Accompanied by Fiegel, Georgiana arrived by carriage at the Freemasonry headquarters on Rue Saint-Denis. Mr. Ribot and an elderly man stood at the entrance to greet her.
Naturally, such a secret society would not hang a conspicuous sign over its door. From the outside, it looked like an utterly ordinary five-story building. The last time Georgiana had come here, she and Severus had eaten oysters at a restaurant on this street, where a Monet painting had hung on the wall.
Several property-owning families lived along this street. Not far away stood a linen mill, while the Basilica of Saint-Denis, where the royal family had once been buried, was also nearby.
Though heretics were called black sheep, they were still sheep in the end. The Freemasons were all theists. The one receiving Georgiana was not the Worshipful Master, but Langweiye, the Senior Warden, a courteous and vigorous gentleman.
They led Georgiana to the second floor, where several young apprentices were at work. They polished fine parchment with pumice, softened it with chalk, then passed it on to the next stage, where iron rulers flattened the sheets. The following stage was binding. These pages would be bound into covers filled with all manner of patterns and colors.
"The Venetians offered translated books to the gods as sacrifices," Mr. Langweiye told Georgiana. "Come, let us see our new discovery."
Georgiana withdrew her gaze and followed him to the third floor. It could be considered a warehouse, or a library. In any case, books were everywhere. Only the table in the middle held a large sheet of paper: a rubbing of the compass rose mark taken from the altar behind the Burgundy Residence by Monge and the others.
It was black, far less splendid than gold thread.
"We must think as people did in