The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “I do have an important question before I commit, however.”

  “Of course.”

  “Does this need have anything to do with the slave trade?”

  Xavier was surprised at the question. In truth, every single activity in Nantes had something to do with the slave trade. There was nothing totally clean of it. It was a city built on salt and deep water, but also sugar, coffee - and the black flesh needed to farm them. “No,” Xavier easily lied, “No, indeed. The Traversier family does not engage in the slave trade.”

  Bonchamps smiled. “You will have what you need for your dye, Monsieur.”

  “I would like to give you something in return for your help.”

  “That is not necessary. What benefits Anjou benefits Bonchamps.”

  And that was that.

  Xavier was sad to leave the enchanting little château. Monsieur and Madame graciously bid Xavier and Étienne farewell, and they were on their way. The rain had finally stopped, and the sun had emerged.

  Outside the glow of company, Xavier felt villainous - like a malevolent spirit who entered this place on false pretenses and had infected it. But there was nothing for it. He had his purpose. And he was assured that his purposeful action would someday lead to assurance. For now, his faith in his dreams was ablaze, and enough.

  ***

  As for the book given to him by Bonchamps, Xavier would not read it for years, but when he did, it would be disconcerting to him, and philosophically untimely.

  Jake, 1832

  Chapter 13

  The Conciergerie courtyard was very small, but still sported benches, walkways and a small patch of grass and flowers. It was pleasant enough, except for the five-and-six-story walls completely enclosing it, creating an effect akin to a stone vase. Jake sat on a bench, his eyes closed, and his face pointed to the sun. The rules no longer applied to him. Everyone in the Conciergerie knew he was a free man, and he had his way of the place. He was waiting for paperwork, and that was all.

  There was a shrine to Marie Antoinette, the former queen who stayed here until she was beheaded. He had to pass it on his way outside. It unsettled him for some reason, but the sun was worth the journey.

  Isaäc entered the courtyard with a sheaf of papers under his arm, “There he is – in the sun no less!”

  “Isaäc!” blurted Jake, quite happy to see him.

  Isaäc sat down and handed him a letter, “From Monsieur Tyran.” Jake noticed the seal was already broken. He opened it:

  Monsieur Loring,

  You will have no more contact with your lawyer, your revolutionary chain-of-command, your friends, your family or anyone else from your old life. Indeed, consider our liaison to have recreated you without history. You are reborn wholly unto me, and exist to serve only myself, and the search for the Crimson Heirlooms. Do not seek to thwart me in this. You will not be ordered to do anything untoward, and will end your service with me with some coin in your pocket and your honor intact, I assure you.

  You come from a good family, and you are a well-educated man. I expect that you will conduct yourself as a good and honorable businessman, in regard to our legal arrangement. You will be entrusted to perform tasks alone, and you will be, at times, in possession of considerable funds. You will keep a good accounting, be an independent, self-motivated worker, and scrupulously honest in your reporting of any findings.

  Find with this letter two items. The first is an excerpt taken from a ship captain’s log. I wish you to become as knowledgeable as I in regard to its contents. The second item is a coin purse. Purchase a seat on a coach to Nantes, and any effects you need for the journey. I will be in the Château Meilleur, in the west outskirts of the city. Meet me there, as soon as you are legally able.

  Monsieur Tyran

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Jake said in English.

  “I do not understand your meaning, but your intent is clear. Monsieur Tyran is indeed well-named, is he not?”

  “He is, indeed. Who is he really, I wonder?”

  “A question many are asking. Queries have been made. It is thought he is a colonial, of some sort. He has certainly not been living in France – at least for decades. Our sources familiar with the most successful families in the Americas have no idea who he is. If he is from a foreign colony, it could explain our current ignorance. There are also many colonies, and our contacts do not extend to all of them.”

  “You say this as if an army of spies follows my every move.”

  “You are not alone in this, Jake. Citizen Bouche has been informed of developments, along with others of his ilk and conviction.”

  “His orders, those of Monsieur Tyran, they are legally binding, however absurd?”

  “If his commands are legal and honorable. He cannot tell you to waylay a coach, or wear petticoats.”

  “Is there enough in the purse for a voyage to America?”

  Isaäc handed him the pouch. “Perhaps. But it has been established that this trip to Nantes might be a test of sorts.”

  “How so?”

  “Could he not wait for you a day? You are both going to the same place, are you not?”

  Jake hadn’t even thought about it, but Isaäc was absolutely right.

  He continued, “If you were in the same coach, there would be an abundance of time to discuss the captain’s log, and other things he would impart to you. But now you go alone - along the same route.”

  If Isaäc was right, it meant several things. It definitely meant Jake would be followed when he left the Conciergerie.

  Isaäc seemed to read his mind, “I’m afraid this will be the last time we meet for a while.”

  “None of this makes sense, Isaäc. Why would Monsieur Tyran go out of his way, and empty his pockets, to secure my particular employment? He could have had better help, a legion of help, for a cheaper price. Sixty-thousand francs! It’s absurd. He is either utterly superstitious, or there is some kind of festering motivation he doesn’t wish to admit.”

  “Yes, or both.” They sat in silence for a moment, “You have orders from The Society, Jake.”

  “Of course. I am listening.”

  “You will leave the Conciergerie tonight, too late to find a coach to Nantes. You will go to an inn in the Latin Quarter. Here is the address.” Jake accepted a card. “You will ask for the small blue room. Small blue room. It is written on the card. Very important.”

  “I understand.”

  “Take these as well,” and he handed Jake a small sheaf of official papers, “Keep them on your person at all times. Find an oilskin in which to wrap them, so they aren’t damaged by moisture. These documents prove your status as a resident alien in France and your United States citizenship. They will allow you to leave this place, but more importantly to leave France and enter other countries as well.”

  “And last, but not least.”

  “And last, but not least. The captain’s log,” said Isaäc, as he handed him a thin book.

  Jake couldn’t wait to read it. It was days to Nantes by coach. He would force himself to wait and read it on the way.

  ***

  The Inn, Le Poney Piquant, was well-chosen. It was a quaint three-story “country-style”, a crossed timber and plaster Renaissance affair. Only one wall was shared with another building, the rest was free-standing and surrounded by gardens. It catered mostly to students and their families, and was precisely the kind of place that Jake might have frequented in the past. It would arouse no suspicion if he stayed there preparatory to his coach to Nantes.

  Jake entered, and saw a smattering of people sitting in tables to his left, and the Innkeeper and his family to the right. The Innkeeper seemed a likeable sort. He was youngish, fat but brawny, and handsome. His family was laughing with him when Jake entered. As soon as he requested the small blue room, everyone stopped laughing. He felt grim, and wanted them to laugh and be gay again, but it was not to be. He was taken to a room on the second floor.

  The Innkeeper opened the door. The s
mall blue room was not blue, had a bed, tall armoire, and a small fire burning in a large fireplace. Jake entered, and - to his surprise - the Innkeeper followed and shut the door.

  Jake watched as the Innkeeper opened the armoire, quickly removed the bolts from one of its door hinges and leaned the door against the wall. He then reached down into a bucket resting inside the armoire, and pulled out what looked like a sopping calfskin. The calfskin was placed on the door and smoothed flat, and Jake noticed nails were already in place for the purpose of securing it to the wood. After the Innkeeper bent the nails to keep the wet skin in place, he lugged the door over to the fire. Wet-leather-side-down, the door went into the fire and rested on a small ledge inside the fireplace. The other end of the door was lowered to the floor. For all intents and purposes, it now looked as if a ramp into the back of the fireplace had been created. The Innkeeper turned to Jake, “For the sake of my family, please tell no one of this. Not even those you trust. Please.”

  “Of course.”

  The Innkeeper did not look convinced, but instead simply turned and picked up the poker. He hit the back of the fireplace three times - the blows sounding on thick metal instead of stone. To Jake’s astonishment, a small section of the back of the fireplace slid open into another room. It was some kind of secret hatch.

  Jake realized it did not lead to a secret room within the inn. It led rather to its adjacent building. Whoever entered this secret room from the inn side would never be connected in any way to whoever entered the adjacent building – yet the two parties could meet together, with no one the wiser.

  The Innkeeper turned to him, “Do not touch anything save the door when you climb through, or you might receive a burn. Rap on the metal a minute before you wish to come back. I am putting the door back where it belongs until then.”

  Jake wanted to ask a million questions. Instead, he simply nodded, and crawled across the door over the fire, and into the other room behind the secret iron hatch.

  The other room was much darker. He couldn’t see anything for a second, but he heard a voice, “Shut the trapdoor. Use the towel soaking in the bucket.”

  Jake turned, and saw the iron trapdoor set in stone with a bucket beneath it. He reached into the bucket and felt a towel. He wrapped it around his hand, then pulled the trap door up until the latch snapped into place. He tossed the towel back into the bucket, and finally turned.

  And there was Citizen Bouche, in all his glory, wearing his ermine cloak. There were six other men in the room, standing and sitting. Some were as young as Jake, and others twice as old as Citizen Bouche. They were all dressed richly, and mostly in black. They still wore their top hats indoors and - between brim and high collars - sported costume masks. The only one who wasn’t masked was Citizen Bouche, who sat to one side. The man sitting directly in front of Jake was thin, old - but alert as a king cobra with the cold eyes to match. He sat with his legs spread, his cane resting upright, its crystal pommel topped by his palm, which grasped two black lambskin gloves.

  Citizen Bouche spoke quietly, “Sit down, Citizen.”

  Jake sat in the only empty chair, placed directly in front of them. He had probably spent too much time in the Cour d’Assises, for it reminded him of nothing so much as the witness cage.

  Citizen Bouche continued, “How are you feeling?”

  “My ribs still hurt. I miss my fallen comrades.”

  “Of course, he does,” said a man sitting to the left. His tone was odd, as if they were just talking about him, and he now gave an answer to a former query.

  This bizarre, masked group did not feel like his brothers-in-arms. They felt like self-interested, dangerous plotters.

  Citizen Bouche spoke quietly once again, “Be that as it may…”

  The Old Man who sat front and center spoke. His voice was strong and crisp, “Citizen Loring, you may call me Citizen Director. I am one of the Great Nine, of the Supreme Council of The Society for the Rights of Man.”

  “Good evening, Citizen Director.”

  “Good evening. How are your revolutionary sympathies?”

  “Pardon me, Citizen?”

  “You have been through quite an ordeal. Defeated in combat, wounded, judged, sentenced. How are your revolutionary sympathies?”

  Jake was intimidated. He was in debt to these men. They had aided him in his time of need. Now he was going off with the madman, Monsieur Tyran, like some sort of legally-bound Sancho Panza, and these sinister men were the only ones who could help him. “My morale is a bit low, Citizen Director. But, I assure you, my revolutionary sympathies have not abated.”

  The Director leaned forward, “That is an interesting statement, Citizen Loring.”

  Jake panicked. Had the Director read his mind from an unwitting expression? Jake forced himself to meet the man’s gaze.

  He continued. “It is an interesting statement because you placed your life in danger for the revolution. You placed yourself, quite literally, on the firing line, did you not?”

  Oh, dear lord, what does he mean by all of this?

  “I did, Citizen Director.”

  “To you, your life is worth less than the revolution.”

  “I suppose that is one way of putting it, Citizen Director.”

  Surprising Jake, the men all laughed. The Director shook his head, “Do not be so humble, Citizen.”

  “What do you wish of me? Is there to be another uprising?”

  Jake’s words killed whatever mirth was left in the room. Everyone shifted in their seats, and looked at each other. Finally, the Director spoke, “This setback has caused a momentary suspension of operations. We lick our wounds, and look for another opportunity.”

  Another voice from the back, “If the king lasts a year, it will be a miracle.”

  Citizen Bouche spoke sharply, “It won’t be a miracle. If anything is done, it will be done by us, through hard work and persistence. Otherwise, he will stay in power, until the very day he dies.”

  “Well said,” snapped the Director, in a tone that silenced the room. He turned to Jake, “If anything is done, it will be done by us. Yet our resources are exhausted. We are looking for ways to shorten our projected timelines.”

  “I see,” replied Jake.

  “Citizen, do you think there is any chance that Monsieur Tyran will actually locate the Cross of Nantes?”

  Jake couldn’t believe his ears. The Society stood for order, education, knowledge and reason. How could a leader of The Society be so desperate as to believe in the foolish quest of Monsieur Tyran? Jake spoke carefully, “Citizen Director, I don’t think anyone will be able to locate the Cross of Nantes, ever.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, as Citizen Crémieux pointed out, if it could be found, it would have been found already.”

  The Director looked at Citizen Bouche, who answered his unspoken question, “The lawyer. The Jew from Nîmes.”

  The Director nodded, and turned back to Jake, “The Cross was in the hands of Xavier Traversier in 1805, when he stipulated that its owner would inherit the Traversier Trust. It was lost purposefully, Citizen Loring. That means it wasn’t lost at all. It was hidden. Hidden, and meant to be found. There is quite a difference.”

  Jake had to admit that there was.

  The Director continued, “And this Monsieur Tyran, he is motivated by greed?”

  Jake shook his head, “I’m not sure. I would have to say there is a very good chance he is not. This man effectively paid sixty-thousand francs for my services - an absurd, almost inconceivable sum, you would agree. And he didn’t seem overly perturbed to be parting with it. He could have hired twenty good men for five years. Instead, he has only one.”

  “But he wishes the Cross.”

  “Yes, Citizen Director. For an unknown purpose.”

  “If Monsieur Tyran inherited his fortune and was some kind of idiotic spendthrift, we would know exactly who he is, and where he got his gold. He is, therefore, not. He earned his gold,
somehow, somewhere. And those who sweat and bleed for gold do not part with it with nonchalant indifference. Most assuredly, there is method here, however impenetrable.”

  “I’m not sure I completely understand. Do you think he truly knows where the Cross of Nantes is located?”

  “The Cross of Nantes is worth millions. The mercantile empire of the Traversier Trust is worth millions more. Millions. Do you understand? If somehow you were necessary to his plan to retrieve the Cross, sixty-thousand is a pittance for the favor.”

  Perhaps this isn’t a wild goose chase after all.

  “Citizen Director, here is what I know: I have been given part of a captain’s log, and I am to go to Nantes. I also know that it is almost a surety that I will be followed.”

  The Director leaned forward once again, “Do you know why you are here? In this room.”

  Jake remembered being embarrassed at the trial when asked such a question. This time, he was ready, “Yes, Citizen Director.”

  “Go on.”

  “You want me to find the Cross of Nantes for The Society, to fund the next uprising to overthrow the King.”

  “That is exactly true.”

  “If Monsieur Tyran is currently better funded than The Society, such a thing might be problematic. I don’t know how we will even communicate.”

  Citizen Bouche spoke, “You will be followed by our agents. You will never see them. If you need to communicate, you will drop a letter to any innkeeper. Any innkeeper. You will tell him that you found a saint’s medallion, worth nothing but sentiment, and for the innkeeper to present the letter to anyone who asks for it.”

  “Yes, that might work.” Any innkeeper meant The Society would be following his every move, knowing when and to whom he would drop his missive.

  “You will also write in code, one indistinguishable from a normal letter, in case Tyran’s spies suspect something, and happen to read it.”

  “I cannot keep a code book.”

  “It will be a simple code.” Citizen Bouche turned, “Give it to him.”