H.J. Gaudreau - Betrayal in the Louvre (2 page)

Chapter 2

“The Detroit Antiques Show is the biggest in the mid-west and I’m not going to miss it.  Who knows, we could have something worth bizzillions of dollars.”  Herman James Crenshaw, retired Air Force Colonel, now proud co-owner with his wife of a sixty acre farm called from the attic of his cottage styled log home.  “Hey, do you know where that box of my great grandfather’s stuff is?”  The sound of boxes being moved and old furniture banging could clearly be heard above Eve Crenshaw’s head.  “Damn!…..”  More thumping of boxes.  “Eve could you bring up a flashlight please?  I forgot to turn on the light.”  

She stood at the bottom of the attic ladder, face turned up to the dark void overhead and smiled.  “Yes Jim, I’ll get you a flashlight.”  Eve walked into the kitchen and retrieved one from the pantry.  “Hon, here’s the flashlight.”  She climbed the ladder, flicking on the light switch next to the attic door and pulling a cobweb from her shoulder length honey auburn hair.  Light filled the room, making the flashlight superfluous.  “Did you find it?” she asked, doing her best to suppress a grin and failing. 

“No, but I did find that lamp you bought in North Dakota.”  They both laughed.  It was the worst lamp they’d ever seen.  They bought the lamp to use as a gift in their squadron’s dirty Santa Christmas gift exchange; the object of which was to find the ugliest, funniest gift possible.  Unfortunately, Jim had received orders before the party and they’d spent that Christmas moving into another house at another Air Force base.  Now, here they were nearly thirty years later, retired from the Air Force and they still had it.  She laughed at the absurdity of the thing.  Jim smiled at his wife, he loved how her golden eyes sparkled when she laughed.

“Hey, here it is!” Jim triumphantly held up a wooden Boraxo soapbox.   He sat the box on the floor, knelt beside it and opened the top.  Inside was a mess kit, with his Great grandfathers name crudely etched onto the back of the pan.  Jim held up the mess kit, showed it to Eve, still standing on the ladder, and then placed it on the attic floor.  Next he held up a cigarette lighter with “Ardennes 1918 – Crenshaw” carved into the side.  “Can you believe these things were used in the mud and trenches of World War One?  It’s amazing.”  Jim was an unabashed history nut.  In rapid succession the lighter was followed by a knife, a badly aged book with a faded cover, a handful of uniform decorations, none of which Jim recognized, a patch with a red arrow pierced by a small line and a dirty light coffee brown coloured tube with dirty brass ends. 

“What’s that?” Eve asked. 

“I don’t know,” said Jim “but this is what I’ve been looking for.  I’ve been wondering about this thing since we found it when we went through Mom’s stuff.  I’m betting it’s a map case, maybe German.  I’m hoping someone can tell me at the show.  But maybe it was used to carry something like a unit flag or maybe it was a spacer of some sort.”

“Let’s open it and see what’s inside.”

“I’ve tried.  I can’t unscrew the damn thing and these lids don’t pop off.  I’m afraid of breaking it if I put too much pressure on it,” Jim replied.  Studying the tube for a moment Jim looked at Eve and said, “It just seems like it’s pretty well made, it’s a quality piece; but what it is I’m totally blank on.  I’ve tried looking in museums and on-line and I’ve never seen anything remotely like it.  So, this is my last hope at solving the great Crenshaw mystery.”

“Well, let’s hope the mystery is solved then,” she said.

They examined the tube.  It seemed fairly stained and dirty.  It had some markings on the side but they couldn’t make out what they were.  The ends were metal and appeared as if they would polish nicely. 

“This thing’s filthy.  I’ll get a couple of rags and some soap and water.”  Eve started for the workbench. 

“No, no, we can’t do that.  They say you shouldn’t clean an antique; it makes it less valuable.  We better wait.  I want an expert to see this thing.”

“Jim, that’s nuts.”

“No it’s not, any expert will tell you that.”

“Name one.”

“That fat guy on TV, he says that all the time,” Jim began to grin. 

“You’re making that up…but okay.”  She looked at Jim and smiled back.  “Just wrap that thing up before you put it on my car’s carpet.” 

“Okay, okay, you’ve got a deal,” Jim said as he began putting the various items on the attic floor back in the box. 

“That’s all you’re taking?  It’s a forty dollar ticket!  We’ve got to take more than just that,” she exclaimed.

“Well, I’ve got a couple of tools that I could get rid of.  And, we could take this lamp,” Jim smiled.

“The lamp?  No, that’s special.”  Eve laughed and backed down the ladder.

Chapter 3

Louis XVI studied the scene outside the rain-streaked window.  The lead lined windowpanes distorted the view of the ornate gardens of the Château de Versailles.  He didn’t see the distortion, he didn’t see the gardens.  He simply stared in the direction of the Hotel des Menus Plaisiers.  The afternoon was cold, gray, wet.  It seemed as if a dark cloud simply grew from the horizon, centered on that damned hotel.  The cloud expanded up and over him.  It closed in around him, through him and squeezed his heart so that it was hard to breath; even harder to think.  And now, more than ever he needed to think.

Things were going badly and he knew it.  It was a slow, rumbling avalanche and it was coming right at him.  Insults had been shouted.  Shouted at him!  Things were said in the newspapers and on handbills.  Most of France had suffered poor harvests, the Treasury was empty, and his wife was making a mess of things.  A raucous group of Parliaments, the councils in each region, had demanded action.  That fool, François de Paule de Barentin, had encouraged a general meeting with the nobility, the clergy and the people, an Estates-General.  It was a rarely used thing, it would be the first since 1619.  And now, there they were, assembled in that damned hotel.  Things were not calmer; they were worse.  The Estates-General was a disaster.  The whole thing was a mockery to his reign. 

He had lost control from the beginning.  His advisers had no advice of course, worthless fools.  They simply made matters worse.  The commoners had not understood their role.  They even tried to sit in the front of the theater!  These uncultured fools didn’t even recognize the protocol of such a meeting.  The rules for the conduct and proceedings were clearly established in L’Etiquette of 1614.   The clergy and nobility were to sit in the front, dressed in the formal regalia defined by their station in the nobility.  The representatives of the Third Estate; landsmen, tradesmen and minor members of the nobility were to sit at the back; far away from the throne as befit their standing.  It was simply the way things were done. 

That had been the first issue, harangued and argued with but finally overcome.  It had been, well…uncomfortable. 

Then Barentin began with a procedural process formalizing the rules for the conduct of the assembly.  The fool completely misread the crowd.  He talked for hours, forgot what he was about and tried to get right to the financial situation of the country and address taxes.  It resulted in a near riot.  They wanted to talk about procedures.  Louie had already agreed to double representation for the commoners.  He had made a major concession.  Was that not enough?  Surely that had no impact on the procedures for votes on issues before the Estates-General.  Each estate would vote by orders – thus each estate had an equal voice.  That was certainly fair; he did not see an issue.  Individual votes would apply only insofar as how the total order voted.   To do otherwise, was contrary to the rules.  Besides that, well, damn-it, he was the King. 

Last week these fools had formed the Communes.  What the hell was that?  Worse, they had invited him to participate!  Participate!  Of course he had refused, what choice did he have?  This was an action against God!  He was King and a representative of God.  It could not stand! 

Finally, his Councilors understood; military force would be necessary.  He didn’t want to do that to his own people.  Yes, it might work.  No, he couldn’t do that.  He vacillated.  He couldn’t decide.  Now even that seemed to be slipping away.  What was happening?

He could sense a growing danger.  It was out there, perhaps in this black cloud of mist sweeping up from the river Somme.  It pushed down on him and his Palace.  It crept in, hidden on the back of that mist.  He could not stop it; he didn’t know how to fight it.  But he knew, he knew that change, danger and, perhaps death itself was stalking him.  He could feel it, sense it and it chilled him.  His stomach had tightened; a taste of bile had risen in his throat and was with him day and night.  He had waited long enough; he would not be irresolute about this, now was the time.  Now he needed to protect the throne and his son. 

And that was the purpose of this afternoon’s meeting.  Was he being prudent?  A coward?  Or, realist?  He hadn’t decided, and he no longer had time to think of it.  The heavy clap of boots on stone echoed behind him.  He glanced one more time in the direction of that hateful hotel, noticed the rain had increased.  An omen?   He turned to face Lieutenant General Nikolaus Luckner. 

Luckner was a German.  And, as such he couldn’t rid himself of his German accent.  He was one of the few men Louis had ever heard who could make the beautiful French language sound hard and rough.  He was tall and weathered having spent his life under saddle.  Louis supposed he could be called a good-looking man.  Those looks and the size of his purse assured him of a warm bed each night.  His military expertise was without question though in a few short years he would, not for the first time, change his loyalties.  He was well educated, having studied with the Jesuits of Passau.  His military experience was extensive, and to say varied understated it.  He had served with the Bavarian, Dutch and Hanoverian armies.  He had fought as a commander of Hussars during the Seven Years War against Louis’ father.  Now however, he seemed to have found a home in the French army.  He was a strange pick for the task at hand the King thought.  But, the two had an odd closeness that seemed more a function of nature than of their personalities.  Was he a friend?  Louis thought not, but he was no enemy.  In any case, here he stood, looking directly at the King.

Luckner hadn’t yet made his obedience; no sign of acknowledgment, he simply stared at the King.  It irritated Louis, but he didn’t have time to make a point of it.  After a moment’s pause, Louis spoke, “Nikolaus, I have a most delicate task for you.”

“At your command sire,”  Luckner said.

The king smiled in spite of himself.  Luckner never used the honorarium “Sire”, it sounded ironic, fake and contrived coming from him.  Yet, perhaps the seriousness of the day had made itself known to him.  Who could know?  He looked hard at his General.  What was in the man’s soul?  Could he be trusted?  The choice had been made, he continued.

“I believe there is some danger on the horizon.  The communes seem to reject the authority of the King and it will take some time to reassert that understanding.”

“Have you considered simply putting them to the sword?”  Luckner asked fully expecting to be sent out to do just that.

“I have.  Yet the countryside would not bear it.  The people would rise up against me.  No, it is better to work this out.  But, there are some…”  He paused, his face grew dark.  No, not dark.  Something else, Luckner couldn’t put his finger on it.  “I think we will have some difficult days,” the king said more to himself than to his General.

Louis turned to the window.  The dusk was deepening into night.  The rain had steadied and except for the pattern inlaid in the marble courtyard, the Cour de Marbre, he couldn’t see anything.  He thought about that, yes, the scene was blurred outside as well as in.  He was quiet for a long moment.  Luckner became uncomfortable.  What was happening to this King?  The man needed to stiffen his spine, put the leaders of this crisis to the block and be done with it.  He was about to interrupt the silence when the King turned.  He seemed to have found a bit of strength.  

“My son, Louis-Joseph, will die tonight.  An announcement will be made at dawn.  His death will be attributed to tuberculosis.  It will fit well with his illness of last year. You are to take the Dauphin, along with a woman of the Queen’s choosing away from Paris.  My suggestion is to Montmedy or Sedan Castle, but you may have better knowledge.  He must not be recognized or his very existence known until the Estates-General is successfully closed.”

General Luckner knew what this meant, but remained silent.  Instead he nodded his head in agreement, but inwardly he wondered if it ever would be “successfully closed.”  Nevertheless, this was a prudent decision and a minor ruse that could be explained in due course.  “Of course, it shall be done my friend,” he said.

The King again turned to the window.  Over his shoulder he said, “Things will never be the same…”  He grew thoughtful.  Luckner stood in silence.

“Sire?”  The irony was gone.

Louis turned, looked directly into Luckner’s eyes and said, “Take my son’s Letters of Royal Patent and funds for a long stay.” 

The King looked past his General.  Silence filled the room.  Luckner knew this was not the time to interrupt the King, he focused on the man’s eyes.  They were heavy; he looked tired.  No, not tired…they were, what?  Dead?

“And, Nicklous, I need you to take some other things.  Remove “La Joyeuse”, the Coronation Crown, and the Holy Ampulla with my son.  Ensure only your most trusted men accompany you…tell no one, save, in good time, the Dauphin.”

Luckner’s face hardened; his grey eyes narrowed.  He knew now what was in the King’s mind.  “Sire, I’m sure it will not come to that.  The crown is safe with the House of Bourbon.” 

“I’m not so sure.  In any case, do this for me.”  

Lieutenant General Nikolaus Luckner, for the first time, took his adopted King’s hand and kissed the royal ring.  He bowed, walked backward for five paces, turned and with crisp military bearing, walked out of the room.

Louis the sixteenth slumped.  A wave of sadness; the sadness of a parent losing a child, not a King losing a kingdom, swept over him.  He turned to the window once more.  He knew.  He knew deep in his soul that he would never see his son again.