He’d arrived headstrong and left feet first. On Commander Gamache’s order, the cadets and professors lined the long, long marble hallway and stood at attention as the body was wheeled out. They were quiet, respectful. And not a single tear was shed. “True to his profit and his pride,” said Isabelle Lacoste, standing beside Gamache. “He made them weep before he died.” “Jonathan Swift, again,” said Gamache. “A poem on the death of a duke,” said Isabelle quietly as they watched Leduc’s final progress down the hallway. “You quoted it earlier today. I looked it up. Come hither, all ye empty things,/Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings;/Who float upon the tide of state,/Come hither, and behold your fate.” They saluted as the body was wheeled past. “Let pride be taught by this rebuke,” said Gamache quietly. “How very mean a thing’s a Duke.” “We need to talk,” said Lacoste. “Oui.” Professor Leduc’s body left the building, a dark spot in the bright sunshine that streamed in.
