The Cathedral of Fear Page 11

  I flinched.

  According to my friend Sherlock, we were in possession of the crucial fragment of that ancient map of the Paris underground. The mere idea of it made my heart beat faster.

  “But then what was Montmorency doing down there?” I asked at that point.

  “Perhaps he was exploring the maze of tunnels, hoping to get lucky even without the complete map,” Lupin hypothesized.

  “It’s possible,” Sherlock agreed. “Or else the Grand Master’s followers are having a secret meeting down there, to exchange news about how their plan is progressing.”

  Lupin shook his head, puzzled. “Their plan!” he burst out. “I would really like to understand what it’s all about, you know?”

  I looked at my friend quizzically.

  “I mean … the business about the Heart of St. Michael’s,” Lupin said. “Does this guy, this mysterious Grand Master, really think he can fix a war that has been lost and calm the people of Paris with a relic and who knows what ancient ritual? Bah! Doesn’t all this reek a little too much of the Middle Ages to you?” he asked, stretching out on his back across the grass.

  “For anyone with a scientific, rational inclination, this whole story sounds quite bizarre, in fact,” Sherlock replied.

  “But no one who declares himself to be scientific and rational can be so foolish as to deny the existence of forces and powers beyond our understanding,” I interrupted, giving Sherlock a pointed look.

  “As far as I am concerned, I just want to find out the truth, no matter how unbelievable and surprising it turns out to be,” Sherlock responded, paying me back with a cutting glance but then softening it with a slight smile.

  “Well said,” Lupin approved. “The truth! But then what is the truth of what we saw? For example, how can the passage leading to those hallowed vaults be located in the storerooms of a filthy tavern?”

  “The answer, my friend, is in the walls,” Sherlock replied mysteriously.

  “The walls?!”

  “Of course. The walls of the Cardinal’s Cavern are ancient, thick, and equipped with sturdy supports. I’m certain that in times past, that place was very different. It was a noble mansion, very probably owned by a family with a cardinal among its members.”

  “Right,” I nodded. That would explain the tavern’s curious name. “And then there was that arch at the bottom of the stairs with the coat of arms.”

  “Of course!” Lupin then exclaimed, sitting up. “Perhaps it belonged to one of the eight families who divided up the map. Think about it! It’s quite reasonable that each of them had access to those underground tunnels, right?”

  “Right!” I said, convinced by Lupin’s words. “That archway should be a sort of entrance door to —”

  “DOOR?!” Sherlock repeated, staring at me wide-eyed. “Good heavens, of course! Door! JANUA!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet as if a tarantula had bitten him.

  Lupin and I once again found ourselves staring at each other, stunned.

  “Could I please know what’s going on with you?” Lupin asked him.

  “Yes, you’re talking strangely …” I said.

  But Sherlock didn’t even seem to hear our words. He stared at the fragment of the map for a few moments, and when he finally looked up, we saw a triumphant look in his eyes.

  “On your feet!” he ordered. “Break’s over. There’s somewhere we have to go now!”

  Chapter 18

  THE MASTER’S VOICE

  “If you say the word janua one more time, I swear I’m going to give you a kick in the shin!” I threatened, turning to Sherlock as we walked toward the rue de Martyrs at the frantic pace he was setting.

  “And I’ll follow Irene’s example!” Lupin joked.

  As we wished, there followed several minutes during which that odd word did not come from our friend’s mouth.

  “It means door in Latin,” Sherlock finally explained to us. “And it starts with a J!” he concluded, as if that was an extremely exciting piece of information.

  “Oh, thank you so much!” I said. “So what?”

  “The same letter that’s on our map after the abbreviation that stands for Saint-Sulpice!” Sherlock said.

  Finally, Sherlock’s excitement infected Lupin and me as well.

  “And so … perhaps there’s another door at Saint-Sulpice — another access to the tunnels!” I said.

  “Exactly. And if we’re lucky, we won’t find a killjoy there like at the Cardinal’s Cavern,” Lupin added.

  Right at that moment, a cart filled with hay came out from a side street heading south, where we also wanted to go. Lupin started to run, gesturing for us to follow him. A few minutes later, we reached the cart and, taking a small leap, arranged ourselves on the back of it, our legs dangling off.

  We traveled like that all the way to Les Halles, the biggest market in Paris. When we noticed the cart was slowing down, we jumped off. We continued to Pont Neuf on foot, which we crossed, finally winding up between the houses along the Left Bank of the Siene.

  It did not take us long to arrive near the church of Saint-Sulpice, which we promptly headed to, like three cats hunting their prey. A rapid walk around the building showed us that the big portal was locked and barred. But behind the church, something much more interesting was hidden. Just before the altar, built from ancient, worn-out stone and protected by an iron railing, was a small staircase that went down below the ground.

  “One hundred francs says that’s your janua!” Lupin said, pointing to a little door made of dark wood at the bottom of the steps.

  Sherlock nodded and shook the gate that gave access to the staircase, pushing on it feverishly. It stayed closed. From our side we saw no lock, only a smooth iron plaque. We looked at it, unsure of what to do, until Lupin took a few steps back. He carefully studied the altar and its gray stone roof.

  “Wait here,” was all he said. Then he took a short running start, leaping to grab a slender stone molding right below the roof. Next, with one impressive movement, he got a leg onto the roof and finally heaved himself the rest of the way up. At that point, he crawled over the sharp railing and landed at the bottom of the staircase with a final jump. A few seconds later, our friend was climbing back toward us, an amused smile on his face. Out of his jacket pocket, he pulled a ring, which held a number of tools in various shapes and sizes.

  “I’m pleased to see you’ve continued to enhance your collection of picklocks,” Sherlock said.

  “Well, not to brag, but I think I’ve got a small talent for this kind of thing,” Lupin said, fumbling with the lock. And, almost as if to emphasize his words, a metallic tone indicated that the little gate was open.

  Taking a quick look around to make sure no one was in sight, we went down the stairs and waited until Lupin showed us another little example of his talent with the little wooden door.

  This lock was a bit harder for our friend, but fewer than ten minutes later we were going down some more stairs, immersed in the darkness of the Parisian underground.

  Once we got to the bottom of the staircase, we found ourselves in complete darkness. It smelled moldy and was rather cold. Beyond that, I could not get any clues about the area around us. We stayed still for a moment. Then I heard the sound of a match being struck on the stone, and my two friends’ faces appeared in the dark in a halo of dim, yellow light.

  We were in a narrow tunnel that had been dug out of the rock. Looking up, I noticed that the arch of the marble roof was every inch the same as the one we had seen at the Cardinal’s Cavern. Here, too, a noble coat of arms appeared at the top of the vault.

  I looked around. Spotting that sign and blowing out the match Lupin held between his fingers only took a moment. Then we plunged back into darkness.

  “Irene!” Lupin hissed, agitated. “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh!” I hi
ssed, as softly as I could. I did not dare add a single word. From somewhere in the darkness of the tunnel, not far from us, I thought I had heard the sound of a voice.

  I leaned against the damp, cold rock and kept listening, my heart in my throat. In the frightening silence that followed, I heard Lupin’s breath next to me, and I could have sworn I could sense the energetic activity of Sherlock’s thoughts.

  When I was nearly convinced I had fallen prey to my own suggestion, there it was again: I heard a voice echo again, this time more distinctly. My ears had not tricked me!

  I decided to take a step forward, then another. I felt Lupin’s hand rest on my shoulder and lightly grab it in encouragement. Then I groped my way for several meters along the rock wall. All of a sudden, I realized that the tunnel had made a turn, beyond which I glimpsed a soft glow. I stopped, uncertain whether to continue. I sensed Sherlock advancing in the dark, moving forward to see around the corner. Following him, I caught sight of a half-open door cut out from the wall. Through the crack, I spied a small portion of the room, lit dimly by a few candles. I saw a hand grab a hooded robe hanging from the wall. Now the voices that reached me were sharp and clearly audible.

  “ … We are very close, my friend! And I think something important will happen soon. I can feel it!” someone said.

  “I hope it’s as you say, my dear. We don’t have much time left. That mob out there is about to take control of the city!”

  At that point, we heard fabric rustling and footsteps. The voices grew more distant. A moment later, everything returned to perfect silence.

  “Come on! Let’s go in!” Lupin whispered.

  I wanted to say something, but I saw that my friends had already moved toward the crack to examine the room.

  “All clear!” Sherlock hissed.

  I took a moment to silence all my thoughts and fears. It was I who had involved Sherlock and Lupin in this story, and I would follow them to see it through.

  We widened the crack between the two sides of the door the smallest amount needed to be able to slip inside. When we were finally in the room, a shiver ran down my spine. It was a dreadfully creepy place — a large, circular room with a few benches placed against the walls and a wooden coatrack. About a dozen dark robes with large hoods hung from it. The only light was from two tall candelabras in the middle of the room.

  Looking around, we noticed that in addition to the little door we had come through, there were two arches that led to two corridors facing across from each other.

  “Here is where the Grand Master’s followers meet!” Lupin said.

  “Yes. And I bet the Sacred Order of St. Michael —” Sherlock said, before he suddenly broke off and headed toward the corridor to our right.

  The sound of footsteps echoed in the distance.

  “Oh, my heavens!” I whispered, putting my hand to mouth. “What now?”

  Lupin grabbed two robes from the coat rack and ran to me. “Put one of these on,” he said. “It will be okay, you’ll see.”

  I looked into Lupin’s eyes for a brief moment, and that was enough to restore my courage.

  Sherlock also took a tunic and put it on hurriedly. We had barely turned ourselves into three hooded figures when a portly man entered. He had piggy eyes and long, blondish hair. From his elegant clothing, we gathered he was a nobleman.

  I felt Sherlock hastily push me toward the second corridor on the opposite side of the room.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man who had just arrived stop and look at us. With my breath caught in my throat, I grabbed the hem of the robe, which was too long for me, and walked toward the arch.

  “Fiat Lux! Fratres!” the man practically shouted in greeting.

  Sherlock coughed. His voice as deep as he could make it, he exchanged the Latin greeting with the man, “Fiat Lux! Frater!”

  I remember thinking — as we passed that doorway and entered the thicker shadows of the corridor — that never like then had the knowledge of a dead language seemed a more exciting asset.

  It felt as if I had slipped into the pages of one of those disturbing novels I was so fond of back then, full of gloomy, ruined dwellings and dark secrets. We walked through a long corridor, punctuated by the light of candles placed in small niches along the walls. A confused hubbub came from the end of it, and I thought it must be like the sounds that would rise from the circles of purgatory.

  We walked together between the rows of lights in the corridor, and for several moments, I had the sensation that I was dreaming. In fact, it seemed to me that beyond the arch at the end of the corridor lay a dark, stormy sea, which a strange force was dragging me toward.

  After a couple more steps, that strange illusion disappeared. What had looked like a stormy sea to me was, in reality, nothing more than an expanse of dark, hooded heads gathered in a large circular room, much like the one we had just left. A hundred followers of the Grand Master, give or take, were gathered in the stone cavern a few steps below us.

  “We’re finally at their hideout!” Sherlock whispered in my ear. “Now we just have to blend in.”

  And so we did, climbing down the stairs and trying to stay together in that mass of people.

  A few minutes passed. Along the corridor we had come through came other hooded figures, and the hubbub in the semidark chamber kept growing.

  Then suddenly, a great commotion erupted from the crowd of hoods. Many voices overlapped, one on top of the other.

  “He’s coming!”

  “Here he is!”

  “I see him!”

  The light from a torch appeared through a narrow opening in the rock. I rose onto my tiptoes to figure out what was happening, and I saw a man wearing a robe like ours, except in bright red, and wearing an enormous golden necklace. He climbed onto a sort of a pulpit that had been set up in an alcove in the room, accompanied by two other people. On the stone wall behind him hung an old flag of France.

  Silence fell in the cavern, and at that moment, we grew certain we were in the presence of the Grand Master. His face stood out from the golden yellow background of the alcove, and he really looked as if he’d come out of a medieval painting.

  “Fiat lux! Fratres!” he began, with a deep, resonant voice. “Let there be light! And this is not just an empty formula, since very soon, thanks to our courage, the disheartening darkness that France is collapsing into will melt, and an ancient, sacred light will return to illuminate the minds and spirits of the nation! Great, majestic signs are already proclaiming that our victory is near, brothers! The star of Sirius and the other radiant stars in the constellation Virgo are in a favorable position. Very soon, you can be sure, our quest for the fragments of the ancient map of the Order will come to its conclusion. Then we shall know where the holy relics are safeguarded, and our days of fear shall come to an end! No longer will we have to see Paris — already crushed by Prussian boots — wind up in the hands of criminals. We, the reconstituted Sacred Order of St. Michael, will lead the city and the nation to salvation — certainly not Mr. Adolphe Thiers and all the cowards in Versailles who follow him …”

  While the man in the red robe launched into an impassioned rant against Thiers and his followers, we could not help but notice that unlike the Grand Master, whose face stayed in darkness, the two figures at his side seemed happy to show their real faces to the crowd. I had no difficulty recognizing the person on his right, the Duke of Montmorency. But I felt profoundly worried when I recognized the figure standing to the left of the Grand Master.

  It was a woman. That woman! The mysterious lady I had met in the gardens of the Evreux cathedral.

  I wanted to share my discovery with my friends, but despite feeling troubled, I realized it would be too foolish and remained silent.

  However, I was not the only one to notice how the woman craved attention. I clearly heard a hooded figure next to me sayin
g, “That lady certainly gives herself airs!”

  I thought it a good opportunity to gather information, and so, speaking through the heavy fabric of my robe, I said, “That woman doesn’t know what modesty is!”

  “Don’t expect anything else from Madame de Valminier,” the person next to me whispered scornfully. “She tricked poor old Duke d’Aurevilly, and with the tiny bit of power she got from that, she’s now vying with Montmorency to get into the Grand Master’s inner circle! He’ll soon become France’s new leader, and she —”

  “SHHH!” hissed someone behind us. My neighbor grew silent.

  Meanwhile the Grand Master’s voice continued thundering in my ears. A harrowing question came to mind. What did Madame de Valminier’s reference to my family during our meeting mean?

  A sudden thought struck me like a blow to the heart. I looked around, shaken. Perhaps under one of those dark hoods would be hiding … my father? But if my father was involved in this business of the Order of St. Michael, why had that woman come to see me?

  The echoes of these questions were still ringing in my mind when I heard the Grand Master dismiss his followers. His speech had ended. The hum from before started up again, and the hooded figures began streaming toward the corridors. I, however, stayed still, captivated by thoughts of my family’s secrets, however dark and troubling.

  Then I felt myself swept away by that river of people. As if suddenly aroused from sleep, I realized that Sherlock and Lupin were no longer next to me. To get back to them, I moved abruptly and tripped on my long robe. I found myself on the ground, hood around my shoulders and face uncovered. Unfortunately for me, I had fallen near one of the big candelabras, which lit my face.

  “Who the devil is this little girl?” one of the hooded people yelled, pointing at me. In a few instants, I was surrounded.

  Sherlock and Lupin immediately pushed their way through the wall of people to come to my rescue.