The uneven cobblestones made her more nervous than she already was. The village looked remarkably unchanged for centuries, the faux-antique signs staying true to the ancient aesthetic. The café was at the end of the street, she gripped the parcel tightly to her chest as the aged man clung to her arm and his cane while they slowly ascended the upwardly sloping street.
He was there, sitting comfortably in that tiny chair, legs crossed, glasses on, reading a book, mindlessly stirring a coffee. They neared him and he brightened at their approach.
“Ah Ma chere, monsieur,” he stood, donning the quintessential bisoux – three indicating he was from the north and shaking the elderly man’s hand.
“Bonjour, professeur.” She replied, the accent lacking much French.
“Please, we may speak English, if you prefer.” Thick with a guttural northern French accent.
She sighed in relief and disappointment in herself, “Yes please. Thank you, sir.” She indicated to the gray-haired man she came with, “I’d like to introduce you to my grandfather.”
“Mon plaisir, monsiuer. Call me Maurice, if you please, my dear.”
“Maurice.” They sat down, ordered a café au crème with three sugar cubes for herself, black coffee for her grandfather.
“I see you have truly become a northerner.” He laughed and she blushed.
She put the parcel on the table and slid it across to him.
“Is this it? Are you certainment?” he asked with excitement.
She nodded and he slowly pulled the brown paper off the parcel and opened the box. His eyes widened. “Mon dieu. C’est manifique. Bain, c’est incroyable. Comment est-ce vous la trouvez?”
She blanched. “My dear, I am sorry. How did you find it. This treasure, my family has been seeking it for a century, and here you, a little Americaine has brought it back from the new world.” He chuckled and eyed her over his spectacles, “The last known record of this was in mille six cent… er 1648, when the Avignon pope fled to Boulogne with treasures to escape the Vatican from absconding with them all. And here it is, untouched, not a gem missing. I must hear the tale.”
She nodded to her grandfather who sat up, cane still upright, his hand atop it. “You are Monsieur Chalon, yes? Descended from the noble house of Chalon-Arlay, the founders of France’s Regiment des Gardes Francaises?” The elderly man, his eyes normally cloudy with age were bright and boring into the professor.
Maurice looked from the old man to the woman in confusion, “Mais oui. It is something I discuss in my lectures.”
The old man nodded, pulled the parcel towards him and slowly began pulling back the nondescript tawny colored paper. “Then this belongs to you. It is now your sacred duty to protect it.” He peeled back the second and final layer of the parcel, revealing an aged box, tattered and worn simply from old age. The grandfather removed the lid revealing a wad of beige fabric. It appeared to be loosely wrapped around something. The old man gingerly lifted what was inside and began unraveling the top of the wrapped item.
The final piece of cloth was separating them from the item. The old man looked at Maurice, his eyes burning with intensity, “You will have but a mere second for your eyes to fall upon these, and then they must be returned to safety.” Maurice nodded, his eyes not leaving the swaddled fabric.
It was opened for a scant second, and within Maurice could see the pocked iron of large ancient nails. “Mon dieu.” he whispered in reverence.
“Indeed, professor.” The elderly man passed the nails to his granddaughter, who quickly began wrapping them again. “They have not aged for thousands of years. The iron should have succumbed to rust and decay, but these haven’t.”
“Le sange.” Maurice asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Mon dieu.” Maurice repeated. “So the family legends are true?”
The old man nodded, “Those and many more. These are the last piece needed to put the plans back into place and correct what history got wrong so many centuries ago.”
Book Slut 