“Speaking of your bank,” Louise said, breaking the silence. “I’m considering buying a small property here, maybe a summer home in the area.”
“How exciting!” Magali said.
“Could you refer me to someone at your bank?”
“Our accounts are with Le Crédit Agricole,” Matthieu said.
“Will you be purchasing a vineyard?” Magali asked.
“I don’t know,” said Louise. “My mom has a green thumb. But, I don’t.”
“The reason I ask is because Le Crédit Agricole is sometimes called the Green Bank due to its ties to farming,” Magali explained. “It has been our family bank since the 1800s.”
“Do you like Le Crédit Agricole?” Louise asked.
“We used to love them,” said Magali.
“Used to?”
“The bank was part of many government subsidy programs during post-war reconstruction and mechanization of farming,” Matthieu said. “But when they started consolidating all the regional banks, things changed. It was when Crédit Agricole went public in 2000 that we began to have problems.”
Louise was surprised by this bit of information. “Going public usually means more transparency and oversight,” Louise said. “Which should be good for customers.”
“Maybe it’s just a transitional thing,” Magali said. She momentarily wondered how this American teacher knew so much about banking.
“I’ll make an appointment with them,” Louise said.
Changing the subject, Matthieu asked, “Did you take the boat tour today?”
“Sort of,” replied Louise. “I rented a private boat in Vermenton and went up the Canal du Nivernais as you suggested. Then I turned back south down the Cure River. There’s so much to see, and I’d especially like to visit the Grottes d’Arcy-sur-Cure.”
Matthieu’s demeanor suddenly returned to its former intensity. “Do not go north by yourself,” he warned.
“Why? What’s in the north?” Louise asked.
“Just, promise me, if you go near Auxerre, you will allow me to accompany you.”
Louise almost shot back with the usual, I can take care of myself. But as she glanced up, she could see Matthieu’s concern and after the events of today, she had to acknowledge that he was probably right. “I promise,” is what came out of her mouth.
It was an easy promise to make because her goal for the next day would not be to go north, but to return to the Château du Chastenay and continue her discussions with the owner, Gérard. She was also very curious about the underground caves on the property. After her brief visit to the caves in the Forest of Fontainebleau, she wanted more than ever to explore the caves of Arcy-sur-Cure. She tried a new gambit to cut Matthieu’s intensity.
“There’s something about this area,” Louise added. “A sort of mystical spirituality.”
“Yes, there are many historic healing meccas,” Magali said. “And of course, the Saint James Way.”
There it was again, the Saint James Way. The path to redemption. Magali got up and began clearing the table.
“Dessert and coffee?” Magali offered.
But Louise now knew she needed to continue the journey.
“Not for me,” she said. “I have to get an early start tomorrow.” Louise brought her dish to the sink and bid her new family goodnight.
She went to her cottage and turned on the computer to do some research on the Caves of Arcy-sur-Cure. She learned that they were an archaeological site of national interest and designated an historical monument. The underground network had formed over millennia from natural acids in the rain. The remains of almost all the stages of human evolution had been discovered there, dating back more than 250,000 years. The most ancient were bone fragments and bone tools used by Neanderthal man dating to 60,000 years ago found in The Hyena Cave. Neanderthals, who had disappeared about 30,000 years ago, were followed by Cro-Magnons, who differed very little from modern man, and were responsible for the cave paintings. Cro-Magnons were essentially hunter-gatherers who used tools and weapons, dyes, pestles, hearths, and lamps, all of which were discovered 30 centimeters deep in the prehistoric soil of the caves.
Exhausted, she turned off the computer and fell asleep.
January 6, 2002
Wasting no time, the next morning Louise had a quick croissant and café au lait in Magali’s kitchen, then drove to the Château du Chastenay arriving by 10:00 a.m. Wanting to get her own first impression before meeting with Gérard, she ventured into the Caves of Arcy-sur-Cure alone. The setting of the caves was like a science fiction film. The millennia of natural acids in the rain had fashioned fantastic shapes and sculptures into the calcareous rock, transforming the caverns into weird rooms of cathedral proportions. Louise noted the well-marked whimsical names given to the formations, such as The Ball Room and The Fairies’ Washing House. Some held religious connotations including Coquilles St. Jacques.
But the drawings were the most fascinating. According to her research the night before, they were carbon dated to about 33,000 years old, making it the second oldest decorated cave in the world after Chauvet-Pont-d’Arc. The Great Cave contained over one hundred and forty engravings and paintings of animal art rarely found in other decorated caves, including mammoths, bears, oxen, horses, a rhinoceros, bison, a bird, a big cat. The handprints, eight in all, were quite distinctive and eerie. Most of the handprints seemed to be from an adolescent or a small female. It was believed that the artist made the handprint by putting red ochre paint in her mouth, placing her hand on the rock, and spitting it out in a spray to create the negative image.
It was tempting to leave her own handprint in the ancient line of human ancestry. But instead, she relaxed into a meditative state to take in the energy. She suddenly felt a presence, reminding her of the encounter she had while locked in the Paris catacombs.14 She opened her eyes half expecting to see Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, but only saw the cave bathed in a golden luminosity giving it the appearance of a medieval painting. Louise checked her watch that indicated she had been meditating exactly thirty minutes.
She heard a clicking sound and turned to see a dog wagging its tail. The dog, which appeared to be a Basenji hound mix with short brown and white fur, floppy ears, and a curly tail, stared up at her and tilted its head. He must have belonged to Gérard, the owner of the château, and was allowed to wander the familiar grounds. Louise put out her hand for him to sniff, and he put his paw in it. She left the cave and walked back to the château with the dog following. She saw Gérard’s Peugeot parked outside and entered.
“Bonjour. Is monsieur de la Varende here?”
“Un moment, s’il vous plaît,” the front desk clerk said. She disappeared through a door and returned after a minute. “He will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.”
Louise perused some of the many books and publications on display that Gérard de la Varende had written. She opened one and found an extensive biography of the author. She read how he had been a combatant for France-Libre at the age of twenty, and then a French intelligence agent during the French Indochina war. He had been taken prisoner by the Japanese in 1945 and placed in a forced labor camp. After inheriting the domain du Chastenay he devoted his life to making the estate an exciting tourist attraction, even opening the caves to researchers.
“Mademoiselle Baker! How good of you to come back.” The elegant octogenarian approached as energetically as a young doctoral student and couldn’t help but notice that Louise was reading up on him. He shook her hand and then pet the dog. “Good boy, Perceval.”
Louise recognized the name as yet another Arthurian reference. “Perceval? Like King Arthur’s Knight who saw the Holy Grail?”
“Oui, bravo! In Old French percer val means to pierce the valley. The twelfth-century chronicler Geoffrey of Monmouth used it in his Arthurian tales.”
This was the second allusion to old Geoffrey that Louise had heard since she arrived in Burgundy. She wondered if Gérard and the bart
ender Jules spent nights swapping tales, as her host guided Louise to the alchemy displays.
“My grandfather, Marie Charles Gaston Mallard de la Varende, was a Maltese Knight in the Legion of Honor and a descendent of the Knights Templar.”
“Are there any heirs to carry on your legacy?” Louise asked.
“My son, François, is a count by birthright. But he does not care about his title or nobility. A count without money is practically worthless.”
Gérard waved a hand over the display of the alchemy equipment. “I inherited the manor and the caves in 1968, along with much debt. My birthright was disputed, and I spent over twenty-five years fighting for it, living like a monk on about five francs per day.”
Louise was finding this new information fascinating but couldn’t help noticing the old man get a little angry when describing this part of this history. “But I leveraged my stature as a Count and finally in 1990, I recovered my property rights. That is when I opened the doors to researchers and the community. It is because of my stubborn madness that the hundreds of prehistoric drawings over 30,000 years old have seen the light of day.” He seemed relieved to have gotten that last bit into the conversation.
Louise wanted to diffuse Gérard’s ire. “I just visited the caves and saw the drawings, amazing. It’s quite a legacy.”
“Perhaps. But it would be difficult for my son to take up the torch from such a whimsical father who has sacrificed everything to keep his heritage alive. Especially now with these new challenges.”
“New challenges? You mean, the Woman in White?” Louise had to remind herself that she saw a ghost.
“No. This is something else. For years, the clairvoyant sensed forces only from past lives, like the Woman in White you mention. But now she feels someone is trying to interfere with my inheritance again. She said you have been sent here to help.”
Louise was a bit skeptical, but her curiosity was piqued. “What did the clairvoyant see?”
“It’s not what she saw. It’s what she heard.”
“Like voices?” Louise asked.
“No music. A song Tira Lira.”
“The Italian song?”
“She thinks it’s symbolic,” Gérard explained. “Maybe tirelire, in French.”
“Piggy bank?”
“Yes, banking,” Gérard said.
“But, I’m just a retired schoolteacher writing a novel,” Louise bluffed.
Gérard looked bemused. “The psychic was sure this would be of interest to you,” he said. “Perhaps for your novel?”
Louise wanted to put this line of inquiry on ice. “It sounds interesting, but…”
“May I make a proposal?” Gérard said.
“Of course.”
“Over the years, I have allowed many researchers to explore the caves and other historic artifacts on the grounds, which has been mutually beneficial. Since your arrival was foretold, I feel a need to grant you full access to the company history and records as research for your novel.”
Louise sensed an opening. “It’s an intriguing plotline,” Louise countered. “But I would need access to all the documents from the legal proceedings of your claim to this estate as well.”
“No problem. We are fastidious record keepers.”
“This is exciting,” Louise said in earnest. “Would you mind if I took a quick look right now?”
“No time like the present.” Louise and Perceval followed Gérard to a large salon that served as his business office. It was tidy and sparsely furnished, with a heavy antique oak desk and leather chair. He used his index finger as a pointer running up and down a wall of metal filing cabinets until he found L-M-O then P just below it. “Voila, it will be archived under Procès.” He pulled the drawer out revealing a series of thick file folders. “Here it is, the official court docket with the transcriptions, as well as my notes that I kept during the entire proceeding.” He hefted the first two folders out and hauled them over to the desk putting them down with a thud. He continued to take out folders, lining them up, side by side in an order only he understood. He leafed through the first folder. His index fingers now serving as drumsticks, he tapped out an emphatic rat-a-tat. “Voila!” He took out a multiple-page outline. “This is the summary by date of the proceedings. You will find it to be an excellent narrative of the arguments. The rest of the files are in chronological order.”
Even though Gérard had boasted about his record-keeping, she wasn’t expecting so much material. “Were there any official notarized documents issued, such as damages awarded, or a release of liens on the property?”
The old caretaker appreciated his guest’s thoroughness. His finger led him to the contents of another folder. “Here is the final writ removing the trustee and returning administrative powers to me,” he said handing her the file.
Louise leafed through the docket, separating pages out creating staggered piles, careful to keep them in the order in which Gérard had filed them. Her old banking instincts kicked in intuitively and she found several names that immediately caught her eye. Louise pointed to a legal pad on the desk. “May I?”
“Of course.” Gérard handed her the legal pad and an antique fountain pen from its matching holder. “I will leave you to your research. If you have any questions, use the phone over there to call the front desk and they’ll notify me to return.
Louise dug in. She noted the name of the trustee and the party contesting the ownership. Having had some experience in property law because of her dealings with wealthy clients at BCCI, Louise knew that, unlike English-speaking countries, which used a system of Common Law, France had a system of Civil Law based on a two-hundred-year-old code. The Code Civil or Code Napoléon of 1804 stipulated the rights and obligations of citizens, the laws of property, contract, inheritance, etc. Based on the principles of Roman and customary law, the Code Civil remained the cornerstone of French law. Out of the 2,281 articles of the Code Civil, nearly 1,200 had kept their original version. She found the information she was seeking and called for Gérard to come back to the office.
“French law applies,” Louise said immediately as he walked into the room, “regardless of whether the owner is a French citizen or a foreigner,” Louise said, pointing to a passage. “Look, it is cited here, ‘Article 544 of the Civil Code, Property owner has the right to use and control things in the most absolute manner provided this use and control are not prohibited by the law.’ That means there are limitations to what a property owner can do with his property. In France, assets pass immediately to the decedent’s heirs, regardless of whether there was a will. The heirs are deemed to own the assets from the moment of the owner’s death. The most important practical consequence of the French forced heir-ship law is that the children or parents of the deceased spouse become co-owners at the first death. Even if the surviving spouse retained the right to lifetime occupation, he or she wouldn’t be able to dispose freely of the assets. For instance, if the surviving spouse wished to sell the estate, the consent of all the inheritors would be required. So, when your father inherited the estate, he would have needed the consent of his brother to dispose of it.”
She pointed to a name on the document. “Conversely, your uncle who filed this claim wished to sell the property. Therefore, a trustee placed the contested estate under administrative control until the ownership was resolved. The documents say that your uncle had a purchaser already lined up. That purchaser was working with a bank, Crédit Agricole.”
Gérard was impressed and wondered what kind of novel this schoolteacher was writing. “Yes, we use Crédit Agricole for our line of credit. Lately, they have been putting pressure on us, sending inspectors, trying to claim that some of the tourism creates liabilities that make our loans risky, and raising our interest rates. This has also resulted in higher liability insurance rates.”
“That’s very interesting,” Louise said, taking careful notes of all names and their positions at companies of all parties involved, including a Crédit Agricol
e account manager, Yves Renard. “This is incredible stuff, right in line with my story notes.” Louise was so used to Karen’s cover that she was considering actually writing a novel. “I’ll schedule a meeting with Crédit Agricole. Without mentioning you, of course.”
“I trust you,” Gérard said.
Louise looked at her watch. “I must go, but I will let you know what I find out.”
“Thank you.”
They exchanged four cheek kisses, then Louise made sure to bid farewell to her guide dog Perceval with a head scratch and got back on the road.
On the way back to the vineyard Louise, dialed the number for the Crédit Agricole Beaune branch on her mobile phone and scheduled an appointment with a certain Yves Renard to open a bank account. Then she made a call to Charlie.
“Good morning, Charlie.”
“How are you Karen?”
“Is Patrick with you?”
“Yes, we’re on speakerphone.”
“Hi Patrick. I have an idea and may need to use all the funds in that checking account. But it’s just temporary. I’m going to open a checking account at a local bank, which I’ll be able to access.”
“Ah, yes, good strategy for infiltrating the bank,” Patrick was quick on the uptake.
“Exactly,” Louise said.
“Do you need more funds?”
“I’ve been paying everything with the credit card you gave me. But I did withdraw some cash and I will probably transfer the entire $50,000 to the new account. I’ll reimburse you for anything I spend over the $50,000.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have my client transfer more funds to make sure everything is covered,” Roblot said.
“Thanks, I’ll talk to you soon.”
Louise hung up just as she arrived at the vineyard. She went straight to her cottage to work on her computer without distractions.
She fell asleep early, the exertion of the trip finally catching up with her.
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