Chapter Five: St. Etienne Du Mont

    Uncle Antonio appeared to be muttering to himself, when he was in fact asking Francesca, who wasn’t paying attention, a question. ‘Francesca! I said it is your move, please don’t dilly-dally.’ Whenever Uncle Antonio was obviously losing at a game of chess he would become impatient with her every move, even though it was he who took an interminable amount of time between every pawn lost, or knight assassinated during the board game. 

    This was how they studied. Her uncle thought the game an excellent source of knowledge for the girl, and it offered him an opportunity to distract her with his own observations on history, language, natural philosophy and even mathematics. Today, because of last night’s events, he was trying to explain the Looking Glass Theory to her in a way he thought might be interesting ... and at the same time cause her to lose the game.

    He began. ‘Now remember that the mirror’d image in a looking glass is a reflection, and not a reversal of the incoming image. When we are in front of the looking glass and hold out our hand and move it to our left we see the image also moving left. As the image hits the mirror, so it is seen in its reflection. The same applies to all other directions, including up and down. The looking glass simply captures light and reflects it back at you without affecting the true image, so you can imagine how altering a normal flat looking glass would produce images of an altered reality. An example of this would be a looking glass with either concave or convex surfaces. Those looking glasses bend the image in various ways and those images combined with your Uncle Leo’s scruples allow one to interact with those altered realities ...’ He paused and stared at her over his spectacles, ‘is that clear? And oh, I’d take care to keep an eye on my queen if I were you, and ‘check’ by the way.’  Francesca glowered and lost her queen ... her queen!

     ‘Uncle, who is St. Etienne Du Mont?’

     Antonio started ‘Eh? Who?’

     She repeated, stressing each syllable. ‘St. Etienne Du Mont, have you heard of him?’ 

    ‘Francesca! You need to stop visiting shops when you are given leave to explore, and visit the cultural treasures this city has to offer! St. Etienne Du Mont is not a person, it is a church that stands on the site of an abbey founded by Clovis and dedicated to Geneviève, the patroness of Paris!’ He frowned, crossing and uncrossing his legs. ‘Who indeed,’ he huffed, ‘today we will concentrate on your history of Paris, beginning with a visit of that church in particular! Now then,’ he tapped the chess board, ‘the game, if you please ...’ 

    Francesca raised her eyebrows, smiled and moved. ‘Check and Mate uncle, would you like some tea?’

                                                           ***

    Fortunately, the normally grey drizzle that accompanies a day in the life of a Parisian hadn’t conspired to ruin Francesca’s new skirt and matching boots. Francesca made her way along a mud-hardened road in the company of her uncles. The street was full of the usual mongers of multi-coloured flowers, fish, cheese, expensive silks and not so expensive fruits and vegetables. Pick-pockets were floating among the gentlemen and students, who, already drunk, were doing their best to at least look learned as they peered over pamphlets of philosophy and leered at passing girls. 

   Francesca was on her way to St. Etienne Du Mont, and another history lesson. The three of them turned into rue Clovis and walked between the church and the massive, grey Panthéon, and when they arrived in front of St. Etienne Du Mont Francesca stopped and stared.

     ‘Why, it’s beautiful!’ She breathed.

     The church didn’t look so much like a church as a small mediæval city. In front of her was a glorious mix of Gothic and Renaissance architectural styles, a beautiful rosetta of stained glass floated high above the main entrance, and to offset the symmetry of the facade, was a lone Gothic tower, all that remained of the earlier church of St. Geneviève which once stood on the very same site. With her arms hooked around both uncles she happily dragged them into the exquisite interior and along the Gothic choir.

     Antonio explained in as much detail as he could muster about the choir and the sixteenth-century nave, concentrating on the importance of the curious and unique rood screen which arched across the width of the nave. Most French rood screens fell victim to Protestant iconoclasts, reformers or revolutionaries, he explained before letting her have a quiet exploratory wander by herself through the hushed tranquility of the church. 

    There were few people here at this hour as no service was being given. She noticed an occasional monk and some pilgrims quietly praying on their knees in the darkened recesses among the candles and smouldering sticks of incense. Francesca inspected the large works of art and sculpture, letting her hands trail over the ancient surfaces polished smooth by time and devotion, and allowed her feet to lead her deeper in to the church until she found herself in the cloister.

     Stopping, Francesca looked up and gasped in wonder, mesmerised by the seventeenth-century stained glass in front of her. The twelve glasses represented the episodes of the Testament. They were beautifully done, and if the weather outside offered up some sunshine to illuminate them, she imagined the translucent colours would ignite the atmosphere of the cloister with a rainbow. 

    She slowly passed by each one and carefully examined the glowing scenes of knights and angels, until she came upon one depicting the Virgin Mary. Hesitating in front of the glass, what caught her attention was not the beautiful scene rendered in the glass, but the curious image at the bottom of it. There, plain as the cute little nose on her face, was an image of an old man, his eyes hidden and bound, kneeling before an astronomical clock, a clock showing the phases of the moon, the planets, the sun and stars moving around the earth. ‘Impossible!’ She whispered. What did it mean? Francesca got down on her hands and knees and studied the image carefully. Closer inspection revealed tiny lettering, no, a series of numbers upon the surface of the pendulum, a message reversed as if by reflection. 

    Francesca blew a strand of hair from her eyes. This image has no place in a seventeenth century stained glass, that much is evident - even to me, she thought excitedly, as she searched her pockets for something to write with.

     She pulled out one of Uncle Antonio’s mechanical quills and gave it a tap on the ground to get the ink flowing, this she needed to copy down! ‘Damn,’ she swore, ‘I haven’t got any paper ...’ She frowned a moment, and then, looking from left to right to make sure she was alone in the corridor, she hitched up the hem of her skirt and tried the quill on her thigh - it worked!  

    She studied each combination of the reversed characters and then carefully scratched them out upon her skin. ‘Next time’ she thought ruefully, ‘I’m not going to leave my diary at home. She finished up and examined the image once more to ensure she had copied it all out exactly before carefully dropping her skirt over her legs, so as not to smudge her handiwork. ‘Well,’ she mused, ‘I’ve got to get home and see what all this means.’ She stood up, stretched, and gave out a startled cry as her arm brushed against something soft. Slowly turning, she discovered a hooded monk had been staring over her shoulder.

    He grabbed her arm and motioned her to be quiet, and to follow him. Francesca was born and bred a good Italian, and had no reason not to trust a man of the cloth, even big, silent hooded ones that skulked around cloisters startling little girls, so, she followed. He led her out of the cloister and through a large wood door, the kind with impossibly large iron rings attached instead of handles, and equally large iron studs running the length and breadth of it. It opened into a large book covered room with high windows that let daylight in through swirling clouds of grey-gold dust that seemed to always float round and round the stale air. ‘Atchoo!’ She sneezed. 

    ‘Bless you Francesca,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’ He pulled back his hood and smiled at her. ‘My name is Gaspard, Gaspard Épéé du Bois.’ 

    Gaspard ran his finger along the surface of an immaculate and imposing, cluttered baroque writing desk. He inspected his fingertip, and supposing it to be clean, he pulled his robes about him, and sat down upon a corner less occupied. He beckoned her to take the well upholstered seat in front of him, and, momentarily distracted by his reflection in a book-case, he finally looked at her.

     ‘Do you think these robes fit me properly?’ He asked. 

    Francesca blinked in surprise. ‘Umm ...’ She said. She thought he looked a little dishevelled in the robes, truth be told. Then again, the dishevelled look suited his mussed blonde hair. She pressed her lips together, and decided with the hood down he certainly looked a less imposing man ... if you could call him a man, but that was hardly the fault of the robes. In fact, with the fluff growing upon his chin, and his rather underdeveloped frame, she would be hard-pressed to call him a man at all. ‘I’m not very keen on brown as a colour.’ She said, and then noticing his surprised look, added, ‘but it doesn’t look that bad on you.’

     He looked down at himself, frowning. ‘W-well,’ he stammered. ‘I didn’t have much choice in the matter of colour ...’ 

    ‘Who are you?’ Francesca interrupted.

     ‘I thought I said. ‘My name is Gaspard, Gaspard Ep -’

     ‘Yes, Monsieur Épée du Bois, you’ve said, but who are you and how do you know me?’ 

    Gaspard was a little shocked at finding a girl that was not, shall we say, timid. This, he had to admit, was something new! He smiled, and not altogether unpleasantly, thought Francesca a little annoyed. ‘Well,’ he said, crossing his arms, ‘I don’t know you, do I? That’s why I introduced myself ...’

     Francesca pulled at her hair and glared at him. ‘Monsieur du Bois, I am unaccustomed to being treated in such an unladylike, wholly unpleasant manner, and as I can plainly see you have no intention of being forthright with me I am going to be blunt and take your leave, good-day!’ She stood up and sneezed again.

     ‘Bless you.’ He offered. 

    ‘Thank you.’ She replied, waving the dust away from her face, and making her way around the divan and to the door. 

    Francesca pulled on the black, iron ring with one hand ... and then the other. It was stuck. Francesca gave another tug. Nothing. She frowned at the door, and tried to open it with both hands and her boots, each foot strategically placed against the wall, on either side of it. ‘Oh my God, she thought, It wouldn’t budge! She glared at the door, her cheeks pink with irritation, and then turned to glare at Gaspard.

     ‘Would you mind giving a lady some assistance?’ she asked through gritted teeth. 

    Gaspard stared at her, unmoving, and then took a deep breath and said, ‘Your Uncle Leo sent me.’ 

    Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘What?!’

     Gaspard thought, perhaps she was a little hard of hearing, or given what he’d heard about some girls, perhaps not very bright.

     He blew at the blonde fringe that covered his eyes. ‘I said your Uncle Leo sent me ... look.’ He pulled out a small leather wallet from an imperceptible pocket in his robes, and undid the draw-string. Dumping the contents onto the desk beside him, he noisily fished among the coins and jewellery until he found what he was looking for. ‘Your uncle gave me his signet ring to show you, in case you needed proof,’ he said looking up at her, ‘and evidently you do.’ 

    Her eyes narrowed. Francesca walked over to the desk, and picked up the heavy ring to inspect it. 

    It was without a doubt her uncle’s ring. 

   The initials were there, and they were darkened with that reddish-brown wax Uncle Leo so often pressed when sealing his letters. She felt the weight of it in her palm and then tried it on each of her fingers, before finally pulling it over her thumb. 

    ‘How did you come by this ring?’ She asked looking at him. 

    ‘Francesca, if I am going to have to explain myself every single time I open my mouth, we will be here all day! Besides which, your other uncles have no doubt begun missing you.’ 

    ‘My other uncles?! Oh my God! I forgot about them!’ She jumped up again. ‘I have to go! Come, please, help me with the door!’ 

    Gaspard hopped off the desk and walked towards her. ‘Francesca, this is important ...’ She was already pulling at the door again. 

    ‘No, you don’t understand!’ Her face was flushed pink again. ‘They do not often leave me alone, and they will worry, and I will undoubtedly be forced to stay in the apartment for another two weeks of interminable studying!’ She gestured at him impatiently when she saw he wasn’t moving. ‘Oh, please monsieur!’ She implored. 

    Gaspard looked at her, thought for a moment, and then got up. ‘Okay, but you must return so we can finish this chat ...’

     Francesca cut him off. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll return. Now, the door if you please.’ 

    Gaspard walked up, placed his hands upon her shoulders, and turned her towards him. ‘Listen Francesca, you must return and you must return tonight, and you can’t tell either of those uncles of yours any of this, understand?’

     He had beautiful blue eyes she thought, distractedly. Francesca stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re crazy! I can’t return tonight!’ 

    He glowered at her, thought for a moment. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Francesca, do you remember the glass you were studying in the cloister?’ She nodded. ‘Did you notice the double row of numbers at the bottom of the window?’

     Her eyes widened, the numbers? Then she remembered, the numbers! The reversed numbers! ‘Yes.’ She answered, and then she blushed. He must have seen her writing on her leg. 

    Gaspard studied her, he really wished he had gone to school, it would have been far easier than asking this ... girl for assistance. It was embarrassing! He flipped a strand of gold hair out of his eyes.

     ‘Could you understand it?’ 

    Looking down at the ring on her thumb and then up again, she answered. ‘Well, no, but ...’ She saw he was about to get frustrated with her again, so she quickly continued. ‘But I can, I mean I will! Have you got a mirror?’

    ‘A mirror? Well, no Francesca, not on me ...’ 

    She pushed him aside and strode to the large bookcase, pulling on one of the glass doors. Opening it, she angled the door to take advantage of the candle light. ‘Turn around please,’ she said. 

    ‘What?’

     ‘You heard me,’ she glared. ‘Turn around!’ 

    Gaspard sighed, doing as she asked. He found a seat, and turned it so that it faced the wall. Satisfied, Francesca lifted the hem of her skirt and studied the reflected message she had copied onto her skin in the glass. She frowned, her eyebrows knitting together. ‘It’s words and numbers ...’ She chewed her lower lip and then hopped on one foot trying to angle her leg in the light. ‘I think it’s a latitude and longitude, co-ordinates from an atlas perhaps ...’

     Gaspard jumped up, ‘Really?’

     Francesca shrieked and dropped her skirt. ‘FACE AGAINST THE WALL!’ 

    Gaspard stared at her with a bemused expression, and slowly turned back to face the stone wall again. ‘Francesca,’ he looked a little exasperated, ‘I need to see those co-ordinates ...’ He stared at the ceiling, and may have stomped his foot. ‘I really do.’ He finished. 

    She seethed, her face burning bright red. ‘You, Monsieur, will be able to see the results of these co-ordinates after I have gone home, and only after I have copied them out in the privacy of my bedroom, not before! Understand? Now I beg of you please,’ she tapped her finger against the iron ring, ‘the door!’ 

    Gaspard sighed, standing up again. ‘Okay Francesca, but the first thing you do when you get home, is you read those numbers, promise me.’ He looked at her sternly.

     ‘I promise,’ she said, thinking again, he was, well ... he was damned pretty is what he was! 

    Gaspard put his hands around the large iron door handle, and looked into her eyes.

    ‘I will see you here tonight?’ He asked.

    Francesca looked away and frowned. ‘No. I said ...’ She swore she heard Uncle Rudolpho calling her name. Looking desperately at her uncle’s ring, the door, and then at Gaspard, she answered. ‘Okay, okay, tonight!’ She crossed her arms. ‘I will, at least, try.’ She promised.

     Gaspard smiled again. ‘Good.’ He pulled a large, iron key from a chain round his neck and placed it in the door’s key-hole giving it two quick turns, and opened it. Francesca looked at the key in the door and then gave Gaspard her fiercest scowl, and threw her nose into the air.

     ‘Au revoir Monsieur!’ And she dashed out and into the corridor.

                                                        ***

    Located off the east coast of Africa, approximately 750 km east of  Madagascar, one can find the tiny French island of Reunion. On Reunion there are coconut trees, turquoise blue lagoons, white beaches and Piton de la Fournaise. Piton de la Fournaise (which translates as Furnace Peak) rises to about 2,631 metres in height and is one of the world’s most active volcanoes. 

   To the residents below the volcano, the spectacle of orange, red and yellow lava exploding from the crater, day and night, is a sight to strike awe and terror into even the most accustomed and bravest of hearts. 

   The residents of 25 Rue de la Fontaine, however, need not endure the long and dangerous sea-voyage through the tempestuous waters around the Cape of Good Hope. They need not travel to such a faraway and exotic locale to witness the violence of a live volcano in order to see an example of God’s fury on Earth, indeed, they need only sit comfortably in their armchairs and witness the wrath of a recently punished young girl named Francesca. 

   Her dark and stormy lightning-filled tantrum had wreaked considerable havoc upon the delicate living area of the apartment, leaving a path of destruction unprecedented in the annals of the poor home’s history. 

   Her exasperated, and exhausted uncles only now happily, and cautiously witnessed the shift in the teenaged storm-front, as it moved from their living area, and began to ascend the stairs to the room in which Francesca slept. Knowing from hard-won experience that it was not yet over, both uncles held onto some of the not yet broken scientific instruments, and winced as the destruction was now heard through the floor-boards above, giving swirling life to the layers of dust cascading down from the ceiling above their heads.

    Francesca let out one final really rather exceptional, and tremendous shriek and threw herself at her bed. 

    She had thought that leaving Italy to spend a summer in the supposedly pliable hands of her uncles would have made it easy for her to do exactly as she wished. This sudden, and unexpected, demonstration of parental fortitude in the face of one of her best tantrums ever had given her a grudging respect for her relations. 

    Bending over, she plucked Oliver from the ground, placed him upon the sumptuous covers of her bed, and looked into his eyes. He was clearly unfazed by her angry episode, and, stretching out a long paw, he slowly blinked at her with his big, round, emerald cat-eyes, yawned at her, and then purred a deep purr. 

    Francesca smiled at him. ‘Silly cat, you do have a good life, don’t you? I’m sorry if I woke you up.’ She scratched him under his white chin and looked around the room. ‘Where is the Princess, hmm? I think I scared away your little sister, didn’t I?’ 

    Rolling over onto her back, Francesca stared up at the elaborate mouldings of roses and vines in her ceiling, and thought about her afternoon in the church. It was certainly a surprise, that meeting with the mysterious monk, but she wouldn’t consider anything that involved her Uncle Leo as being completely unexpected. 

    She pulled the heavy ring off her thumb and examined it again. It was funny how something made you identify so strongly with a person. With her mother it was smells; the perfumes of cakes and sweets and flowers ... and with her Uncle Leo it was this strange ring with its wax-hardened initials, and weighty jewels embedded round the outside, that she had seen on his finger for as long as she could remember. 

    She sighed. What did the double row of numbers in the window of the church mean, and what could he possibly have in common with the rude (and rather attractive) Monsieur Épée du Bois? 

    She sighed again. Well, as long as she was in her room, she may as well make the most of it. She slid the ring back over her thumb for safe keeping, and stretched, reached up behind her head, slipped her hands beneath her pillows, and pulled out her diary. 

   ‘Time to get to work,’ she said to the empty room. Francesca pulled up the hem of her skirt and examined what she had written earlier that day. It was already beginning to fade, so she grabbed a quill from her night-stand and began to slowly and carefully copy it all down in her diary. Done, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and opened the drawer next to her bed. She pulled out the mirror, and gave it a wipe with her sleeve, exhaling over its surface, and watched as it sparked back to life. 

    ‘Francesca, darling!’ The Specchio crowed at her. ‘What took you so long, Sugarplum?’ Her reflection’s eyes narrowed at her. ‘Tsk,’ it said, and ‘dear me! Look at your complexion ... and your eyes! They are red aren’t they ...’ Francesca sighed for the third time. ‘Hullo Specchio.’ She said.