covers and not taking any calls. Listen, Armand, you and I both know this is moot. Professor Robinson will give her talk tomorrow, but it’ll be to an empty auditorium. And that’ll be the end of it.”

She leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks.

“Joyeux Noël. Bonne année. Give my love to Reine-Marie.”

“And to you, Colette, and Jean-Paul.”

As he walked back down the path to the car, Armand turned and noticed the pages still plastered in the front window of the Chancellor’s home. On the paper were rainbows, probably drawn by the grandchildren during the pandemic, with the words in crayon, Ça va bien aller.

He turned away, his face grave. All will be well. It depended, he knew, on what “well” meant. And he had a sinking feeling he and the Chancellor had two different ideas on that.

Colette Roberge pulled her cardigan tighter and watched as the Chief Inspector drove away.

Just then she heard young voices raised in shouts and heated arguments as her grandchildren returned with their friends.

Doors banged, cold air blew in. Thuds were heard as winter boots were kicked off and skates tossed into corners.

“Hot chocolate?” she asked.

“Yes, please, Granny.”

Even those not related to her called her Granny. In fact, Colette knew that some of her colleagues and even the Premier Ministre du Québec called her Grand-mère.

It was, she’d decided, both a term of endearment and an advantage. They were far less likely to be guarded around their grandmother.

She stirred the pot of cocoa and watched her husband in the corner, where he’d been all morning, lost in his jigsaw. While life swirled, unnoticed, around him.

That night, as he sat in his study with Jean-Guy, Armand leaned forward and clicked play on his laptop. They watched as Abigail Robinson, the nice woman on the screen, began talking.

Twelve minutes later Jean-Guy reached over and hit pause.

“Is she saying what I think she is?”

Armand nodded.

“Fuck,” whispered Jean-Guy. His eyes shifted from the computer to his father-in-law. “And you’re going to protect her?”

“Someone has to.”

“Did you know what she was saying when you agreed?”

“Non.”

“Did you know what she was saying when you told me you didn’t need me there?”

“Non.”

They held each other’s eyes. Jean-Guy’s complexion had gone from a rosy glow to a flush. The seeds of anger sown.

“I’m going upstairs,” said Jean-Guy.

“I’ll come with you.”

Armand turned off the Christmas tree. In the darkness he could see the three great pine trees anchoring the village green. Their multicolored Christmas lights glowed red, blue, and green under the weight of snow on their boughs.

Henri and Fred slowly followed them up the stairs. Gracie was already asleep in Stephen’s room.

Armand kissed Florence and Zora good night, then went next door, where Jean-Guy was staring down at his daughter. A cold wind puffed out the curtains, dropping the temperature in the room. As though something nasty were approaching.

Armand lowered the window until it was open just a crack, then pulled the blankets up over Honoré. Somehow he’d managed to sneak his new toboggan into the bed. Kissing the child, Armand then joined his son-in-law.

Little Idola was sleeping peacefully, unaware of the forces gathering around her.

Jean-Guy raised his eyes. “I know you’ve brought Isabelle in to help with tomorrow’s event, and others from the department. I want to be there too.”

“It’s not a good idea, and you know it.”

“If I’m not there on your team, I’ll be there as a spectator. Either way, I’m going.”

Armand saw that the seeds had taken root. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”

Later that night, Jean-Guy went down to the living room and sat in the armchair by the fire, now just embers. He found the video Armand had shown him and this time watched it all the way through.

He now understood why Armand had gone to the Chancellor and asked her, probably pleaded with her, to stop the event.

And he knew why his father-in-law did not want him anywhere close to this woman.