The Fragment, page 6
“Thank you, Sir. But you have seen the dress twice before, at the boutique and again at the reception.”
“Before, you wore a dress that was not yours,” he replied. “Tonight you inhabit it.”
She mulled that over as introductions were made around the large group. When the ambassador came to Minister Maunoury, Charles’s superior, he waved his cigar at her and said, “Welcome to the fold, Mademoiselle.”
“Monsieur?”
“You are being watched!” He boomed the words with false cheeriness. “It is the price of power. One of them. To be constantly under observation by the enemy.”
She found herself chilled. “I hold no power of any kind, Minister.”
“Obviously there are those who disagree. And in the Great Game, appearances are all that matter!”
Senator Bryan saw both her distress and the ambassador’s frown and demanded, “What is he saying?”
As she started to respond, Muriel caught a hard glint to the minister’s eye. She was certain the man spoke English. And that his words had been directed at the senator all along. Muriel said, “The minister is simply making polite conversation, Senator.”
The minister hid his displeasure by puffing intently on his cigar. The rising smoke tightened the folds of fat about Minister Maunoury’s eyes into slits. Then Muriel caught the ambassador watching her.
He nodded his approval, then said, “Shall we find our seats?”
Porters in gilded uniforms ushered their group into a box that hung over the stage. Muriel was seated on the front row between the ambassador and the senator. While the others settled, Senator Bryan murmured, “Tell me what the minister said.”
When Muriel had finished relating the exchange, Senator Bryan said, “He was warning me.”
“I assumed that was the case. But why?”
“France stands against us on all the issues related to Constantinople. I have been meeting with various officials to explain that our position would in fact benefit their government. My efforts have done little good.”
“Are we in danger?”
“Absolutely not. Harming us would only weaken their position.”
“Then why—”
“They do not want us traveling to Turkey. They assume the connections that have opened up because of our hunt for the reliquary are in truth a disguise for subterfuge and influence peddling. It is what the French would do. It is what they are best at.”
Muriel stared out over the audience, wondering at the multitude of issues which she did not understand. “So when the prime minister supported my viewing the reliquary at Notre Dame…”
“He was going against members of his own government who suspect that whatever we claim to be doing in Constantinople is only a cover for our real objective, which is to thwart France’s claims over the Dardanelles.”
“Is any of that true?”
“I am formally charged by the president to present our government’s position to the rulers in Constantinople. I am also directed to take a measure of the situation.” He fumed quietly, his voice thick with frustration. “There are those in our government who would like nothing more than to enter into direct conflict with the French. I consider them foolhardy. One does not build alliances by taking advantage of temporary weaknesses. The French are a proud and ancient nation with strong historical ties to America. We should be helping to rebuild them and striving to convince them that our position is the right one.” He glanced over. “Do I bore you?”
“Quite the contrary, Senator. I am honored that you would confide in me.”
He returned his stony gaze to the empty stage. “My enemies consider me soft and addled both. They consider my quest to be misguided. They call me Don Quixote with a cross. I hold my tongue. I do not respond. I let them think what they will. I have done this all my life. But I will share the truth with you, Miss Muriel. I feel called by my Lord to this duty.”
She felt a hundred questions press at her heart, but the conductor was entering the orchestra pit and the audience was applauding, and she knew she would have to wait for answers. “Thank you for trusting me, Senator.”
He applauded with the others and said with fierce vehemence, “I know you will not let me down.”
: CHAPTER 11 ::
After a morning taking pictures at the world-famous market of Les Halles, Muriel and Charles traveled to the American Embassy on the corner of the Avenue Marceau and the Rue Galilée. A Marine guard escorted Muriel into the building and up to the second floor. Senator Bryan had taken over what clearly had been an aide’s office, just across the hall from the ambassador’s formal chambers. He rose from his desk, closed the file he had been working on, and asked if she would like tea. When she refused, he reseated himself and said, “Charles informs me that you have been told of our travel plans.”
“About Constantinople, yes.”
“I never had any intention of keeping you in the dark. But I only received the formal invitation to travel this morning. Might I ask how you heard?”
“From Minister Maunoury. He mentioned it at the ambassador’s reception.”
The senator winced. “What precisely did the minister say?”
As Muriel related the exchange, the senator tapped his fingers lightly on the desk’s leather top. “I had suspected all along that factions within the French regime were seeking to thwart my aims.”
“He said nothing about that.”
“Not directly. But the French are masters at inferences. It grants them the ability to deny everything later, if it suits them.”
“Why would he be opposed to your seeking a reliquary?”
“Because…” Senator Bryan stopped at a knock on his door. “Come in.”
A young man dressed in the formal black cutaway coat required of all staffers announced, “Your call has come through, Sir.”
“Splendid.” He rose and beckoned Muriel to join him. “Come with me.”
The young man led them down the hall and up the stairs at a trot. Muriel did not have the breath to either protest or ask where they were going. They were led into a windowless chamber on the first floor, where a young man was seated at a telegraph. When they entered, he announced, “We are ready at this end.”
The senator said, “Be brief, my dear.”
Muriel settled onto the stool behind the telegraph operator, who listened intently to the ticking machine, and made swift notes on his pad. He then read, “Hello, Muriel, my dear. We are missing you so very much. The weather has been glorious. Everyone at church has been asking about you. When are you coming home?”
Never had the distance separating Muriel from her home felt as vast as now, seated on that uncomfortable stool, listening to the man drone her mother’s words.
The telegraph operator asked, “Do you wish to respond?”
Murel swallowed hard, and replied, “Very soon. I love you both so much.”
The young man tapped the key with impossible swiftness. Then he retrieved his pencil when the machine began clicking in reply. He read, “Daughter, Thomas has indicated that you might be traveling further afield. You have our blessing.”
Only her father referred to Muriel in that fashion. She swiped impatiently at her cheeks and said, “Thank you, Daddy. I’m taking some wonderful pictures.”
This time, the repsonse from across the ocean took much longer. When the machine went silent, the telegraph operator read, “I was always certain the world would one day hear of my daughter, the photographer and historian. But I ask you to promise that they will also hear of you, the believer. Know we pray for you. Take care, darling.”
: CHAPTER 12 ::
That afternoon she traveled to the photographic studio responsible for developing her photographs. The studio had come highly recommended, both by Charles Fouchet and someone on the ambassador’s staff. Even so, Muriel entered the shop with her heart in her mouth. So much depended upon the people and their work. Not to mention her own abilities as a photographer.
As she stood at the counter and waited for the shopkeeper to sort through his manila envelopes of prints, Muriel felt her heart hammer in her throat. She had known such nerves on any number of occasions, agonizing over the doubts and worries, uncertain of her abilities and her equipment and the day and…
“Here they are, Mademoiselle.” The man was small and graying and had pianist’s hands, with long, supple fingers that were stained by years of development chemicals. He slid the four packets across the counter and smiled as she unwrapped the twine seals with trembling fingers.
She knew she should probably view them in the privacy of her hotel room, but she could not wait. Charles stood at a discreet distance as she spilled first one envelope and then another onto the counter.
Normally, a photographer would ask for the negatives to be developed, then examine them and decide which should be made into prints. But Senator Bryan had repeatedly told her that time was of the essence and cost was a secondary issue. So for the first time in her life, Muriel had the opportunity to view as a print every single photograph she had taken. What was more, the development had been done by a professional. Muriel was certain of this the instant she saw the first pictures.
The first packet contained those taken of the reliquary. Muriel breathed a huge sigh of relief as she studied each in turn. They were precise, the lighting perfect, the details very clear. She could even see the grain in the wood, the fold of the silver around the corners, the way the letters had been carved. Muriel asked for a magnifying loupe, examined them for a time, and knew the senator would be pleased.
Another customer came into the shop, and the manager moved down the counter so as to separate this activity from her. Muriel took the opportunity to spread out her pictures from the Paris streets. Senator Bryan had insisted upon her taking the same liberty with her own work as the church pictures. She reveled in the chance to scrutinize each shot. Especially the mistakes. There were errors in positioning and background that she would never have noticed through looking only at negatives. She had long wanted her own studio, but her mother’s allergies made it impossible to have the chemicals in their home. Gradually Muriel began sorting out the photographs that were worth keeping. More customers came and went. Time passed. She adjusted the photographs’ positions to catch the sunlight as it progressed across the sky.
Finally, the manager came back and inspected with her. Charles took that as his long-awaited sign and stepped forward. “May I see?”
“Mademoiselle has taken a remarkable picture here,” the manager said.
“The street sweeper,” Charles said. “A war veteran.”
“So I was told,” Muriel said, resisting the sudden urge to trace his vacant face with her finger.
“So mademoiselle is aware of this? And how wonderfully she has managed to convey the shadows in his eyes.” The manager plucked the loupe from her hand and bent over the photograph. “Look here, the light catches the water as he cleans the street and reflects him. Did the mademoiselle know the reflection made his greatcoat look like a tattered uniform?”
Suddenly she could no longer focus upon the picture. She sensed as much as saw how Charles leaned closer still. “You are right, Monsieur.”
“Of course I am.” The manager turned to the next picture. “And this one of the three children, magnifique.”
Charles shifted the pictures then froze. “This woman…”
“Regardez. The tragedy of war, there upon her face.” The manager leaned in so close he blocked Muriel’s view. He was almost cheek-to-cheek beside Charles. “Perhaps she sees the father and husband, a man she no doubt lost to the war, there in the face of these young ones, yes?”
Charles took a ragged breath. He swallowed hard and stepped away to stand by the door, staring out of the shop. Isolated and alone.
The manager gently tapped the photographs back together, refit them into the envelope, and handed them over with a sad and gentle smile. “Mademoiselle has an artist’s eye.”
: CHAPTER 13 ::
That night they took the Orient Express.
The train had been withdrawn from service six years earlier, when passage through the eastern reaches had become dangerous. The carriages smelled faintly of camphor and oil and disuse. Muriel did not care. The Orient Express was the most elegant train ever created, with rosewood paneling and gilded ceilings and velvet drapes and plush carpets and crystal chandeliers in the public carriages.
Her chamber was a jewel box of precise elegance, tiny and beautiful. She shared a butler with five other cabins, an elderly gentleman who carried himself with the smiling formality of a favorite grandfather. Muriel adored him on sight. She loved everything about the trip. She was in heaven before the train left the station.
Charles Fouchet traveled in the coach behind the one where she and Senator Bryan had their rooms. An hour after crossing the Seine, the three of them gathered in the dining car. Charles and Senator Bryan wore formal evening wear and she her dark blue gown. After dinner, she returned to her cabin, feeling as though she danced along the swaying corridor, buoyed by dreams that were finally coming true.
Muriel had no idea how long she had been asleep when the dream came to her. She was drawn into a mist-bound realm by the sound of a vast choir, as though the entire world both spoke and chanted the words. Gradually the words became clear to her, and when they did, she saw for the first time where she had arrived.
She was alone in a church. It was shaped like Notre Dame, yet so large the ceiling was lost to drifting clouds. The vast chamber echoed to a refrain chanted by thousands of unseen voices: Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.
There upon the altar was the reliquary. She felt it call to her, a magnet designed to entice her heart. She floated up the central aisle, much as she had along the train’s hallway. She was supported and urged on by the voices. The melodious chant grew louder the closer she came to the front table. Lamb of God.
The reliquary grew larger as she approached. The gold faded. The filigree and the beauty and the shimmering jewels all vanished. Until there was nothing there before her but the wood.
And yet the closer she came, the more glorious became the sight. She felt a weight upon her that was as old as the human race, chains that gripped her and tried to hold her back. And still the voices chanted and carried her forward, until finally she stood upon the rocky earth, and there before her rose the cross. It towered up into a dark and stormy sky, and she wept with the knowledge that Christ’s tragic hour had been caused by her own impossible need.
She reached out to touch the wood. And in that instant, she came awake. She was sobbing so hard she could scarcely draw breath. Her right hand gripped the simple wooden cross that hung around her neck.
Muriel slid to the train’s floor and knelt, her hands clasped on the bed. She was filled with the dread of coming challenge. Beyond the luxury and the rumbling journey, Muriel sensed a great moment ahead. She felt as though she had been preparing for this all her life. God had called her. Of that she had no doubt. She was still there on her knees when dawn filled her cabin with new light.
• • •
When she came into the dining car that early morning, Senator Bryan was the only other customer. He was so intent upon the book open by his plate that he did not notice her. She started to pass his table but then realized he was studying the Scriptures. “May I join you?”
He looked up, saw that she carried her own Bible, and replied, “I would be delighted.”
They studied for a time in silence. Then Senator Bryan said, “I have been looking forward to this journey. Not the destination. The trip itself. I have such little time to myself these days.”
“You have been so busy.”
“Not just busy. I have been assaulted on all sides. I needed time to commune and reflect.”
“I can move to another table if you—”
“I wouldn’t think of it. You are as easy on the soul as you are on the eyes.” He leaned back as the waiter refilled his coffee cup, then mused to the early light beyond the window, “I have been sitting here looking at the same passage for well over an hour and thinking about my early life. My father was a wealthy industrialist. I was the fourth child, all boys. We admired our father above all living men. He steered me into the law and then into a Washington firm, the goal of political office never far from my father’s mind. I never thought of rebellion. I did as I was told. But now as I approach my own final hour, I find myself wondering about it all. My children are grown, and my wife I lost six years ago in the epidemic’s early days, back before we knew what it was.”
“Have you ever thought of remarrying?”
“The question is put to me by every socialite in Washington. I tell them that in time, perhaps. But in truth, I have no interest in anyone. I miss Anabelle too much.”
She studied the man seated across from her. The lone waiter stood at the car’s far end, leaning against the bar, idly polishing a glass. It was as close to a private moment as she had known with Thomas Bryan. “I envy you that love,” she confessed. “My parents have this as well, the closeness that goes beyond the moment or the hour. I cannot imagine one of them without the other.”
“Your parents are the salt of the earth, and you are a credit to them both.”
“My mother does not understand my yearning for more than what she has.”
“She is the product of another time. Even so, she accepts your need for your own course.”
“Very, very reluctantly,” Muriel said.
The senator smiled. “When your father agreed to your joining me on this quest, she did not object.”
On an impulse, she rose from her chair. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
She returned down the rocking carriages to her cabin, opened her case, and pulled out the manila envelope containing her portfolio of pictures. She carried them back to the dining car and set it down in front of the senator. “I thought you might like to see what I have been doing.”
