I was sweeping the sanctuary floor when M. Lébadou cleared his throat behind me. “Excuse me, Marie, but I want to show you something.” I followed him to the base of the bell tower stairs. He pointed to the old oak baluster that usually stood in the corner of the hall. It was lying on its side as if it had been kicked over. Chunks of plaster littered the floor beside it. “I was just coming in to ring the bell,” said M. Lébadou, “when I saw this.” His lips quivered with rage. “That baluster is hundreds of years old. It’s been here since the church was built. There’s no cause for these fellows from Limoux to tear the place up so. The Lord’s house isn’t some wood shop.” I bent near the baluster to lift it, and noticed a strange glint inside the capital. A section of it had been cut away, leaving a hollow shaft. On the floor was the missing piece. When the baluster fell, the piece had been knocked from its slot, revealing this narrow hiding place, where something glinted.
