I leaned forward to look at the woman, seeing the spark behind her beauty. And perhaps a bit of defiance in the angle of her jaw, the light in her dark eyes, the way she stood a little in front of her husband. A pale hand rested in the crook of the man’s elbow, looking delicate and helpless. But something about the woman’s face made me quite convinced that she was neither. I sat back studying this odd couple and wondering what had brought these two together.
“What is it?” Drew was so close I could feel his breath on my neck in a not unpleasant way. “You made a noise in the back of your throat.”
“Did I?” I said absently as I skimmed the article. “It’s a wedding announcement for the Comte de Courcelles and an American, Wilhelmina Gold of New York.”
“The Golds of New York? Quite a famous family—I think they owned half of the city and probably still do. Lots of money there. I’m sure that has a lot to do with them getting married. He looks old enough to be her father.”
“I was thinking the same thing. It wasn’t uncommon for many of the aristocratic families in England and Europe to bolster their sagging coffers with new American money through marriage.”
“At least she got a beautiful château in the deal.” Drew pulled out a sheet from his own stack from what appeared to be an architectural design book showing the rendering of a fairy-tale castle, complete with banners fluttering from the turrets.
“Still,” I said, lost in thought, “I can’t imagine marrying for such a reason. I wonder if there could have been something else.”
“Besides the promise of becoming a wealthy widow while still young?” Drew asked.
“Possibly. But if the Golds were as wealthy as you suggest, Wilhelmina could have bought her own château. There’s just something about her that makes me think she’d need a better reason.”
I began flipping through the pile again, trying to sort by date and pulling out the oldest ones to read first. Drew slid a page toward me. “Well, our Comte de Courcelles—Sigismund—wasn’t a complete bore. His horse won the Grand Prix in 1902 so that’s something.”
“True, but I’m finding much more on Wilhelmina—called Minnie, by the way—than on Sigismund. Lots of photos in the gossip rags coupling her name with men other than her husband.” I skimmed yet another article in Le Figaro about Minnie de Courcelles née Gold then slid it over to Drew. “They had one daughter, Aurélie. She was raised at the Ritz, where her mother apparently lived.” I looked at Drew and immediately wished I hadn’t because my nose narrowly missed his.
“They were divorced?”
I shook my head. “Not that I’ve discovered so far. It appears that they might have been living separately since their daughter’s birth. I’m beginning to think that Sigismund preferred to rusticate out in the country, whereas Minnie preferred a more cosmopolitan life.”
“Ah. That would explain this one,” Drew said. “It’s all in French, but that’s her photograph with the name Comtesse de Courcelles in the caption, and I recognize the word Ritz. And Suite Royale. But that’s about it.”
I skimmed through the article, presumably from a gossip rag masquerading as a newspaper. “This is from 1938, before the last war, and it’s about the long-term residents at the Ritz. Apparently she lived there prior to the first war. It doesn’t mention her daughter, but there’s something about a granddaughter. A Marguerite Villon. There’s nothing about either woman’s personal life, but according to this, our Minnie liked to redecorate the suite often.”
Drew flipped through his pile, pausing over one of them. “Here’s another name I recognize—Cartier.” He pronounced the final r, but I was beginning to find his imperfect French rather endearing.
I glanced over at his page and nodded before returning to my own stack. “Yes, I’m finding a lot of material connecting Minnie to jewels. She must have had a fondness for them. And lucky for her, the funds to support her habit.” I flipped over the page and went to the next, skimming as I was quickly losing hope of finding anything connecting the de Courcelles with the talisman and La Fleur. “Apparently after Sigismund and Minnie were married, Minnie spent a small fortune in jewels that caused quite a stir according to many articles written about it. Minnie transformed an important de Courcelles family heirloom into a gaudy trinket that was ridiculed by many. One would think that such an old French family would have enough jewels . . .” I flipped a page and stopped.
“You made that sound again. What is it?” Drew leaned over my shoulder and made his own sound. “Oh.”
We both stared at the mimeographed photograph, the purple hue doing nothing to disguise a picture of the white wolf and cross of the de Courcelles coat of arms engraved in what appeared to be a medallion. Next to it was the other side of the medallion, a small circle of crystal set in the middle and large jewels, the size of small rocks, encircling the edge, their actual color hidden in purple ink. I cleared my throat and read the caption out loud. “‘A holy relic, a remnant of fabric dipped in the blood of St. Jeanne, is contained within a gold pendant surrounded by rubies and diamonds. The comtesse purchased the relic, previously lost as a gambling debt, thus restoring it to the de Courcelles family through their marriage.’
“It’s the talisman,” I said quietly. “It must be.” I looked at the petite bride. “It’s why she married him, I think. As a sort of bribe.” Turning back to Drew, I said, “What was it that Monsieur le Curé said?”
“Hang on.” Drew frantically reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pad of legal paper. “I made notes last night in the hotel so I wouldn’t forget anything.” He quickly flipped through the pages. “Here it is. He said that the de Courcelles talisman is very powerful, but only if held in the hands of the demoiselle. The legend dictates that it can only be passed down by the females in the family, and that France will never fall as long as the demoiselle holds the talisman.”
He looked at the article in front of me. “Does it say anything else?”
“Not this particular one, but there’s this.” I pulled another article from the pile and quickly scanned it. “The talisman was stolen back in 1942. Minnie accused the Germans—who were at that time using the Ritz for quarters for the Luftwaffe—of stealing it.” I tapped a line of text with my finger. “It says here that the granddaughter, Marguerite Villon, was interviewed as well, but neither she nor the Germans confessed to any wrongdoing or any knowledge as to its whereabouts.”
“So where is it now?” Drew asked, sounding not a little desperate.
“Monsieur le Curé said it disappeared during the last war. Which could also include being stolen.”
“Or maybe it didn’t disappear. My father said to look for the white wolf and the cross.” He scratched the back of his head, making the hair stand straight up in an attractively disheveled way. “He must have been talking about the talisman. There are too many coincidences to say it couldn’t be.” He looked at me, his eyes wild, as if trying to convince himself more than me. “It must have been the talisman.”
I slid another mimeographed page from the pile. I’d almost overlooked it as half of the page must have been torn or missing because only a picture and its caption had been copied. But I stopped now, staring at the picture. It had been taken from an article from 1915 in the Paris-Midi and showed a young woman, tall and slender with a cloud of light-colored hair surrounding her face, wearing a white dress with a tricolore pinned to her chest. It was impossible to see her expression, but it wasn’t her face that drew my attention. The picture was small, but on the woman’s narrow chest, dangling from a thin chain, hung a medallion surrounded by large jewels.