Two Crosses (28 page)

The road separated into a V, and David took the left branch, following the signs indicating Les Baux-de-Provence. “We’ll park down in the valley and hike up to the town.”

“From back here you can’t even tell there’s a city up there,” Gabriella commented as they approached the valley and stared up at the massive piece of granite before them.

“That way, they were protected against their enemies. A good strategy. It worked, too, for years. Les Baux was often in rebellion against the king of France and lodged many a Huguenot during the sixteenth century. In 1632 Cardinal Richelieu put an end to Les Baux as it had been. The castle and ramparts were destroyed.” David pulled his car into the dirt driveway of an old farmhouse and parked in the grass.

“We’ll get out here,” he said, coming to her side of the car and opening the door. He offered Gabriella his hand.

“How noble.” Gabriella laughed, taking his hand and stepping out.

They walked along a small paved road, enclosed on either side by the old stone walls of the farmyard. As the wall ended, David took her arm, and they slipped into what looked to be a private garden.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” remarked Gabriella, looking around at the perfectly groomed boxwood hedges. She crossed the garden to explore a small stone pavilion flanked by two giant cypress trees. “What is this?”

“This is the Renaissance pavilion of Queen Jeanne, wife of the roi René. It was called the Temple of Love by the
fibrigues
poets of the last century.” He raised his eyebrows invitingly, pulled her toward him, and softly kissed her cheek. With an exaggerated French accent, he said, “It’s too bad that we are just friends,
ma chérie
.”

Gabriella laughed and pushed him away, her cheeks red.

“
Allons-y!
We have many other points of interest to see today,” he said, and led her out of the garden and down the road.

They walked in silence for at least ten minutes, winding behind farmhouses and a few elegant hotels that offered food and rooms to the wealthiest tourists. The road took a sudden turn, and the large stones that had seemed far above them were suddenly at their level.

“This, Gabriella, is the Val d’Enfer.”

“The Valley of Hell … hmm. An interesting name.” As she looked around, she exclaimed, “And I see why. Look at those huge rocks! And that one there. Why, you’d think they were gigantic skulls.”

He smiled. “Exactly.”

As they walked and climbed higher through the rocks, looking down on the large pieces of granite, Gabriella had the eerie impression that three or four cruel giants had been laid to rest in the valley.

“We need to be getting up to the city. Don’t want the boulangerie to close before we get there. I know a shortcut we can take.”

He found an overgrown path that cut through trees and vegetation, rocky and steep. Gabriella wished she had worn more comfortable walking shoes. Her low-heeled beige pumps slipped as she climbed over the stones.

David caught her easily and held his arm around her waist as they continued climbing. “Raymond de Turenne, the viscount of Les Baux who lived here in the fourteenth century, was a real colorful character. Apparently the way old Raymond got his kicks was to leave his mountain refuge with his band of warriors and ravage the countryside, kidnapping whomever he wished. He’d take his prisoners up to the castle and demand a ransom. Of course some of the peasants had no one to pay ransom for them. So Raymond led them to a window in the dungeon that gave a splendid view of the valley below and
oop là
! He pushed them over the side. As they fell to their grisly death, he laughed until he cried.”

“David! That’s awful! Are you sure it’s true?”

“Quite true. When we get to the top, I’ll show you the very spot.”

“I’m not sure I care to see it, thanks all the same.”

Out of breath from the steep ascent, they arrived by a little side street that led directly to the back entrance to the city. “The south side of the city has been restored, and merchants sell their wares to the tourists in the summer. There are only a few shops open in the winter. But if we climb higher, we can get into the ruins of the castle and the dungeon.”

By now the wind was biting, and Gabriella tucked her hands inside the pockets of her peacoat. She was only half listening. “Hold on a minute, won’t you?” she called after him. “I’m freezing. Let me just warm up inside this store.” Before he could protest, she disappeared behind the open door of a boutique.

Immediately she was greeted by a young gypsy-looking woman with thick black hair that fell in curls around her shoulders. She wore a white lace blouse with a full skirt made from a Provençal print.

“I may help you, yes?” She sang each word, adding another syllable to the end.

“
Merci.
I’m just looking.” Gabriella was surrounded by Provençal material, bold, bright patterns in reds, yellows, and blues. The store was perfumed with the scent of dried lavender mingled with sachets marked
herbes de provence
. Large bars of soap were arranged by color in wooden crates.

Along the back wall of the boutique stood a large assortment of clay figures in different sizes. “These are the
santons
of Provence,
n’est-ce pas
?” Gabriella inquired.

The shopkeeper smiled broadly. “Yees, dey are all originals, handcrafted in dis region. You will see dey are marked wif de stamp of de artisan.”

Gabriella had heard much about the small clay figures that were created by Provençal craftsmen to depict the people of Provence, each bringing his or her gift to the
crèche
of the baby Jesus. One shelf held a full nativity scene, complete with the holy family, a donkey, lamb, camel, and dozens of Provençal villagers bringing their trades to the Christ child.

Gabriella reached to touch the brightly painted clay figures. Some were only a few inches high. The larger ones stood a foot in height and wore real Provençal fabric: an old woman dressed in bright yellow and red with a bunch of lavender in her hands, a graying shepherd with cloak and staff and a lamb around his neck, a baker with his sack of long loaves of bread in one hand and his white hat falling to the side, his mustache powdered with flour.

Ah, he is perfect!
Without further thought Gabriella took the clay figure from the shelf and placed it on the counter. “Could you wrap this, please?” she whispered, not wanting David to suddenly appear in the store and discover the treasure she had found for his Christmas gift. Eighty francs was expensive. But the urge to buy it for David was stronger than her practical reasoning.

My professor who loves the French bread but always makes me buy it. Ah, David … I pray that you, too, will someday come to the crèche of our Lord Jesus and lay the loaves of your heart before Him.
She was still imagining the scene when the gypsy woman handed her the well-wrapped box and the change from her purchase.

David had taken a seat farther up the road and waited for Gabriella with a scowl on his face, his nose red from the cold.

“I couldn’t resist one small purchase,” she said with a wink.

“Shopping!” he said. “Well, we must hurry. The store will close soon. I’m almost positive there’s a boulangerie around the corner.”

“That’s fine, but could you put my package in your knapsack first?” Gabriella asked.

Grudgingly he obliged her. But around the corner they found only another brightly colored store window advertising Provençal prints and pottery. David cursed under his breath.

Gabriella continued up the street and turned onto the next side street. “Look, David,” she called, “there’s a boulangerie right here.”

“Ah! Good, you found it.” Relief spread across his handsome face. “Be a love and get me a pain de seigle, not too dark, mind you.” He rummaged in his pocket for a five-franc piece and gave it to her.

Gabriella, red hair shimmering in the high noon sun, narrowed her clear blue eyes. “Me get the bread? Not on your life. Not after Aix.
You
get whatever kind of bread you want, David Hoffmann.”

He shrugged his shoulders and slipped into the store.

Jean-Claude Gachon pulled his gray plaid wool scarf over his mouth and crept back into a corner of the narrow side street, as a lean man with powerful shoulders entered the boulangerie just within his view. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Jean-Claude waited as the young man came back out with a short, rounded loaf, which he placed in a small knapsack before rejoining his lovely red-haired companion. The couple continued up the tiny road. The man stood a good half foot taller than the woman, his hair thick and black. Jean-Claude studied him carefully, snapping a photo of the two together.

So, M. Hoffmann, you are here after all. Of course it would be you.

Anne-Marie’s old lover. Yes, Jean-Claude remembered her confession when he had questioned her about the picture he had found of David Hoffmann two years ago. Jean-Claude frowned. M. Hoffmann might prove more difficult to deal with than Mlle Gabriella.

He followed them up the uneven street to where it was blocked by an iron barrier. An arrow on a sign indicated that tickets to visit the ruins of the castle and dungeon could be purchased in the building to the right. Five minutes after Gabriella and M. Hoffmann entered the building, they left by another door and continued their ascent toward an open plain. Jean-Claude stepped up to the window to buy his ticket.

He glanced briefly at a miniature reproduction of Les Baux-de-Provence as it would have appeared in the Middle Ages. He was not very interested in the history of the city, but he wasted time reading and studying maps and panels until at last he stepped out of the ancient stone refuge into the open air. A strong gust of the mistral’s power greeted him. He leaned into the wind, climbing the hill until it opened before him onto a vast plateau. In the distance he saw the young couple huddling together as they pushed against the force of the wind. They didn’t suspect a thing.

Gabriella clung to David’s arm, her head bent down to protect it from the cold gale. Their progress was slow. The ruins of the castle spread out before them, still hewn into the sides of the mountain. David headed them into a small cove of the first in a series of large rocks. There the stones protected them from the rushing wind.

“I hope you aren’t planning on picnicking up here,” Gabriella yelled over the wind’s whistle.

David’s face broke into a wide smile. “What could be better? To face our fate against the elements.” Seeing that she remained unconvinced, he added, “We’ll just have a look around. Then I’ll take you back into the village for a piping hot bowl of
soupe au pistou
. It will stick to your bones and warm you up. But come along now. Be brave, my fair princess!”

Gabriella screwed up her nose and retorted, “As long as you’re not Raymond de Turenne, I will follow you anywhere.”

He led her to the side of the mountain. Before them the plains below spread out for miles in every direction. “There in the distance is Mont Saint-Victoire, the farthest peak you can see. And over there, the Camargue, and even farther out, on a very clear day, you can see Aigues-Mortes. You can understand how, at the time, the Baux family could control all the traffic on the roads from Aix to Arles. That was the ancient Roman Way, called Aurelia.”