"The Forest Secret" - Chapter 21
Bernard had called the entire team together in his Paris headquarters office to attempt to pull all the unexpected pieces of Charley’s narrative together. He had wondered how best to accomplish it when she had stated firmly in the Louvre office: “It all comes back to Notre Dame.”
Following further hours of reflection, he had come to agree with her. Each component of the remarkable narrative was a complete story in itself, each worthy of exploration, but that would be for a later day - especially the Rembrandt piece.
And then there was Sandra in New York. It had been a difficult moment all those years ago when they had mutually agreed that they were too independent to live together. But the comfortable and energizing meeting of their minds was something neither forgot. Professionally, that compatibility had produced a Pulitzer Prize for the old Tribune’s recounting of the rise of extremism and, ultimately, the spread of domestic terrorism to the entire country. He missed Sandra’s proximity, but a connected world had provided occasional opportunities for working together, and each had enjoyed the creativity of those moments.
So, when his American visitor had offhandedly mentioned that it had been Sandra who came up with the idea of Aramis having a love affair with the Cathedral, he placed some of his own preferences aside, delighted in the idea of assisting Sandra to get the story she originated and wanted.
Eventually the other members of the team drifted in: Stephanie holding a large laptop to show the best pictures she had compiled, Charley, her hair still damp from showering, Denis with journals in hand, Peter Fortane ducking his head to get under the office door, Elaine Bouchard with a million things clearly on her mind, and, finally, Pierre Lambeau, with his typically surly features and his disconnection from anything to do with office dealings. The seasoned reporter had no idea what was about to descend on him.
“So, here we are with much more than we had bargained for when we first gathered with Charley last week. But first there is a matter that requires our attention.” Something in his tone had ‘caution’ written all over it, but, other than Elaine, no one knew what was coming.
“Yesterday afternoon,” the editor continued, “Elaine discovered a story on En Familieregarding Aramis Caron, his relationship with Mary Weatherby, and a hint of the possibility of the discovery of a famous artifact.”
“What?” Charley erupted.
Bernard ignored her momentarily and looked directly at Pierre Lambeau, fire in his fierce blue eyes. “The piece was written by you, Pierre, with direct attribution and a declaration that you write for our paper.”
Pierre sighed slightly, clearly irked. “En Familieis an online site for writers and welcomes their contributions, along with any information on stories they might be working on. I revealed nothing of consequence.”
“Outside of this paper, Pierre, all you would have known was that there was a fire in the cathedral and that an old man’s body was discovered in the upper regions. The only way you knew of Mary Weatherby, Canterbury, or the ‘artifact,’ as you call it, was through the work of Charley and Stephanie and this office. It was not your story to share.”
Charley sat in shock. This was unexpected. She looked over at Stephanie, who was barely suppressing her rage.
“Everything is online these days, as you know better than most, Bernard,” Pierre said casually. “It is the way of modern journalism. We all contribute to various websites and news aggregators.”
“That is your experienced opinion, is it, Pierre?” Bernard shot back. “Well, not of this paper. For that matter, not of any newspaper that I know of and that is worth anything. I want you out of this office during any further considerations of this story. And just so you’re aware, I have phoned En Familie’seditor, who I’ve known for years, and threatened to sue him to every extent if he keeps your story on their website. You will note that it has been taken down as of an hour ago.”
“This story should have been mine, and you know it, Bernard - all of you know it,” Pierre blurted. “But instead we get someone from America with no knowledge of this city or our customs, and she gets the privilege. No offence, Charley, but this should never have been your story.”
She was about to say something when Bernard stated firmly, “Out of this office, Pierre.” He then added a brief and angry comment in French that Charley couldn’t understand.
Quietly, Peter Fortane stood, walked to the office door, and quietly held it open while staring, without expression, at Lambeau. Realizing there was little choice but to leave, the senior writer shrugged and left the room in silence.
“With that matter decided, let’s move on to what we are here for,” the editor remarked, putting on his glasses.
“I’m sure that was difficult for you, Bernard - I’m sorry.”
“Difficult?” he rejoined. “I think everyone at this paper has wanted to do that for a long time. What he did violates what we all stand for here and what we are all trying to do. I will deal with him later.”
Picking up that he wanted to move on, Stephanie flipped open the lid of her laptop, turning it to face the others. “These are some of the best photos that will complement Charley’s story, I think.” It was all she said, leaving it to her pictures, flipping automatically, to do the rest of the talking.
They were impressive, mostly black and white, especially those of the Forest. But those from their time in Canterbury were in resplendent colour. The close-ups of Mary were of a graceful and dignified progeny of the British people - subtly elegant, warm, and with a deft touch of defiance. Charley was overwhelmed. Having her friend use her Leica wherever they had visited together nevertheless left her unprepared for what she was now looking at. The dark and somewhat foreboding images of the Forest had somehow been transcended by the majesty of the building. And one in particular - a simple photo of the spot among the ashes where Aramis had breathed his last - brought tears to her eyes. Again, as when she visited the spot earlier, she thought she detected the outline of his body in the residue. It was full of poignancy, loss, and the ultimate sense of loneliness in sacrifice.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Elaine said to Stephanie. “Whatever the words will ultimately tell, it will have been these photos that will place the reader in the mystery of it.
“Agreed,” said Bernard, as Charley reached over and grabbed Stephanie’s hand in gratitude. “Sometime this morning, Minister Moreau will contact me personally to deliver the findings regarding the painting’s authenticity. It will remain confidential for now. Personally, I have no doubt.”
“Nor do I,” Denis interjected. “This will light a flame in the art world with its verification.”
“No doubt.” Bernard replied. “But, for our purposes, it provides a majestic historical sweep to the story Charley is about to tell. He paused momentarily, facing Denis. “You implied to me that you found some interesting entries in the journals.”
The researcher put the leather journals aside and, instead, produced a few sheets of typed paper. “Our purpose here is to make Notre Dame the essence of this remarkable tale. That won’t be easy, given these remarkable developments, but Aramis himself might be of service to us. I have highlighted here some of his own observations:”
September 23, 1979 - My first day as an official tour guide and I find myself enraptured, in love, giddy as a young heart, deeply moved as a young man of France. At times I lost my words as I sought to describe for others the importance of the Cathedral, for I was overwhelmed, not by those details, but by the truth of what she is - a testimony to all that is eternal about the divine and a reminder of all that can be for the human. I found myself caressing her walls, the majestic doors, the gravitasof the altar and the fragility of her windows. But it was the light filtering through those windows - the light of God - that fully captured me. The caress of its warmth on my face, the sensation of electricity at its contact, the shadows it created but also dispelled. Evil could not survive its presence and, in that same light, love and goodness flourished. She was so much more than anything I could describe to those dutifully listening to my feeble words.
July 18, 1999 - All Paris is out as if summoned by the summer sun to pay obeisance to its splendour. And where do they inevitably gather? To the omnipresence of the Cathedral and its ability to dominate its space with a sense of grandeur and history. I watch at my station as the crowds gather for their tour and realize it is her beauty that captures them, not her past. She is more than they bargained for, greater even than their expectations. She has transcended all they know of this fragile and fleeting life. Their ancestors stood in her presence and their great grandchildren will one day gather and be overwhelmed by such radiance in the same spot.
September 23, 2015 - My final day before retirement. The pain is exquisite. She welcomed my first embrace four decades ago and now I fade away while she moves on. With Mary gone, the Cathedral became all to me. She was my last vision before retiring to my bed each night and the first to welcome me upon my rising. Was ever love so faithful? I shall journey up the steps one last time - so much harder now to ascend than all those years ago when I first climbed them. And I will see once again the offspring of that afternoon of wondrous mischief Mary and I had in hiding the painting in the Forest. I wish she were still alive, so that we could go back there together, remove it from its hiding place, and permit the world to see how fanciful our young love had been. The Cathedral’s arms had protected us in those years - seasons of delight, our secret talks and intimacy. For a while longer I will leave the painting in its hiding place, folded in the arms of the great church for protection. It’s time of unveiling will come … but not quite yet. It will remain in the possession of the Cathedral for just a while longer as a testimony to what we three had shared together - the secret of love, and permanence. I will say goodbye to the painting today, for a time, until it is presented at last in its outing to the world.
“My God,” claimed Bernard. “Is there anything more suitable than this to the story. He thought Mary gone, but his love of the Cathedral remained.”
But there was no response, as everyone realized that they had just been handed another gift through the ingenuity and generosity of Aramis Caron and his Cathedral.