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23.5 Degrees: A Cryptic Convergence
By Stella Maris
August 09, 2008
A Chapel in the Crypt of Notre Dame de Chartres
© Photo by Keron Psillas, Fairydust by MemoryMap
One thing I had learned early on in my adventures was that one should never attempt to investigate medieval crypts without one's trendy Tumi leather rucksack stocked with a flashlight, a compass, a granola bar, and one's loyal Newton MessagePad in case one was moved to write copious poetic notes to commemorate the experience.
Nevertheless, after wondering around in the cavernous gloaming of the Crypt of the Underground Mary for some time, I was just beginning to panic that I might inadvertently be locked in overnight, when my attention was drawn by a candlelit chapel in the distance.
So, following the light, I sat down to get my bearings and eat my granola bar, figuring that at worst someone would find me when they came to extinguish the candles before locking up, if nothing else.
The chapel exuded an atmosphere of reverent reassurance, somehow cozy and inviting, embraced in ancient stone with a low vaulted ceiling. I could imagine intrepid knights throughout the ages coming here to pray to Our Lady for protection before departing for battle or embarking on dangerous secret missions.
Repositioning myself on the pew against the comforting solidarity of the stone, I drifted off into a dream world of grail knights, chivalric deeds, and glorious pageantry...
I had only just closed my eyes when, jolting awake, I was enormously embarrassed to discover that I had acquired the company of a handsome gentleman in a rather natty 1940s-style suit, who had crept in and was leaning against the opposite wall of the chapel in an exact mirroring of my own pose, while I had nodded off.
Welcome back, he said in accented English, smiling mischievously.
Simultaneously humiliated and unsure of the correct etiquette of engaging with an attractive man in an ancient underground crypt while half-asleep, I instinctively reacted by prudishly sitting up straight, piously fixing my gaze upon the candles on the altar, and feigning deep contemplation.
After a lingering hesitation, he got the hint and walked out, to both my immense relief and disappointment.
Remembering that I had impetuously abandoned Soph across the cathedral square at the Cafe Serpente, I realized that I should be going, too, if I could manage to unravel my way through the labyrinthine shadows. As I glanced at my watch, which had annoyingly stopped, I stood up to make my way through the pews when something caught my eye across the room where the sublime stranger had been sitting.
Crossing over, I picked up a sealed antique envelope, which I assumed he had accidentally left behind. Unable to contain my curiosity, I broke the seal and unfolded the contents.
Inside was what looked like a vintage leaflet in the style of the secret underground newspapers circulated in Occupied France during the Second World War. Although I couldn't actually comprehend the French text, my heart leapt when I recognized the name in the headline:
<< Qui a trahi Jean Moulin? >>
Newton Coordinate: August 8th, 15 degrees Leo, Gamma Virginis, 1º31' East of the Greenwich Meridian.
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