by Gigi Pandian
“That, my dear Jones, is the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
After leaving the abbey, we followed the ramparts, which ran along the outskirts of the Mont. Off the main drag, we had the medieval path to ourselves. Faint French folk music wafted up from one of the nearby restaurants.
“M’lady,” Lane said with a bow. “May I have this dance?”
“What accent is that?”
“Czech. I rarely get to use it.”
“I like it.”
“Does that mean you’ll dance with me?”
High above the quicksand below, Lane spun me around the wide walkway of the ramparts. The rest of the world fell away, and I forgot about the madness that had brought us to that spot. For a few minutes, at least, I wasn’t a college professor who’d made some questionable choices. I was a princess dancing inside ancient castle walls.
I was pretty sure Lane was leading me in a waltz, though it required some creativity to make it work with the guitar on the nearby restaurant’s speakers as our background music.
With my eyes locked on Lane’s, I tripped on a cobblestone and we slid gently against the stone parapet.
“I’d be steadier in my heels.”
“Ha. It’s this bulky clothing. Not the best for dancing.”
“You think I’d have an easier time in a ball gown?”
“Good point.”
“I’m starving,” I declared. “Didn’t I read that omelets are the specialty here?”
“I’m only surprised it took you so long to suggest it.”
The fluffy omelet set in front of me twenty minutes later wasn’t quite as large as the leather backpack I’d brought with me, but it was at least as big as my messenger bag I’d left at home. That didn’t deter me. I polished off every last bite, along with three espressos.
“You better be willing to drink that quickly,” Lane said after I ordered my third espresso. “If we leave shortly, we can probably catch the last bus of the day to the train station.”
“Speak for yourself. Before I leave, I want to find a local historian, in case they can tell us more than the guide. There’s bound to be one.”
I polished off my coffee, and we left to visit the abbey once more.
The ticket-taker didn’t speak much English, so Lane conversed with her in French for a few minutes. As they spoke, creases formed on his forehead. He thanked her and motioned for me to follow him outside.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Massi Bruel is the man to see,” he said.
“What’s the matter with that?”
“He’s an elderly man in his late eighties, and rarely has visitors. She said he’d be so pleased to have more people to talk with about the history of this place.”
“Even better,” I said. “He’ll probably have more time than the guide to talk about rumors nobody thinks are worth mentioning.”
“That’s not the problem,” Lane said. “The problem is that we weren’t the first people asking after him this week.”
CHAPTER 28
I sank down onto a cold stone step at the top of the abbey’s grand staircase. “It could be a coincidence.”
Lane shook his head. “It was a charming Englishman. Who does that sound like?”
I swore. “That means I was right about everything after all.”
“It sounds like it. I was hoping you were wrong, too.”
“Thanks.”
“We don’t know for sure. Let’s find Massi. I got directions.”
In silence, we climbed to what must have been the most remote part of the small island, behind the abbey, and came to what looked like a guard post. I hesitated before knocking on the door, unsure about what I was hoping for. I wasn’t sure if my hands were shaking from the excitement of knowing I might be standing close to a lost treasure from French India, or from the disappointment that I was being pulled deeper into the mire.
I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
There must be something to French life, because the man who opened the door seconds later was remarkably vigorous for someone in his eighties. Though his skin was weathered enough to look like he’d spent multiple lifetimes in the sun, he moved gracefully. The dark olive tone of his skin suggested he was North African, yet his eyes were the lightest of blue. He looked past us, but I realized he wasn’t looking at anything at all. His blue eyes were cloudy. He was blind.
Lane introduced us in French, but I understood a reference to my being a historian and his inquiry as to whether Massi spoke English.
“You give me an excuse to practice,” he said with a gap-toothed smile. “Mrahba,” he added, shaking our hands and inviting us in for tea, happy to speak about history. We’d decided not to ask him about the other people who had been to visit him recently, lest we cause him to be suspicious. Instead, I wanted to see what Massi knew about rumored hidden treasures. I’ve learned that true history is often buried deep within local lore. The challenge is pulling out the truths that are hidden under layers of embellishments.
“A fellow traveler and historian,” Massi said after I told him how I ended up a history professor in California, across the world from where I was born in India. “You of all people understand the importance of history.”
“That’s why I love to learn the history of the places I visit.”
Massi insisted on serving us tea as he told us the history of the Mont, which had passed down to him. Lane held me back when I tried to help Massi with the tea, and I saw that he was right. With an expert hand, Massi steeped the traditional Maghrebi mint tea in a stainless steel pot. He poured it theatrically, from high above glass teacups filled with crushed mint leaves. I took a sip of the strong, sweet tea, wondering what secrets Massi held in his tower cottage.
Originally from Algeria, Massi explained that he’d lived on the Mont for many decades, ever since immigrating to France. He settled in this particular area because he wanted to raise sheep, and he’d heard that the sheep in this region of Normandy were special. The sheep were called “pré-salé,” because of the salty flavor of their meat, acquired by grazing in the grass that grew in the salt flats surrounding Mont Saint-Michel.
“As an outsider,” Massi said, “I was initially viewed with suspicion. That was until the villagers saw that I was more of an expert on their history than themselves! Books and printing presses had replaced oral traditions, and much was lost.”
Massi wasn’t yet in France during the war, but he related to the loss, as someone from a country that had suffered so much. He didn’t resent the French people, in spite of their colonial control, only their rulers. When he came to France as a young man, it was natural for him to talk with the elders about what they knew. He didn’t realize his interest was unusual. Only once the elders were gone and he was an elderly man himself did he and other people realize how much he knew.
“Mont Saint-Michel had a problem,” he said, running a gnarled hand over his face and shaking his head. “In World War II, much of their recorded history was destroyed.”
I sat up straighter on the futon, nearly knocking over my tea.
“Destroyed?” I repeated.
“That is the correct word for ceasing to exist, no? My English is not so perfect—”
“Your English is superb. Better than many of my college students. I understood you. I was simply surprised, because I hadn’t read that anywhere.”
Massi shrugged. “It’s an embarrassing history, is it not? People know the truth, but it’s not something they talk about.”
“How did it happen?”
“Ah!” Massi said with a clap. “It happened in the most ironic of ways. During the French Revolution, the monks became concerned that their priceless illuminated manuscripts would be destroyed. Mobs of revolutionaries destroyed so m
uch, including the statues of kings on Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, which the mobs who opposed the monarchy had mistaken for kings of France, not religious kings of Judah as they were in truth. Books—both records of the Mont’s history and precious illuminated manuscripts—were packed and moved secretly off of the Mont, taken to safe hiding places.”
“I read about that,” I said. “They didn’t have time to remove everything, though. I wasn’t able to find references to all the items left behind.”
“Because during World War II,” Massi said, “shortly before the allies liberated France, many of the ‘safe’ places were sacked. The Mont’s history, housed at Saint-Lô, was destroyed.”
That was our answer to why the treasure hadn’t been found until now. The records had been lost.
“Algeria was not the only country France colonized,” Massi continued. “You know of the French East India Company, and how they held trading ports along the eastern coast of India for many years?”
More of the pieces were falling into place. Just like the Englishman in the East India Company who’d written home in the letters North showed me, Frenchmen were also stationed in India. Both European powers routinely claimed treasures from India—sometimes legitimately, as gifts given to them by local rulers who wanted to gain political advantage, and sometimes by stealing them after a successful battle, as the spoils of war.
“And it was the French Revolution,” Massi was saying, “that bankrupted the Company.”
“Yes,” I said. I knew the history well. “The French East India Company was originally abolished a couple of decades before the revolution and absorbed under the French Crown, but it’s hard to destroy something so powerful. It took the Revolution to wipe them out for good.”
Massi grinned, his vacant eyes creasing at the edges as they looked out at nothing and everything. “The people wouldn’t stand for it.”
Lane cleared his throat and shot a confused look at me. “Fascinating learning about this history, but what does that have to do with Mont Saint-Michel?”
“Ah yes,” Massi said. “You see, Le Mont has always been a sacred spot. You know of the miracles?”
“I read about miracles attributed to this place,” I said.
“Not ‘attributed to,’” Massi said. “How else but for a miracle can you explain how a barren island sprung a well of pure water, and how men twelve centuries ago lifted boulders across the water to this hill?”
I could have mentioned the construction of the pyramids even earlier, but it didn’t seem appropriate.
“I have seen one of the miracles with my own eyes, before losing my sight,” Massi continued. “There is a stained glass window, not in the abbey. An intricate flower of glass appeared on the solid rock of the Mont, high above the quicksand. There is no way a man could have placed it there, if not for a miracle.
“Because of the sacredness of this place,” Massi went on, “wealthy men have often sought favor with the monks who lived here. After the town and abbey were destroyed by a fire in 1204, dauphin Philippe-Auguste sent a large amount of gold to rebuild the Mont. He was not a very nice man, but he was pious.”
Another piece clicked into place. Riches had been lavished on the Mont.
“Many other gifts were made,” he said, “that were not written down. At least not in records that have survived. So numerous that the monks did not know what to do with the riches. The monks themselves lived austere lives and had no need for wealth, aside from to build the abbey and accompanying buildings here on Le Mont. Not everyone shared their feelings for living so simply. It wasn’t only invaders who sought to rob them. They had to protect their gifts.”
“So they hid them,” I said, “here on the Mont.”
“But during the Revolution, it was no longer safe. They removed what they could—and made sure the rest of their treasures were so well hidden that they would not be found unless someone had the secret information leading to them. The monks were clever. They didn’t leave it to chance. They built in protections so their treasures would not fall into the wrong hands.”
I now understood the significance of the French Revolution timing. During the Revolution, a treasure was hidden under the heavy stones on the Mont, to protect it from looting. When the monks secreted away their books, they also hid information about where treasures on the Mont were still hidden—such as the clue inside the desk Lane found at the Louvre.
But the monks didn’t anticipate the Mont being converted to a prison. The old ways were gone. The knowledge was lost. That was the reason it had taken so long for anyone to even go in search of the treasure!
But during the destruction of World War II, while many things were destroyed, many things were also looted. That was how the information about the treasure surfaced again. North got his hands on a looted hoard from World War II, just as Lane said, and discovered a reference to this treasure at the Mont. But North lacked precise information. He knew a clue was hidden inside a desk that was now at the Louvre, so that’s where he started.
“It is one of these treasures you seek, no?” Massi said.
Lane and I stared at each other.
“We’re not—” Lane began.
“It’s okay,” I said softly to Lane before addressing Massi. “We only wish to find it to protect it from a man who wishes to steal it for himself.”
Massi nodded. “Your heart is pure. You may think me superstitious to say so, but since I cannot see, I must rely on my other senses. This is how I know you speak the truth, unlike the Englishman who visited me.”
Even though I expected it, it was still disappointing to hear. “That sounds like the same man.”
“What did you tell him about the Mont’s treasures?” Lane asked.
“The important thing is not what I told him,” Massi said. “Unfortunately, it was what he already knew.”
CHAPTER 29
Massi explained that the Englishman claimed to be a scholar researching the island, who had come across information that suggested there was a secret room underneath a crypt. North went to Massi because he was looking for unrecorded information and any further details to narrow down the search.
“But the details this man already has are specific enough,” Massi said. “It is only a matter of time before he finds what he seeks.”
I wondered how much North had uncovered about the treasure through the looted World War II records—information that had been lost to everyone else.
We said our farewells to Massi, promising to visit again to tell him how things had turned out.
When we stepped out of Massi’s small cottage, the sun was setting over the bay, casting fading light across the long stretches of sand. The tide was out and I saw a few people exploring, visible only as ant-size spots walking across the treacherous beach. It wasn’t yet six o’clock, but winter brought an early sunset. But instead of being greeted by darkness, floodlights clicked on around us. The lights were directed at the Mont’s iconic spire, a statue of Saint Michael slaying a dragon. There were so many thoughts bouncing around my brain, but for a moment all I could do was look up at Saint Michael, the bronze figure gripping the hilt of his sword to vanquish evil.
“That was curious,” I said to Lane. “Why didn’t Massi suggest we simply go to the police?”
“He’s from a certain time and place where he doesn’t wish to involve the authorities any more than we do. But we can talk about all this later. We don’t have much time.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve already missed the last time for visiting the abbey, so we can’t get back to the crypt tonight. Although I don’t know what that would get us anyway. We don’t have all the information North does. And apparently even he doesn’t have the exact location. The crypts are huge. And there are several of them. We can’t let him destroy everything!”
“I love
it when you ramble, Jones,” Lane said, trying to suppress a grin, “but we really don’t have time.” He took my hand, and we ran toward the abbey.
This time, we didn’t go to the stairway entrance, but to a different section. We found people flooding out of the abbey into a walkway surrounded by gardens.
“I told you,” I said as dozens of visitors pushed past us. “It’s already closing time.”
“I want to catch up with some new friends.” Lane pulled me forward, past two workmen on one of the wide paths where tourists were leaving the abbey. He laughed and spun me around, stopping to give me a brief kiss—right in front of the two men. We got so close to them that we brushed against one of them.
“Pardon,” Lane said, blushing as he let go of me.
The men laughed and elbowed each other. “Bonsoir,” one said.
“Bonsoir.” Lane pulled me out of the way of the men and tourists.
“I bet they’re on their honeymoon,” a woman with a Midwestern American accent whispered loudly to her husband.
Lane kissed my cheek.
“What exactly was that about?”
Lane glanced casually down the path, looked pleased by what he saw, then held up the palm of his hand so I could see what was inside:
Keys. In the palm of his hand rested a set of large keys.
“You picked his pocket,” I said.
“How else were we going to get back inside the abbey after hours?”
I stared at him. A thought so natural to him would never have occurred to me.
