The bistro was his secret weapon in tracking down murderers. Not just in Three Pines, but in every town and village in Quebec. First he found a comfortable café or brasserie, or bistro, then he found the murderer. Because Armand Gamache knew something many of his colleagues never figured out. Murder was deeply human, the murdered and the murderer. To describe the murderer as a monstrosity, a grotesque, was to give him an unfair advantage. No. Murderers were human, and at the root of each murder was an emotion. Warped, no doubt. Twisted and ugly. But an emotion. And one so powerful it had driven a man to make a ghost.

Gamache's job was to collect the evidence, but also to collect the emotions. And the only way he knew to do that was do get to know the people. To watch and listen. To pay attention, and the best way to do that was in a deceptively casual way in a deceptively casual setting.

Like the bistro.

Wait, Armand, he heard behind him but kept walking, ignoring the calls. Then he remembered what Emile had meant to him and still did. Did this one bad thing wipe everything else out?

That was the danger. Not that betrayals happened, not that cruel things happened, but that they could outweigh all the good. That we could forget the good and only remember the bad.

But not today. Gamache stopped.

His heart filled his chest and ran to the end of his tail and the very tips of his considerable ears. It filled his head, squeezing out his brain. But Henri, the foundling, was a humanist, and while not particularly clever was the smartest creature Gamache knew. Everything he knew he knew by heart.

Gamache nodded. It was what made his job so fascinating, and so difficult. How the same person could be both kind and cruel, compassionate and wretched. Unraveling a murder was more about getting to know the people than the evidence. People who were contrary and contradictory, and who often didn't even know themselves.

Gamache was the best of them, the smartest and bravest and strongest because he was willing to go into his own head alone, and open all the doors there, and enter all the dark rooms. And make friends with what he found there.

How did you know He was God?' Gamache asked.
'When does a bush that burns become a Burning Bush?' Em asked and Gamache nodded. 'My despair disappeared. The grief remained, of course, but I knew then that the world wasn't a dark and desperate place. I was so relieved. In that moment I found hope. This strnager with the sign had given it to me. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but suddenly the gloom was lifted.'
She paused a moment, remembering, a smile on her face.

Her voice was slightly accented but her French was perfect. Someone who'd not just learned the language but loved it. And it showed with every syllable. Gamache knew it was impossible to split language from culture. That without one the other withered. To love the language was to respect the culture.

Because in the late twentieth century, you couldn't seriously ask other people to think that you believed in honor and truth, and the purity of the body, the defense of women, the sanctity of true love, and all the rest of it.
But apparently, Andre really had believed it.

Gamache knew people were like homes. Some were cheerful and bright, some gloomy. Some could look good on the outside but feel wretched on the interior. And some of the least attractive homes, from the outside, were kindly and warm inside.

He also knew the first few rooms were for public consumption. It was only in going deeper that he'd find the reality. And finally, inevitably, there was the last room, the one we keep locked, and bolted and barred, even from ourselves. Especially from ourselves.

Do you know what I’ve learned, after three decades of death?” Gamache asked, leaning toward the agent and lowering his voice. Despite himself, the agent leaned forward. “I’ve learned how precious life is.

Do you know, Armand, I can’t remember the last time I felt safe.” “I know what you mean,” said Gamache. “It feels as though this has been going on forever.” “No, I don’t mean just this mess. I mean all my life.

He [Savoyard abbe M. Gaime] drew me a true picture of human life about which I had only false ideas; he showed me how, in an adverse destiny, the wise man can always attain happiness and tack close to the wind to reach it, how there is no true happiness without wisdom, and how there is wisdom in every station. He very much subdued my admiration for ]greatness by proving to me that those who dominated others were neither wiser nor happier than they. He told me something that has often returned to my memory, which is that if each man could read in the hearts of all the others, there would be more people who would want to descend than to rise. This reflection — the truth of which is striking and which is not at all exaggerated — has been of great use to me in the course of my life by making me keep peacefully in my place. He gave me the first true ideas about what is decent, which my bombastic genius had grasped only in its extremes. He made me feel that enthusiasm for sublime virtues was of little use in society; that by aiming too high one was subject to falls; that the continuity of small duties always well fulfilled did not require any less strength than heroic actions; that one could turn them to better account for honor and for happiness; and that it was worth infinitely more always to have men's esteem than sometimes to have their admiration.

The shepherd looked in his direction.
Gone to the wrong house, thought Gamache, not altogether surprised. While Henri had a huge heart, he had quite a modest brain. His head was taken up almost entirely by his ears. In fact, his head seemed simply a sort of mount for those ears. Fortunately Henri didn't really need his head. He kept all the important things in his heart.

In the kitchen Gamache’s German shepherd, Henri, sat up in his bed and cocked his head. He had huge oversized ears which made Gamache think he wasn’t purebred but a cross between a shepherd and a satellite dish.