The Lafayette Sword (13 page)

45

Present day

Aurora Paris to Aur
ora Source

Trading price.
Prices, indexed against the Banque de France, are holding steady. Data, however, does suggest a drop of 0.2 points in the co
ming week.

Transactions.
According to a reliable source in Lugano, the Hong Kong Bank will put two thousand bars on the market before the twenty-seventh of this month. The representative says they will be sold in twenty-bar sets in a single session. There's a seventy-eight percent probability that the gold will come from the Chinese mother house of the bank's principle sh
areholder.

We suggest that Aurora Hong Kong purchase the entire lot, as long as the purity is guaranteed. The Red Dragon Bank in Shanghai and a shareholder of the Hong Kong Bank were involved in the Oslo gold scandal two years ago, when a tenth of the bars sold had been weighed down
with iron.

Follow-up.
The Banque de France has no intention of selling off one and a half tons of its reserves before June. Details will follow in upcomi
ng months.

Other.
We've contacted the University of Toulouse and the European Space Agency in regard to contributing to their research on the use of gold leaf on satellite panels. We would receive the results of the research in exchange for our i
nvestment.

According to the Association for Financial Professionals, a swindler posing as an alchemist was sentenced to a term in Fresnes Prison for the Internet sale of the so-called Fulcanelli method for making gold. The police uncovered a mini-laboratory with a furnace and chemistry ins
truments.

46

Rue Saint Jacques de la Boucherie

March 21, 1355

F
lamel knocked twice on the double wooden doors. He perked his ears. After a moment of silence, he heard a shuffling, and the do
or opened.

The torturer didn't show any surprise and let him in. There was only one chair in the room. Arthus sat on the edge of t
he hearth.

“You're an early bird, Master Flamel. Is something on y
our mind?”

Flamel took a deep breath, readying f
or battle.

“I'm having ni
ghtmares.”

Arthus was strangely calm, as if the situation didn't concern him. He stood up and walked over to a window. Dawn was creeping down the street. “We all have them. Yet none of my dreams have ever caused me to cross the street and talk to my
neighbor.”

“I doubt that you dream about your
neighbor.”

Arthus looked at him. “Who's haunting your nights? Would I be in your nightmares, Maste
r Flamel?”

Flamel was still afraid, but he pressed on. “Thi
nk hard.”

Arthus took his time to answer. “Does the girl's fate preoccupy you t
hat much?”

“Please. You're a man of God, and my mind is prey to confusion. I'm afraid of having s
inned in—”

“In helping me? But you are not responsible. You were but an ear an
d a hand.”

“And a conscience. A conscience that keeps reminding me that i
t exists.”

Arthus returned to the hearth and picked up a handful of cold ashes. He let them fall through hi
s fingers.

“A conscience. What is it that you know about having a conscience, when your sole responsibility in this world is taking do
wn words?”

“I didn't just copy, milord. I also heard. And the poor woman's cries echo in my mind and trouble
my soul.”

“What exactly did you hear?” Arthus was speaking more s
lowly now.

Suddenly Flamel understood what was going through the torturer's mind. The man wasn't concerned about his crises of conscience, but instead of what he
might do.

Arthus continued. “Are you sure that it's only the poor woman's fate that torments you? Perhaps material desires are revealing themselves in your dreams. Many things were said during that inter
rogation.”

Flamel didn't dare answer. He listened to the fire crackle and hiss in the f
ireplace.

“What do you think the man burned at the stake was seeking?” the torturer finally asked. “What cost him
his life?”

“If you mean the secret of gold, it may have interested that man, but not me. Fortune in this world doesn't open the gates o
f heaven.”

“Master Flamel, gold corrupts. And that's why it must remain rare. If there were more of it, man would live only for it, and not the kingdom of God. We're hunting down gold-makers, the so-called alchemists, to preserve mankind's hope for a future life that's better than the one on th
is earth.”

Flamel thought about the forbidden books hidden in his cellar while Arthus continued, as if speaking for his ow
n benefit.

“We don't know where they came from, from what race of heretics they descend. For nearly a century, they've appeared and disappeared. Sometimes they're in Spain, where they recruit and train disciples. Other times, a disciple will perform miracles in the princely courts of Germany and then vanish. But all promise the same power, the same illusion: to make gold
at will.”

“The only gold I seek is what I need to illustrate
my books.”

Arthus turned away from the fireplace. He glanced at the wooden chest before looking the scribe in
the eye.

“You, Master Flamel, are a famed scribe and manuscript seller. Have you never been asked to reproduce books with strange figures, written in a language you don't know? A book like
this one?”

Arthus took the illuminated manuscript from the chest and put it on the table. Flamel started to reach for the book, but thought bet
ter of it.

“Once again, milord, saving my soul is my only preoccupation. And therefore I seek to know what became of the woman, so that I'm not damned to hell for the sin of her death. When I woke up after fainting she was no longer in t
hat room.”

Arthus shook
his head.

“She's still alive. She is on her way back to he
r family.”

“Why, then, does she haunt m
y nights?”

47

Musée Carnavalet, Paris

Present day

M
arcas stopped for a moment in the courtyard before entering the museum. He hadn't been here since his divorce. It held bad memories. He glanced at the perfectly pruned shrubs and symmetrical flowerbeds—classic geometric forms that contrasted with his state of mind. Nostalgia wasn't his thing, especially when the memories were filled with anger and bitterness. Another fragment of his past that he couldn't share with his son. And yet it was with his son that he and Isabelle had spent that afternoon wandering the creaky floors of the museum. What a bad idea for a rainy Sunday. Pierre was three. When they got to the second floor, he started crying. His mother got annoyed. She'd been on edge and miserable for months. She couldn't stand being a housewife. She said she was bored to tears. Yet she herself had chosen to stop working when Pierre
was born.

To make matters worse, he had developed the bad habit of spending long hours away from home. He'd put everything into his investigations, and when they were finally tied up and he could return home, he'd inevitably face a volley of reproaches. Marcas admitted it—he'd get angry in return, and then he'd feel bad and suggest doing something as a family. On this Sunday they had decided to enjoy the museum, which wasn't far from th
eir house.

But the excursion had quickly become a bad idea and they cut their museum visit short. Marcas couldn't remember which of them had thrown the first verbal punch. It didn't matter. The anger on both sides piled up until Marcas couldn't take it anymore. He stormed out of the house and spent the night on the couch in h
is office.

Marcas shook off the memory. That part of his life was over—except when he had to talk with Isabelle about something concerning their son. He approached the reception desk and showed
his badge.

“Anne Hervieu, please,
” he said.

“I'll see if the conservator is in,” the receptionist said. She had dark Caribbean skin and shiny wh
ite teeth.

“Do that,” Marcas said. He was immediately embarrassed by his snarky attitude. He looked out the window at the well-ordered garden and tried to collect himself. No sooner had he done this than he heard a voice behind him. “Inspector, I came down to get you myself. This place is a real maze. I didn't want you to
get lost.”

Marcas turned around to greet the conservator. He was immediately taken with her clear blue eyes and fine porcelain smile. Everything about Anne Hervieu seemed delicate but approachable at the
same time.

“Madam, I'm pleased to
meet you.”

“Please, call me Anne. Everyone does, starting with your charming friend, Guy Andrivaux. He's spoken highly of you. But let's go to m
y office.”

In the service elevator, Marcas looked for something intelligent to say but came up empty. He just stood there, in the tiny car, thirty centimeters from the beautiful conservator who was already captivating him. He felt tongue-tied, like a teenager wit
h a crush.

The elevator jerked to a stop, and the doors slid open. Marcas came back to reality. He followed Hervieu down th
e hallway.

“Are you always so quiet, I
nspector?”

“To tell the truth, I'm quite concerned about t
his case.”

She stopped in front of a massive wood door and removed a key from a pocket in her skirt. “Then let's hope I can
help you.”

She opened the door, and Marcas entered an office the likes of which he had never seen. It was serene and studious, with natural cherry woodwork, an immaculate white ceiling and a gray marble fireplace. A book lying open on a shelf, reading glasses left on a desk, and pens scattered here and there added to the feeling
of peace.

Marcas tried to focus—a pair of clear-blue eyes, an exquisite smile, a few sentences, and then nothing in an elevator. Until he entered this office, that's all he had to go on. But looking around, he realized that he was now lost in a world of pure fantasy. Yes, he had loved Isabelle at one time. And he had been committed to Jade, the most competent and self-assured woman he had ever known. But here in this serene place, he found himself in the company of a woman he had only dreamed of finding: a scholar with the delicate features of an Italia
n Madonna.

“So, you're interested in Lafayette?” the conservator asked, motioning to a chair. “I was a bit surprised when Guy called to say the police needed someone who specialized in the marquis. He's one of those historical figures that everyone mentions and nobo
dy knows.”

Marcas sat down in the chair she had pointed to. It was a period chair with an especially stiff back. As he listened, he felt a bit like a student in front a somewhat intimidating teacher with a body that was… Superb was the only word he c
ould find.

“It's a long story,” he said. “And certainly a lot longer than
we think.”

Anne Hervieu's smile vanished for an instant. “If it goes back too far, you will certainly need another expert. I'm only qualified to talk about the second half of the eighteenth century. You see, my knowledge is quite
limited.”

“Yet you're a conservator at one of the French capital's most prestigious museums,” Ma
rcas said.

“Assigned to our French Revolution collections. I do hope your story falls within that ti
me frame.”

Marcas frowned. The enigma was already spanning two continents. It would be hard to date i
ts origin.

“Would you like to discuss his involvement in the American Revolution? Perhaps the French Revolution, as well? In both, he was on the front lines. And in both, he was dragged through the mud. Adulated in the morning, tarnished at night. Some call him an opportunist, others just
a puppet.”

“Who was the puppe
t master?”

Anne Hervieu laughed. “Everyone: the royalists, the republicans, the Americans, the English… You
name it.”

“Would you say that he could have been an instrument of certain occult groups?” Mar
cas asked.

“If you mean the Freemasons, without any doubt. For that matter, they're the ones who financed his trip to what would become the Unite
d States.”

“Why?”

“For the love of liberty. Out of solidarity with their brothers across the Atlantic. There were many reasons. But I'd still like to know what interests you, spec
ifically.”

Marcas stood up and walked over to one of the bookshelves. After glancing at some of the volumes, he turned around and faced the lovely conservator. “I'm looking for his sword. Not the ceremonial sword that was stolen from the Grand Orient museum, but his combat sword—the one he used when he fought alongside George Wa
shington.”

Anne Hervieu's eyes sparkled with amusement, as if he had said something r
idiculous.

“You're better placed than I am to
find it.”

“How
is that?”

“That's funny. I thought you all knew at the Gran
d Orient.”

“K
new what?”

“Well, while I was researching the marquis's Freemason commitment, I discovered that when he died, he left not only his ceremonial sword, but also his battle sword to his Freemason brothers, on one condition. It had to hang in a temple, anonymously, in all
humility.”

“Good Lord, so it
would be…”

“Don't you have a temple at your headquarters with a wall full of swords?” she asked, a mischievous smile on
her face.