The Forest Secret - Chapter 8

Questions filled their morning, as Charley and Stephanie, accompanied for a brief time by Denis in his capacity as researcher, returned to Notre Dame.  The staff in the small office in the part of the cathedral not destroyed were doing their best to accommodate media enquiries despite flooding on parts of the floor and a noisy portable generator outside to compensate for the ancient building’s power still being out.

The person in charge was a capable, congenial and clearly religious middle-aged woman named Gisele. She had been contacted by Denis the day before and said she would print up the lists of people that had worked with Aramis Caron during his 40 years as a cathedral guide.

“He had been our senior tour guide for many years before he retired three years ago,” she offered to Charley.  “I knew him for his last few years, but the cohort of guides for this structure were actually employed under our heritage and tourism ministry and had their own people to answer to.  Yet we worked with them - always - and Mr. Caron was the kindest of them all.

She then handed over the list and contact information of those who worked closest with Aramis.

“Thank you so much, Gisele,” Charley said.  “This gives us a place to start, although it will take some time to go through the list.”

“Actually, I thought about that,” the woman responded.  “The guides are all meeting in the front piazza in about 20 minutes to discuss their future and how long the repairs will take.  God is good to you, Ms. Heron - His timing is perfect.”

Both Charley and Stephanie smiled by way of appreciation, Denis having already left for another meeting.

As with the day previous, their security passes got them into the sanctuary, only this time without an officer to direct them.  They didn’t press their luck and stuck mainly to the cleared aisles on the main sanctuary floor.  The rows of pews had already been removed, mostly damaged from the fire.

They took their time winding their way to the giant front doors, to where the bewildered guides would soon be gathered.

“Now that the sanctuary is so empty, it looks far bigger than I can ever remember it,” Stephanie noted.

Her friend heard her but failed to respond.  Charley had craned her neck to look up into what was left of the Forest.  “It must have just been awful.”

“Hell on earth,” replied Stephanie.

“To think of Aramis Caron, up in the worst of it, moving along up there, and witnessing this place he loved being consumed.  Awful.”

Charley’s words lingered in their emotions.  Death would rarely have been so dramatic.

They had moved through the doors and saw a security area taped off, with perhaps two dozen men and women milling about in their official guide uniforms.  The formal part of their briefing had not yet commenced.

Charley spotted an official looking gentleman dressed in a sharp suit and a number of folders in his grasp.  She approached him and stated her purpose for being there.  He looked at her momentarily, then down at a list in front of him.  

“I never knew Mr. Caron, but all of these people have been talking about him since they arrived. I am from the French ministry and not the guide organization.”

He thought for a moment then urged, “Why don’t you address these people at the start?  Tell them of your interest in this man and ask for their input.  From the expression of feeling they have for him, I’m sure they would wish that his story be told.”

Not expecting this moment, Charley began to decline when Stephanie quickly stopped her.  “Look, this could save us days of work, hunting for interviews.  Plus, I think it will be meaningful for them, being together like this, comforting one another, and remembering a man they cared for.”

She was right, Charley knew and merely nodded her assent to the man.

It didn’t go at all as she expected.  Language wasn’t at all a problem since all of the guides were fluent in multiple languages. Yet those present held back, almost showing a kind of animosity.  Neither Charley nor Stephanie could read them.

It all became clear once Charley prompted them to come to her if they had any information on Aramis Caron.  One elderly woman, dressed officially in guide formal dress and her hair in a bun, raised her hand and said, “We do not know what your intentions are.  Aramis was a good man - all of him - but this is France and we see what journalists can do to people’s reputations.”

And as simple as that, there it was.  It all made sense.  The cathedral in the last two days had become a mecca for journalists and photographers, bloggers and podcasters, and even those with nefarious political agendas.  It would have been impossible to determine all of their motives and these people before Charley wanted to preserve what they could of the man they had lost and respected.

Later, she would confess that she didn’t know where the strength came from, but in that moment Charley looked out over the grouping of sincere and hurting people and spoke with sincerity.

“I am not French, but an American.  I came here because I believed that there must have been something very special in a man who would give his life, and death, for this wonderful place.  I believe something noble and urgent moved him to climb into the Forest the night of the fire.  I only know this because of what others have said - people like you, who knew him.  I have no personal knowledge of Mr. Caron.  I am here because I believe he represents perhaps the best of humanity and that in uncovering his story, I can unfold the compelling beauty of Notre Dame and why a humble man like Aramis Caron would give his life to this place as though it was his wife, his love, his hope.”

It was all that was required.  The woman who had asked the question said she would be happy to speak with Charley about the man she had known for 23 years.  The official from this ministry nodded his assent, leaving Charley and Stephanie to guide the women to a bench further out into the piazza.

“My name is Blaise Bassard,” she answered when prompted.

“Do you mind if I take your photo?:” Stephanie inquired.

“No, I would prefer if you didn’t.  I am glad to speak with you about Aramis however.  The photographer nodded in understanding and sat down next to Charley, eager to hear the story.

Blaise sighed, ran her hands over her green pleated skirt as if to smooth it out, and then looked up at the cathedral.  “Aramis never failed in his duties.  He always arrived early and would frequently be willing to take any last-minute tourists just so they wouldn’t miss the opportunity to see Notre Dame for itself. He was an excellent supervisor in his later years here.  And there were the little things, like remembering people’s birthdays or paying for the dry cleaning of his uniform, even though that cost was covered by the ministry.  He was very professional and thankful for his job.”

It was clear she had something more to add, but that it was proving difficult.  Finally she said, “But there was always something a bit sad about him.”

“What do you mean?” asked Stephanie.

“I’m not quite sure how to explain it. Once, when he had a little too much wine at our Christmas party, I asked him if he was married  ‘O no, I could never do that.’  When I pressed further as to what he meant, he only said, ‘I have given my heart to someone.’  It was all a little confusing.”

Charley turned to face her and plainly asked: “Who would know, Blaise?  I mean, did he have family or a girlfriend?”

The older woman looked up at her.  “None of us as guides were ever that close.  Often we didn’t know one another’s spouses.  But I do remember Aramis telling me once that he kept an intimate journal of his life, though I don’t know where.  Have you tried his apartment?  I’m sure that’s where he would keep it.”

“We don’t have the address,” Stephanie said.  “We haven’t asked the police for it yet.”

“I have his file with all that information, if that would help?”

Stephanie and Charley looked at one another in recognition.  They might just have their first breakthrough.