The Paris Secret (6 page)

“You’re telling me a French queen had a baby by a black servant and managed to keep her head?” I asked.

“Luckily for the queen, the workings of human reproduction weren’t well-known back then. We’re talking about a time when people thought a man merely looking at a woman could influence her pregnancy. And that’s what Louis XIV was lead to believe, that Nabo startled Queen Maria-Theresa while she was pregnant, causing the child to be born black.”

Simon let out a low whistle.

“What happened to the baby?” I asked.

“Everyone was told the baby died at birth, but she was sent off to be raised by a wet nurse on a farm. She was raised along with the farmer’s other children for several years and then sent to a convent in Moret-sur-Loing. She spent the rest of her life there and took her vows at the age of thirty-one. A representative of the king made sure she was always well taken care of and wanted for nothing.”

“Except a family you mean?” I was shocked by the bitterness in my voice.

Simon looked at me quizzically. I went back to writing, feeling puzzled by the kinship I was suddenly feeling toward this unwanted, unloved, illegitimate child born so long ago.

“Please go on, Dr. Hewitt,” urged Simon.

“The legend goes that around the late 1600s Sister Louise-Marie was walking in the woods near her convent when she was visited by an angel who entrusted her with a book and told her to protect it and keep it hidden at all costs.”

Simon and I shot each other a look. What she’d just described was identical to the scene on the crucifix handle.

“What kind of book?” asked Simon.

“Are you familiar with the
Mutus Liber?
” asked Dr. Hewitt, stroking Agnes affectionately and causing the little dog to go limp with pleasure.

“Isn’t
liber
Latin for book?” I asked. I struggled unsuccessfully to remember more of my high school Latin.

“You are correct,” replied Dr. Hewitt. “
Mutus Liber
is Latin for mute book. It was an illustrated book of alchemy published in France sometime in the 1670s by a Huguenot named Isaac Baulot. It contained only illustrations—fifteen to be exact—and no words. So it is known as the mute, or silent book, as some refer to it.”

“And this mute book is what the angel supposedly gave to Sister Louise-Marie?” Simon asked.

“No. Actually, the
Mutus Liber
is a well-known book in alchemy circles. Its illustrated panels reportedly show how to make the philosopher’s stone, which can turn metal into gold as well as prolong life. However, no one has ever been able to decipher what the panels mean.”

I started to laugh and Simon shot me a warning look. I couldn’t help it. It sounded like something straight out of a kid’s book.

“I know what you’re thinking, my dear.” Dr. Hewitt was not offended by my outburst. “But the philosopher’s stone is very real and goes back centuries before Harry Potter was ever dreamt up.”

“Sorry. I just don’t believe in that kind of thing,” I said.

“No need to apologize. I certainly don’t begrudge anyone his beliefs, or disbeliefs,” Dr. Hewitt said, with undisguised amusement.

“But you think the philosopher’s stone is real?” I asked.

“I believe within every great legend lies a grain of truth. But that’s beside the point. History itself proves the philosopher’s stone could indeed be real.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” exclaimed Simon, looking over at me.

“Not in the least. How would you explain figures such as Methuselah, who by some accounts lived to be 969, or Ramses the Great, who lived to be nearly 100 years old at a time when the average life span was thirty? The Abkhazia people in the mountains of southern Russia who live well into their hundreds? Something certainly contributed to their longevity. Who’s to say it wasn’t the philosopher’s stone?”

“Aren’t those are just more myths and legends? It’s impossible to know if any of them truly lived that long,” I countered.

“My dear, just because something seems implausible doesn’t make it impossible. Think about how long people believed the world was flat.”

I was incredulous. I couldn’t believe an educated woman believed in an elixir that could prolong life. Then again, she did let her dog decide where we would have coffee.

“If it’s real, why doesn’t everyone know about it and use it?” I asked.

She considered my question for a long moment, her eyes never leaving mine, before answering. “Tell me,” she said, looking down at the dog on her lap. “Would you believe me if I told you my Agnes is almost forty years old?” Agnes’s ears perked up at the sound of her name.

“No. It’s impossible for a dog to live that long,” I replied. I’d had a roommate in college whose beagle lived to be twenty-two—but almost forty? Nonsense.

“Well then there you have it. Knowledge and belief are two different things. I’ve given you a bit of knowledge that based on conventional wisdom you’ve decided isn’t true. Most people, like you, are skeptics when it comes to the unconventional. They aren’t going to pursue something they don’t believe in even if they know about it, even if the knowledge of it goes back centuries.”

“But—”

“We’d love to debate this further, Dr. Hewitt,” Simon said impatiently, cutting me off, “but could you finish telling us about the
Mutus Liber?
”

“Ah, yes, we did get a bit sidetracked, didn’t we?” she said with laugh. “The
Mutus Liber
wasn’t considered a dangerous book because no one could decipher the illustrations. In fact, a copy of it was kept in the library at the Louvre back when it was still the primary residence of the French royal family. However, an updated version of the book, complete with about five hundred pages of text describing what the illustrations meant, was supposedly published some ten years later by a student of Baulot.”

“Why would this book be considered dangerous?” Simon asked.

“Surely you can answer that question yourself, Monsieur Girard,” said Dr. Hewitt. She put Agnes down, and the dog sat looking longingly at the half-eaten plate of cheese and fruit on Simon’s lap.

“The book was considered dangerous because it threatened the church,” I said. Dr. Hewitt nodded enthusiastically.

“That’s right,” said Dr. Hewitt, warming to her subject. “Why would people need the church if they had a book with a recipe for immortality
and
turning base metals into gold? You could live forever and be rich. No need to go to church to confess, or repent, or pray for your soul’s salvation if you never had to worry about dying and going to hell in the first place.”

“But they couldn’t possibly believe what was in this book was real?” I persisted.

“Why not? They believed a black man could startle a pregnant white woman and turn her baby black,” Simon pointed out.

Dr. Hewitt nodded in agreement. “It was more about what the book represented than what was actually in it that worried the Catholic Church. Any ideas that didn’t align with their own were considered heresy. Remember Baulot was a Huguenot, a member of the Protestant church, and they there were persecuted in France. By the time the second book was published, Louis XIV had revoked the Edict of Nantes and declared Protestantism illegal.”

“So then this
second
book is what was given to Sister Louise-Marie to protect?” I was starting to get impatient.

“Yes,” Dr. Hewitt replied, nodding vigorously.

“Why her?” Simon and I asked in unison.

“I’m getting to that.” Dr. Hewitt got up and walked over to the bookshelf behind us.

We turned and watched her peruse the shelf until she came upon a thick, red leather-bound book. She pulled it out and sat back down, flipping through it until she finally found what she was looking for. She turned the book to show us an illustration of the same image depicted in the handle of the crucifix in Luc’s sketchpad.

Well, it was almost the same scene. Once I got a closer look, the differences were apparent. This was a tapestry, not a drawing or painting. The kneeling nun was no longer faceless. It was clear she was a black woman. The angel’s wings and robes were longer and more elaborate than in Luc’s sketch. The book with the infinity symbol was there, but its cover was jewel encrusted. And while the infinity symbol was still present, the letters
S
and
M
were missing. The sun in this image was smaller and less imposing than it was in Luc’s drawing. The scene included a detailed background of large trees filled with songbirds, lush greenery and a huge castle-like building. Simon stared at it, speechless. I finally broke the silence.

“What is this?”

“This, my dear, is the Moret Tapestry. It was found at the turn of the century in the cellar of a private home in the village of Fontainebleau not far from Moret-sur-Loing. It dates back to the late 1600s, but nobody has been able to identify the artist. The French art historian Bernard Fouquet theorized that since the book was never found, a society must have been formed to protect it. He could never prove it conclusively, though.

Fouquet believed that this tapestry is the blueprint on which a crucifix was created. The so-called Moret Crucifix supposedly provides the clues for finding the actual book the society protects, but no one has ever found it. Unfortunately, there is no evidence it even exists beyond Fouquet’s wild theories.”

Simon shot me a glance. His eyes shined with excitement. “Do you know this Fouquet? I’d love to talk with him about his theories for the documentary.”

“Unfortunately, I never got a chance to meet the man. We didn’t exactly move in the same circles. Sadly, he died in obscurity about ten years ago. The academic community deemed him a crackpot. I found my information from his early writings.”

“That still doesn’t answer why Sister Louise-Marie was chosen to protect the book,” I prodded. Dr. Hewitt was silent for a moment.

“All I have is a personal theory of my own to explain that.”

“Yes?” I said anxiously.

“Despite the ridiculous excuse Louis XIV bought into, he had to know she wasn’t his child. Poor Louise-Marie was never acknowledged or recognized by the royal family. She was an embarrassment to the king. She was never supposed to know about her background or where she came from. But someone told her who her mother was and as a result, she became a big problem.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“According to the few known accounts of her life, Louise-Marie kept running away from the convent to try and gain an audience with her mother, the queen. She wanted her rightful place at court. She was always found, usually somewhere on the grounds of nearby Fontainebleau Castle. She was always persuaded to go back to the convent, that is, until she fell in love.”

“How’d she manage that living in a convent?” I asked incredulously. I could barely find dates living in a big city.

“People of color weren’t exactly in abundance back in seventeenth-century France. So she was quite a curiosity to the members of the royal court. Many of them visited her at the convent when they were staying at Fontainebleau Castle. One of them, Philippe d’Orleans, the Duke of Chartres, was the king’s nephew, they fell madly in love and he snuck her out of the convent with every intention of marrying her.”

“And did they get married?” I asked.

“No. Louis was never going to grant his nephew permission to marry the woman he’d hidden away since birth. That would have defeated the purpose of hiding her. Instead, he arranged a hasty marriage between the duke and Mademoiselle de Blois, the daughter he fathered by his mistress Madame de Montespan.”

“What did Louise-Marie do?” I asked.

“What could she do? She was powerless. In those days women had few options. They could either become wives, mistresses, whores or nuns. And some women, depending on their circumstances, experienced each option at various points in their lives. In the end, Louise-Marie had no choice but to return to the convent.”

“I doubt the duke ever really intended to marry her. I bet he just used her and dumped her,” I said, channeling my recent relationship failure.

A curious half smile lifted one corner of Dr. Hewitt’s mouth. From inside her shirt she pulled a thin silver chain from which hung a silver band ring. She unfastened the chain to retrieve the ring and handed it to me. The ring was slightly domed and etched with a chain of interlocking figure eights circling its circumference.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s a posy ring. They were quite popular with couples from about 1400 through the seventeenth century. The silver ones were used as engagement rings and were replaced with a gold one upon marriage. Posy comes from the term
poesy.
It refers to the secret messages of love that were engraved inside each one.”

I held the ring up and turned it so I could read the message. It read:
de m’amour soiez sure.

“Of my love be sure,” translated Dr. Hewitt. “What you’re holding is the ring that I believe Philippe d’Orleans, the Duke of Chartres, gave to Louise-Marie as a token of his love and his intention to marry her.”

“You believe? So you don’t know for sure?” I asked, eying the ring in my hand.

“I found that ring in an antique shop in Moret-sur-Loing when I was doing research for the book. The shop’s owner told me it had been found at the bottom of an old well on the site where Louise-Marie’s convent once stood. It’s long gone now.

“But what makes you think it belonged to her?” I asked.

“Take a closer look inside. What else do you see besides the message?”

I took another look and opposite the message was a small mark. At first it looked like a
G
with an underline. But upon closer inspection it was actually a
G
engraved over an
L.
“What’s GL stand for?”

“It’s the jeweler’s mark for Gilles Lagere. He was a court jeweler and engraver during the time of Louis XIV.”

“Still seems like a bit of a stretch,” said Simon.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a hopeless old romantic, Monsieur Girard, but the duke and Louise-Marie were in love. So a ring dating back to the late 1600s, found on the site of the convent where she once lived and commissioned by a member of the French royal court makes it highly likely as far as I’m concerned that this was her engagement ring.”

“I’d call you neither hopeless nor old and I insist you call me Simon,” he replied smoothly.

While Simon and Dr. Hewitt continued to chat, the shiny silver ring seemed to glow in my palm. I don’t know what compelled me to slide the band on my ring finger but I did. And once it was past my knuckle, everything went eerily silent like someone pushed a mute button. The acrid stench of burning sugar filled my nostrils. Dizziness hit me hard, making the room spin. I gripped the cushion of the couch to keep from sliding off as the ringing of a church bell filled my ears, far off at first, then clanging so loudly the walls were vibrating Then, just as soon as it started, it was over. What the hell had happened?

“Maya? Are you okay?” asked Simon.

“Didn’t you…?” I began and then thought better of it. From their concerned expressions, neither Simon nor Dr. Hewitt had experienced what I had. “Never mind…I’m fine,” I said with a nervous laugh and shook my head to clear it. “I was just thinking how devastated Louise-Marie must have been when they couldn’t get married and she had to go back to that convent.”

“As any woman in love would have been,” said Dr. Hewitt. “And to make matters worse, the king gave his priest the task of making sure she never left the convent again. This was also around the time that the church came into possession of the second version of the
Mutus Liber.
The priest killed two birds with one stone by—”

“Giving Louise-Marie something to occupy her?” I ventured. Dr. Hewitt nodded.

“The theory is that the priest gave her the book, telling her that her marriage wasn’t approved because she’d been chosen by the king for a higher purpose. She was to keep a dangerous book out of the wrong hands. She probably thought her family loved and needed her after all and she embraced her new role. She eventually took her final vows and remained in the convent for the rest of her life, no doubt forming the Society of Moret to watch over the book after she was gone.”

“She spent the rest of her life guarding a worthless book?” said Simon, looking disgusted.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Monsieur Girard. You saw the tapestry. The book is bound in solid gold and covered with precious gems. In fact, the name of this second book is allegedly the
Aurum Liber,
the Gold Book. Forget about what’s inside, the cover alone would be priceless, that is, if it even exists.” She winked at Simon.

“How is the crucifix the key to finding it?” asked Simon.

Dr. Hewitt fixed Simon and me with an odd look and my heartbeat quickened. So far she’d been very forthcoming. Was she starting to smell a rat?

“Will this be in the documentary? I think it should be, you know. I watched the one the BBC did on Dan Brown’s book and feel quite strongly that a story of missing treasure would really pull in the ratings, don’t you?”

Neither of us spoke.

“My publisher will be forced to re-issue
Secret Societies of France,
or better yet, I will be able to get a new publisher.” She rubbed her hands together and stared off into space, no doubt imagining fame, glory and fat royalty checks.

Simon looked like a deer caught in headlights. I wanted to go…now. I checked my watch and abruptly stood

“Monsieur Girard, have you forgotten your 1:00 p.m. appointment with your lawyer? If we don’t get going, we’ll miss it and his next opening isn’t until next week and you can’t go then because you’ll be in America.” I pulled Simon roughly to his feet.

“Oh dear,” said Dr. Hewitt, looking disappointed. “Don’t let me keep you, Monsieur Girard. Can we finish up another day, perhaps when you return from America?”

“It would be my pleasure, dear lady, and I thought I told you to call me Simon.” Simon kissed her hand again.

I pulled him down the steps to the front door. Before we could leave, Dr. Hewitt called out.

“Oh, Simon! Don’t you want to know the answer to your question?”

“Pardon?”

“Your question about how the crucifix is the key to finding the book?”

“Ah,
oui,
how could I have forgotten? Do tell,
si vous plait.
”

“According to Bernard Fouquet’s theory, it’s all to do with the sun.”

“The sun? You mean the sun on the tapestry?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. One interpretation of the sun depicted on the tapestry is that it represents Louis XIV. He was the sun king, you know. The sun shining down on the nun and the angel is thought to represent Louis’s blessing of Louise-Marie being given the book. Personally, I’m not so sure. I think the sun is the key to finding the book. I just don’t know how,” she concluded sheepishly.

“
Merci,
Dr. Hewitt. I will be in touch.” Simon bowed and blew her a kiss, which made her blush.

Once outside and safely down the street, Simon shed his gentlemanly demeanor and rounded on me.

“What the hell is your problem? Why did you drag me out of there when she was telling us everything we needed to know?”

“Did you have to lie to her? How’s she going to feel when she finds out you’re a fraud? You may not have a problem lying. Most men don’t. But I—”

“It was the only way I could get her to talk to me!” he snapped. “I’m trying to figure out what happened to my brother and I don’t need some silly American woman with man problems fucking everything up. I didn’t ask you to come with me!”

“Man problems?” My face was flaming.

“It’s written all over you. You’re mistrustful and uptight and angry. You’re here in Paris, the most beautiful city in the world, yet you wouldn’t know
joie de vivre
if it bit you in the ass. You may as well have ‘I’ve been dumped’ tattooed on your forehead. You’re so miserable and sorry for yourself it’s pathetic!”

He was more right than wrong. But that didn’t mean I had to like it, or take it. I closed my eyes, took a deep calming breath and let it out slowly while counting silently to ten. It usually helps when I’m trying to avoid making a scene. But when I opened my mouth to give the arrogant bastard a piece of my mind, I found I was so pissed off I couldn’t talk.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Has the cat caught your tongue?”

“It’s
got
not
caught,
” I snapped. “And screw you, dickhead! You don’t know a damned thing about me. Forget the fact that I’m a murder suspect and the real murderer attacked me yesterday. Nooo! If I’m angry and mistrustful, it
has
to be because some man dumped me. Well, you know what? You can kiss my
joie de vivre.
” I shoved the notepad at him. “And thanks a lot for saving my life. I’m outta here.” I walked away.

“Where are you going?” He grabbed my arm. I shook him off.

“The agreement was that we’d see Dr. Hewitt together and then go our separate ways, remember? Good luck finding out what happened to your brother. I’ve got problems of my own.
Au revoir!
”

I took off running down the cobbled street back toward the crowded rue St-Louis-en-l’Ile.

“Maya! Come back here! That psycho is still out there! Maya!”

I ducked into a nearby gallery just in time to see Simon run past me. He looked around frantically for several minutes and then headed back toward the Pont Louis-Philippe.

Simon was right. I couldn’t go back to the hotel. I knew I should check in with Bellange and Bernier to them and tell them about what happened at Versailles. But Simon was right. They hadn’t believed me so far. The thought of going back to the station and being grilled for hours in that room kept me from calling. And I knew after the incident at Versailles, they’d waste no time issuing a warrant for my arrest.

I ended up sitting at a sidewalk café, racking my brain trying to figure out what to do next. I suddenly remembered the U.S. Embassy. Wasn’t the U.S. Embassy considered U.S. soil in Paris? They wouldn’t be able to arrest me there. Surely the embassy could help me. I dug around in my bag for my Paris guidebook and discovered another big problem. I still had on Dr. Hewitt’s posy ring! I tugged on the ring with every intention of going back to return it. But it wouldn’t budge. Shit! I tried again with no luck, which was odd since it wasn’t too tight. In fact, it was a perfect fit.