Two Crosses (10 page)

She let out a small cry. This was it! This was where Marie Durand had scratched the famous word with her fingernail in the stone:
Résistez
. Don’t give up, hang on, endure to the end! Taken prisoner when she was nineteen years old, she lived in this tower for thirty-seven years, standing firm in her faith and encouraging the other women to do the same. Gabriella sat in awe. Marie Durand couldn’t have imagined that her single word in a stone would outlive the cruelty of the kings who tortured and killed their subjects in Aigues-Mortes.

After a while Gabriella looked up and saw an old worn banner hanging against the rounded wall. In the center of the banner was the Huguenot cross. Instinctively she moved near it, pulling her own cross out from under her blouse and holding it delicately in her hand to inspect it.

It was the same, the thick sides of the cross turning inward like four arrows pointing to the center of a target. In between, touching the sides of the arrows, was a fleur-de-lis, the symbol of royalty. A dove hung from the southernmost arrow.

So engrossed was Gabriella in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the young Frenchman until he stood inches behind her, peering over her shoulder at the cross in her hand.

“Interesting,” he whispered in French.

Gabriella turned and let out a sharp cry. “Oh! You frightened me!” she said. “Excuse me, I shouldn’t have screamed.”

“On the contrary,
mademoiselle
, it is I who need to ask your pardon. I thought you heard me come up.” They stood for a moment in awkward silence until the young man ventured, “I couldn’t help but notice that you wear the same cross as the one on the banner. Such an unusual design. What does it mean?”

“Oh, yes … it’s the Huguenot cross.” She talked quickly to cover her embarrassment. “Do you know the history of the Huguenots? They were hunted down and killed or imprisoned here in this tower after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685.”

“Yes, of course. When our king decided everyone should be Catholic. But these Huguenots, what did they believe? Do you know,
mademoiselle
?”

“I don’t have all the answers, but I know they believed much the same as the Protestants of today. They were followers of Calvin and the Reformation. They believed in Jesus and the Bible.”

“
Mais, oui!
I see. And you have come from far away to visit this tower? A pilgrimage for your faith?”

“Oh, not so far. I just came over for the day from Montpellier. I mean, that’s not where I’m from originally.… I’m just studying there.”

“Then why do you wear this cross, if I may ask?”

Gabriella looked surprised. “Me? It was a gift from my mother. We’re Protestants, and I suppose she knew of its history and wanted me to understand its symbolism.”

The young man moved closer. “It is symbolic of what? Forgive me, but could I see your cross?”

Gabriella suddenly felt uneasy and stepped back, tripping on an uneven stone. “Oh, it’s just the same as the one on the banner. Nothing unusual. I … I must be going now.”

She shifted her weight and walked toward the steps, but he caught her arm. “Please,
mademoiselle
. I only wish to know a few things about this history. Perhaps we could have lunch together? My treat.”

“Oh, no. That is quite impossible, thank you. I have a friend waiting for me for lunch.”

“This friend did not wish to visit the tower?”

“No, I’m afraid he doesn’t have much interest in Protestants and Huguenot crosses.” She laughed nervously, feeling, as she often did, that she had said too much. Another flirtatious Frenchman.

“Well, I think I will have a look around upstairs on the terrace—it gives a magnificent view of the village, I’m told. You’re sure you won’t join me?” He moved toward her again.

“No, I need to be going now.” Gabriella turned and walked quickly down the winding stairs until she came to the large room on the ground floor. She paused to listen for the young man, but he did not follow. Again she touched the cross around her neck, then carefully placed it back under her blouse.

She glanced at her watch. Eleven thirty. She still had plenty of time to visit the ramparts. As she stepped across the drawbridge, she turned to her right where a sign indicated the way. Several flights of stone steps, worn lower in the middle through centuries of use, led to the impressive walls of the city. She climbed the stairs until she stood on the narrow walkway at the top of the wall. To her right she saw a canal filled with fishing boats and happy sailors. The canal twisted its way out to the Mediterranean Sea, barely visible on the horizon. She stared for a moment at the quiet marshes and the white gulls that flew toward the sun in search of an unknown destination.

The walkway along the wall was interspersed with many thick towers, much smaller in size than the Tower of Constance. Gabriella walked along, enchanted as she looked to her left into the interior of the city. From the ramparts she had a bird’s-eye view of the town and its red-tiled roofs, which protected the streets from the sun like a large sombrero. Occasionally the roofs would open to reveal a beautiful garden, perfectly manicured, with geraniums cascading down the walls of a house. Olive, cedar, and magnolia trees rustled their leaves to applaud an ancient city constructed with the same elaborate planning as the yards in which they stood.

Taken by the scenery, Gabriella barely noticed that she had already walked almost a third of the way around the ramparts. She stopped to peek inside a small vaulted room containing an ancient fireplace and three windows that gave a view onto the marshes and the water. She gathered her skirt under her and perched by a small open window to read more about the history of the city.

From the terrace above the Salle des Chevaliers, Jean-Claude Gachon could see for miles in every direction. A small plastic map erected for tourists indicated that Paris was eight hundred kilometers to the north and the great port of Marseille only a little over an hour to the east. Jean-Claude smiled. What luck to have met the red-haired beauty downstairs. And wearing the same cross! Surely it was not a coincidence.

He walked beside the turret to look down and out to the south and the sea. And eight hundred kilometers in that direction, if he looked with his imagination, he could see the city of Algiers and the fighting men and the explosions and the bodies. Algeria was where the action was … and Jean-Claude wanted to be in the middle of it.

Still looking south, he had a complete view of the walled city that spread out below him like a huge parallelogram enclosing neat lines of streets and buildings. He reached into his leather shoulder bag and pulled out a small pair of binoculars. Putting them to his eyes, he let his gaze travel across the rooftops that baked in an undulating pattern in the warm sun. A few haphazard antennae thrust skinny arms to the sky, testimony to modern technology. An old man in a
casquette
knelt on a roof, repairing a broken tile. A red-haired girl on the ramparts climbed the stairs and disappeared into one of the towers in the wall—

The girl! So she
was
out on the ramparts. He laughed again at his good luck. And there was no way for her to escape. She must either retrace her steps or continue around the walls. Either way, he had plenty of time to reach her. Perhaps a subtle warning would do. Yes, Ali would appreciate that. A subtle warning to the girl with the flaming hair who wore a Huguenot cross around her neck. Jean-Claude replaced his binoculars in the leather sack and hurried down the winding steps.

It took him no more than five minutes to reach the tower where he had seen the girl disappear. The room was empty, but he was sure she had not come back out onto the ramparts. Then he saw a small staircase winding upward. He moved silently up the narrow stairs, placed his bag on a step, tiptoed back down, and waited just outside the room on the ramparts.

Soon he heard the sound of footsteps above him. The girl was skipping down the dark stairwell with ease. Suddenly there was a scream and the sound of falling. Jean-Claude waited a moment longer before coming into the room. The girl lay still at the foot of the stairs. Jean-Claude quickly stooped to retrieve his leather bag before coming to her side. Bending down in the shadows, he feigned concern. “
Mademoiselle
, are you all right? What happened?”

She grimaced as she sat up. “I think I’m okay. I just tripped on something coming down the steps.”

Jean-Claude walked over and looked up the stairwell. “These steps are narrow and uneven.”

“Yes, I suppose. I thought I stepped on something. You don’t see anything?”

“Nothing,
mademoiselle
.”

“Well, you’re right. It’s dark and the steps are uneven. Careless of me.”

Jean-Claude helped her to her feet, but as she tried to stand alone, she stumbled and reached out for his arm. “Oh dear, I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”

“Then I will help you back around.”

She hobbled next to him as they retraced their steps off the ramparts. “My friend will be here soon,” she assured him. “Thank you for helping me.”

“It is nothing.” He whispered, “You must be careful,
mademoiselle
. Huguenot crosses seem to bring bad luck to those who wear them.”

He disappeared down a side street, grinning to himself. Nothing, indeed. A small accident. But there would be others.

David found Gabriella sitting on a step beside the entrance to the city. “There you are, Gabby! I was beginning to get worried. Thought you might have fallen off the ramparts.”

She squinted, looking up at him. “Don’t joke, please. I’ve done something nearly as stupid. I think I sprained my ankle.”

David bent down and inspected her swollen leg. “Oh, Gabby, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“I’m just clumsy. I was walking on the ramparts and went into one of those towers over there.” She pointed. “There was a neat little terrace up above, with a beautiful view of the Mediterranean. But the steps are narrow and uneven, and it’s pitch-dark, and coming back down, I tripped and fell. If it hadn’t been for that nice young Frenchman, I don’t think I would have made it back.”

“A young Frenchman? He was with you?”

Gabriella laughed. “No. I met him in the tower. Actually I thought he was trying to pick me up. He asked lots of questions. Anyway, I left to walk on the ramparts, and he must have come out there a little later, because he heard me scream and came to see if I was hurt. He brought me here, but I had to assure him I had a friend who would take care of me or he would have carried me off with him, I’m quite sure.”

“I can imagine.” He didn’t question her further. “Here, let me help you up. You’ll need some ice on that ankle. We’ll just have to enjoy the sandwiches in the car.”

“I’m so sorry for my bumbling. We can still picnic if you wish.” But she winced as she stood up.

Impulsively David picked her up in his arms and carried her back to the car, in spite of her embarrassed protest.

He didn’t talk much on the way home. He thought about the young Frenchman and the pretty redhead and the information tucked in the pocket of his leather jacket. It had turned out to be a very interesting day after all.