H.J. Gaudreau - Betrayal in the Louvre (12 page)

Chapter 19

I

Two days later Jim and Eve were back home, sitting on the porch and letting the sun sink behind the corn.  Jim was reading the diary to Eve.  Transfixed by the tale, they were transported back to a horrible time.  It all seemed so real, made more so by the comments on day-to-day life.  Jim’s Great grandfather complained of bad food, no yarn to darn his socks, losing at cards.  He spoke of the famous World War One trenches.  In one section three pages were devoted to mud.  His ancestor explained all the different types and uses of mud; how it deadened the noise of a shell.  How it sucked in shells and made great showers when the shell exploded.  How it stopped shrapnel and how it seeped into guns and trousers and food and cots and water barrels and wounds and on and on and on. 

Two pages were devoted to the description of an observation balloon.  They had set up anti-aircraft guns around the balloon and “aeroplanes” as he called them were constantly patrolling near the balloon.  Several pages later there was one sentence:  “The balloon was blown up today.”

Sometimes the narrative was interrupted for several days; then a short list of friends killed, or maybe a story of how someone was lucky to have escaped death.  Rarely was a battle described in detail, though sometimes a particular incident seemed to take on more than casual importance.  The story changed subtly when a large battle was described as being heard off in the distance.  The horizon flashed and artillery barked and boomed.  The men all grew silent, many said prayers.  They all expected orders to move forward to the attack on their own front but none came.  The description went on for some time.  It seemed Oschel had a difficult time sleeping that night. 

The day after the battle in the distance the entry was very small. 
“Army on the move.”
was all it said.  Several more entries were made which simply said the army had taken to the roads and began moving.  Sore feet were now the problem and the topic of each night’s entry.  Whole pages were devoted to sore feet, drying socks and the best way to wrap feet before starting off in the morning.  Food and supplies were a constant item of comment.  Two pages were devoted to catching a chicken that had been spotted in a damaged chicken coop.  Once there were three pages devoted to a French woman they had seen in a farmhouse as they marched past.  The diary droned on, the sole topic being the daily observations of a man walking through a broken, war torn countryside.

Camp life seemed to be enjoyed.  At least in comparison to life in the trenches described early in the diary.  Hot meals were always commented on.  It seemed they were served about every three days.  A friend, who was only identified as Robert, was a noted barber in the unit. 

After an hour, Eve said she needed to put some laundry in the washer and start supper.  She disappeared into the house.  Jim sat on the now dark porch, a cold cup of coffee on the floor next to him and read by the porch light.  He read for another twenty minutes. 

Suddenly Jim stopped.  He called down the basement stairs, “Eve, I’ve got something. C’mer and listen to this.”  

She climbed the stairs.  “This better be good.  I’ve got things to do,” she complained.

Jim looked at her and smiled.  “Hon, you know I hate seeing you work so hard….”  He began. 

She cut him off “Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s why you’re staying up here where you can’t see me, very funny.  Now, what did you call me here for?”  It was an old joke they’d been quoting at each other for years. 

Jim got serious.  “Okay, after you went in I kept reading.  The diary went along just talking about routine things like food, cooking, one guy’s birthday and stuff like that.  Then, in mid-August it seems they caught up with the Germans.  Apparently, the Germans were trying to reform a front and stabilize their lines.  The commanders were trying to stop that and keep things from degenerating back to trench warfare.  At least that’s what the campfire generals were saying.  Anyway, on August twenty-fifth he got into a battle near a little town called Chickery or something like that.  Listen to this…” he said and began to read from the diary.

25 August 1918

Captain says we’re to attack the town of Chehery tomorrow.  It’s a pretty small town and we’re hitting it with four companies.  I don’t like where we’re going.  Captain Walters put us on the right flank.  That ain’t the best thing.  It’s closest to the main line of the Germans.  If they come for us we’re sure to get in the thick of it.

27 August 1918

Chehery is took.  But at a terrible cost.  Captain Walters is gone and so are many of those good boys.  We come through a woods in the middle of the night.  It was dark or nearly so but every once in a while the moon come out so I could see the branches in front of me.  Finally, we come to a field.  It was the prettiest field of grain you ever saw with a big two-story barn by a creek and the town laying just a ways beyond, at least that’s what the word was.  They said that the Germans were in that town.  After waiting for a while at the edge of that field we finally screwed up our nerve and started across.  It was probably an hour or less before sun up.  We was crossing that field all quiet and in fine fashion when all of a sudden every artillery piece in the German army started to fire at us.  The gates of hell just plain opened up above us.  I seen the Captain just disappear in a red cloud.  The boys was brave, they run forward like good soldiers, but we was stopped by that creek.  Bombs and shells was bursting and the noise was more than a man could stand.  Me and John Turner ducked into that barn pretty quick when them Huns started firing their machine guns at us.  John got killed a few minutes later.  A bullet come right through the wall.  I dug in the back of one of them stalls.  Couldn’t dig too deep because I run into a pile of canvas.  I got into that hole and scooped hay and manure over me.  I hid for the entire day, didn’t smell too good after that.  Nearly got myself caught by them Krauts.  That night the rest of the 126th come and rescued us.  D Company was in terrible shape.  We had a lot of the boys git killed or wounded.  Only about half of us was walking that night.  It was probably the scaredest I been since gitting here in France.  It was a terrible day.  
 

Jim and Eve starred at each other.  They had their clue. 

II

LeDuc listened to the reading of the diary from his hotel room in Detroit’s Renaissance Center.  He smiled.  This could be the ticket to a big payday.  Marcil would be very happy.  He pulled the ear buds out and turned off his laptop.   He walked to his 72nd floor suite window.  The view of Windsor Canada directly in front of him, and Belle Isle to his left was spectacular.  He didn’t see any of it.  He knew what he had to do.  He knew the potential payday, but he hated talking to that man.  He wished he’d turned down that first little favor so many years ago.  But, he was now a wealthy man; a wealthy man who lived in fear, but wealthy nevertheless.  He sighed, “I guess all jobs have their unpleasantness,” he said to the glass. 

He then pulled his cell phone out of the holster on his belt.  In minutes he had given Marcil the details. 

A short time later Marcil disconnected the phone.  This was an interesting development.  It seemed the Americans were on to where the Patent had been found.  At least they had a clue.  That could lead the couple to the location of the Regalia.  He thought this over a bit.  A barn near Chehery.  That didn’t seem to be enough for anyone to find anything.  He dismissed it.  His issue now was to get the Patent from these two.  Maybe then he’d look for a one-hundred year old barn near Chehery.

LeDuc looked at the dead cell phone.  The boss had instructed him to keep a close eye on the Crenshaws and that he would do the rest.  Whatever “the rest” meant.  LeDuc did not know and didn’t really want to know. 

Chapter 20

Saturday morning Jim and Eve decided to eat breakfast at the diner in town.  Several people greeted them when they walked in the front door.  The local gossip was exchanged, discussions about the spring crops, markets, yields, sports, the availability and price of gas, seed and fertilizer for next year filled the next twenty minutes.  It didn’t take long and their order arrived.   Eve began to tell Jim about an incident in her class at school.  Jim tried to pay attention but she could tell his mind was elsewhere.  Finally Eve said, “You’re not listening.  I know that look.  It means you’ve got something up your sleeve.  What are you thinking?”

“Do you think that barn is still there?” 

“No way. I can’t imagine it would have lasted nearly a hundred years and two world wars.  And, I’ll bet that little town is now a huge city and that whole area is all covered with concrete.”  She sipped her coffee and eyed Jim over the rim.

“You’re probably right,” he mused. 

A moment later Jim waved down the waitress for more coffee.  When she left he said, “Do you think we could find it?”  

Eve seemed to think about that for a second or two and then said, “The city?  Sure, we could find it.  But so what?  It’s not like that barn will still be there.  Jim, we’re talking about events that happened in 1918.  The odds of anything still being there are slim and none.  You know that.”

As they talked they became increasingly curious about the current population and size of the town.  Returning to the house they hurried to the small office they had set up off the kitchen.  Jim sat at the desk and logged onto their computer.  They quickly found the right website and in short order were looking at an aerial view of the town of Chehery.  Small was an understatement.  The town was made up of approximately twenty buildings.  Farmland ran right up to the back of many of the buildings.  Several fields had barns in them.   Two streams wound through the fields and what appeared to be several ditches.  Any one of which could have been the creek in Oschel Crenshaw’s diary.

“Doesn’t look so bad,” said Jim.  “I just can’t tell if these are one or two story barns, old or new or what.  And, if one of those barns is it, well…”

Eve was silent.  After a moment’s hesitation she said, “Summer break is coming up.  I’ve always wanted to see France.  You really want to go check this out?”

He stared at her.  “Are you nuts?”  And then he smiled.  “You read my mind again.  Well, let me see how our savings account looks.”

Chapter 21

The Duke of Orleans is the traditional title given to the oldest brother or, lacking a brother, oldest male cousin of the King.  The Duchy is and always has been based in the city of Orleans.  Located in central France, Orleans is a beautiful and historic city.  It also rightly claims to be the site where the idea of the modern French nation was born.  It was here in 1429 that Joan of Arc fought French Nobles and English soldiers alike to break the English siege of the city.  Her victory was the beginning of her march to Sainthood…and the stake.

The city is the traditional home to the Duke of Orleans.  Though, in truth, throughout history the Duke rarely actually lived in the city.   It was from this line that the Orléanist claimants to the thrown sprang.  It was the Orléanists that had the support of the Action Françoise.  In fact, the Orléanists had secured the backing of the AF well over a hundred and fifty years ago.  In a brilliant bit of misdirection the AF had allowed the Unionists and the Legitimist lines of royalty to loudly and publicly state their case.  As such, the Republicans had battled the two groups since the Reign of Terror.  Initially beheading many, then simply denying them positions of power in government and industry.  The Orléanists, except for that brief experiment prior to the Second World War had stayed in the shadows.  Ultimately, using any means necessary the Unionists and the Legitimist were successfully pushed aside.  They were not now, nor had they ever been, invited to participate as part of the Council de Governors.

Philippe Louis Palatine, the current and legitimate Duke of Orleans, was indeed widely known.  He was not, however, the man known as the descendent of Prince Henri of Orléans, Count of Paris.  That was a sham, probably one of the most successful cons in history.  Palatine’s bloodline ran back to Louis Philippe Joseph d’Orléans, Duke of Orleans at the beginning of the Revolution.  Philippe, as he was more commonly known, had been an early supporter of the Revolution, seeing it as a way to supplant his cousin Louis XVI as King of France.  He took the name “Philippe Égalité” and positioned himself as an alternative to Louie.  Philippe was not blind however and when he fell out of favor with Robespierre and the Committee for Public Safety he quietly disappeared.  The Jacobin’s couldn’t stand for his escape and Philippe’s brother was beheaded in his place.

Louis Palatine was the Chairman and CEO of Perpétuel Energy, the third largest producer of nuclear energy plants in the world.  He was a man of uncompromising ambition with a dominating will.  The Duke enjoyed his double life.  His numerous appearances with the power elite of France were attributed to his many charities and his role as an industrialist.  Very few people both inside and outside government knew that nearly everyone in a position of significant power in France owed their success, knowingly or unknowingly, to him and the Council de Governors.

The Council met in many different locations depending upon the urgency of the issue at hand.  But, its preferred place of meeting was the Cathédrale Sainte-Croix d’Orléans.  Its history as the church of Saint Joan d’Arc made it the obvious choice for the serious and important work of the Council.  Unacknowledged, but just as important, was the fact that Orleans was over a hundred miles from the capital city’s prying eyes. 

Paul Marcil’s position with the Louvre allowed him to travel throughout the country, and indeed throughout Europe, with little justification.  A perfect circumstance when he needed to provide updates to the Council.  Marcil didn’t often meet directly with the Council.  Which did nothing to shake his belief that he should be in attendance at each and every meeting.  He performed an important function for the Council, and he was an important person at the Louvre.  He had an important, long-term view of France.  His opinions were important and deserved to be heard.  He was important!  This was a view not shared by the current Council members.

He had been invited to provide an update to the Council covering the Royal Regalia and his efforts at learning more about its location.  He left Paris early in the afternoon, checked into his hotel, ate an early dinner, returned to the hotel, showered, changed into his finest silk suit and was now approaching the twin towers of the cathedral. 

A man in a dark suit waived him into a parking space on Rue Jeanne d’Arc then walked away without saying a word.  Marcil hurried across Place de L’Étape to the foot of the cathedral.  He was here.  He was with them.  His pulse quickened and his palms began to sweat.  He couldn’t stop the feeling; the same sense of awe and fear he always felt when dealing with these men.  This was power, and he wanted part of it.  Marcil climbed the stairs to the tall, grand and massive doors, opened one and slipped in.  Entering the sanctuary he dipped his hand in holy water and crossed himself.  The irony of the gesture completely lost on him.  This was, after all, a church.  He proceeded down the central isle to the altar.  A man wearing a very plain, but well tailored dark suit, sat in the front row pew.  As Marcil approached the man stood, blocking his way.  Marcil handed the man his papers.  The man typed Marcil’s name into his cell phone.  A moment later Marcil was waived toward a door leading to a small ante room.

Another man, in similar dark suit, stood next to a straight-backed, unpadded chair.  His body at a slight angle, left shoulder pointed at Paul.  He had his right hand inside his jacket.  Marcil identified himself and handed over his papers once again.  The man’s hand relaxed under the jacket and Paul could hear metal slide against leather.  The man then confirmed Paul’s name on a small notebook and waived Marcil forward.  He took three steps into the room, put his briefcase down and lifted his arms out to his side.  He was quickly and expertly searched.  The briefcase was then placed on a small table and opened.  It too was quickly searched.  This preamble completed, Marcil opened an elaborately carved door and descended to the cathedral’s undercroft.

There, he found a small room.  Again, a rather large man in a double-breasted suit was waiting for him.  This man again searched Paul.  This time the search was supplemented with a small metal detector.  The guard then checked a pair of monitors mounted to the far wall.  Hidden night vision cameras apparently fed one monitor, which displayed an eerie, greenish view of the outside front, back and each side of the cathedral.  Monitor number two showed the area just outside the anteroom, the interior of the anteroom and the exterior of this room.  After once more confirming Paul’s identity against the names listed inside a large brown leather ledger, he was allowed inside the conference room attached to this small outer office.  Before entering the room the man grabbed Paul’s upper arm with a massive hand and reminded him to speak only when asked.  The door opened and Marcil entered.  The conference room was dominated by a large oblong table and lined with stone.  There were no windows in this conference room. 

The Council de Governors had been established prior to the actual creation of Action Françoise.  It’s original intent was to simply preserve, protect and hide current members of the nobility.  Its membership suffered mightily during the Terror, and it quickly and harshly learned that its existence must be kept secret.  Thereafter, an attempt was made to limit membership to the decedents of the original twelve French Dukes and of course the distant family of the King.  This failed due to the loss of so many royals during the Terror.  Ultimately, nine members of the nobility were selected and given Duchies by the Prince du Sang or “blood descendant of the King” and the stand-in King for the Council. Eventually, the Terror passed and a new evil took over the levers of power.  The Council set about to destroy Napoleon.  It joined forces with certain remnants of the ancient regime’s nobliesse and formed the Action Françoise. 

Marcil now faced the ten members of the Council.  An eleventh chair, at the head of the table, and reserved for the Prince du Sang was vacant.  The identity of the Prince du Sang was a closely held secret, known only to members of the Council.  Marcil paused, gently inhaled and gathered his nerve.  He eyed the men around the table each with their écuyer standing directly behind them.  It was these squires that he feared the most.  They were fanatical in their loyalty, first to the Prince du Sang and then to their respective Duke.  It was they who actually made the nighttime visits.  Each was armed and each very deadly. 

Marcil took his position at the foot of the table.  The members of the council studied him for a long minute.  Finally, Marcil heard the word “Proceed.” 

He began by explaining who LeDuc was, his expertise and history with the AF.  He spent some time describing the two Americans and their story of the great grandfather in the First World War.  He explained about the antique show, LeDuc’s role in that show, and the discovery of the Royal Patent.  His confidence increasing, he paused to let the members digest his news.  He could plainly see the level of interest was minimal.  Inwardly he smiled.  He was about to drop his bombshell.  Marcil prolonged the delay by pouring a glass of water from the carafe in front of him.  He then took a polite sip and began again.  He explained that the Royal Patents were never seen without other treasures which were key to the monarchy.  The heads of the members of the Council all came up immediately at this.  They knew what this meant. Their interest was obvious. 

“You mean you know where the Sword of Charlegmene is located?” the Duke of Bourbon asked. 

“No, not exactly, but we have reason to believe we are coming close, and may in fact recover la Joyeuse
,
Monsieur le Duke,” Marcil replied. 

“Is the Coronation Crown found?” the Duke of Orleans quietly asked.

“Ahhh…no Monsieur le Duke, but we believe that….well, we have a clue as to…”  Marcil could not organize his thoughts, he stammered.  Slowly he regained control.  Finally he began to explain where he was with regard to recovering the Patent and why he had failed in the first attempt.  Finished, he bowed and turned to leave.  Instead, a council member, known only as the Duke of Anjou, began to question him. 

“What was your man doing?  Was he installing a microphone or searching the home?” the Duke asked. 

Marcil, unsure of where this question was leading, began to stammer.  Before he could completely answer, the Duke of Brittany asked if he had given clear instructions?  The Duke of Bourbon wanted to know why the Crenshaws had not been eliminated and the artifacts recovered already. 

Marcil’s stomach tightened.  He had lost control of the conversation.  The questions came at him too fast, and he wasn’t allowed time to answer completely.  He felt a bead of sweat release between his shoulder blades and roll down his spine.  He did not have good answers.  He had not practiced for this line of questions; he felt his credibility slipping away.  The fool LeDuc in Michigan had completely failed to properly and secretly search and bug the Crenshaw’s.  Now he was paying the price for LeDuc’s screw up. 

Finally, the Duke of Orleans leaned forward, “Monsieur Marcil.”  The Duke’s voice was smooth, calming, and it terrified Marcil.  “I believe the Council would prefer if you returned with a better grasp of the situation.  Do we make ourselves clear?” 

This turned Marcil’s body cold.  He glanced around the table.  Only dead stares returned his look.  “Oui, I shall…..it shall…I will not fail you.”  Marcil sputtered. 

He didn’t notice the man approaching him from his left.  Suddenly a large, powerful hand wrapped around his left bicep, lifted him from the chair and escorted him to the door.  There, thankfully, his arm was released, and he was again in the stairwell. 

What had happened?  That was supposed to be a triumph, not a disgrace!  Those people didn’t know anything about the Sword or the royal artifacts fifty minutes ago!  He found a small wooden chair and sat, head in his hands.  After a few minutes he stood up, straightened his tie and walked to his car.