Revolution

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “For many years, the Trust was reluctant to allow tissues to be taken from the heart,” Dad says. “There were concerns about its fragility and about the accuracy of the results. Of course, enormous advances in DNA testing have been made since the seventies and the Trust is now confident in the technology.”

  “There are two other geneticists participating in the testing, no?”

  “Yes,” Dad says. “I’ll conduct tests in France. Professor Jean-Jacques Cassiman in Belgium and Professor Bernard Brinkmann in Germany will conduct tests in their respective countries. With three sets of tests coming out of three top-notch labs, we hope to produce unimpeachable results.”

  “Fascinating!” Jean-Paul says. He turns to the camera. “Results of the DNA tests will be announced at St-Denis in the coming weeks, and when they are, Agenda will be there. Will the heart give up its secrets? Is it indeed that of Louis-Charles, the young prince? Such important questions! Join us to get the answers. Thank you, Professor Lenôtre and Dr. Alpers.”

  Lili switches off the TV.

  “I didn’t know there was so much doubt,” I say.

  “About what?”

  “About the identity of the heart. I didn’t realize it might not belong to Louis-Charles. I mean, G sounded so certain about it. I guess I should have. My father wouldn’t be here otherwise, right?”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Lili says. She takes a sip of wine. “You are right about G—he has no doubt. He’s positive the heart belongs to Louis-Charles. He’s been obsessed with it for decades and he wants a final answer. Me, I’m not so sure I want an answer. Maybe the heart should keep its secrets. Some things are too painful to know.”

  And then she changes the subject. She asks me how I’m doing, and how the research on my thesis is going. “How’s the elusive Mr. Malherbeau?” she says.

  I make a face. “Elusive,” I say.

  “Don’t give up on him. And don’t forget his house. G says the portrait there is quite stunning.”

  I think about my day at the archives and how I got nothing done because I got so lost in the diary and I almost tell her about it, but I don’t. I’ve told Vijay, but I don’t want to tell anyone else. I don’t want to show Alex to anyone else. To share her. I’m afraid they’ll take her away from me. Put her in an acid-free box. Make me wear white gloves when I touch her.

  I’ll tell Lili. And G. Not yet, though.

  I take our dinner dishes to the kitchen and wash them. After a few minutes, Lili shouts that she’s going downstairs to her studio to work and not to wait up for her. When I finish in the kitchen, I head to the dining table. The guitar case is lying open on it, where I left it yesterday. I go to close it but then take the guitar out instead. It’s still such a thrill to hold it. I run my hand over its beautiful curves, strum the strings.

  G’s clock strikes the hour—eight p.m. I know I have to stop procrastinating—I still have an outline and an intro to do—so I put the guitar back in the case, pick up one of G’s books on Malherbeau, and get busy.

  Four hours later, I’m through the book and bleary-eyed, but I’ve found some good material for my introduction. I’ve read three of G’s books so far, and there are two more to go, but I don’t think I can take even one more page right now of in-depth analysis of every chord, couplet, and eighth note Malherbeau ever used. I rub my eyes, think about getting a glass of water and calling it a day. Lili’s already gone to bed and I’ve got to get up early tomorrow, get to the archives on time, and make some serious progress. But when I open my eyes again, I spot the diary peeking out of my bag.

  I pull it out and turn it over in my hands. I can feel her inside of it. I can see her—a wiry girl in britches. Doing a raucous fart dance in the village square. Cartwheeling across the lawns of Versailles. Leading a flock of laughing children in a noisy parade.

  What happened to her? What went wrong?

  What changed her from a girl who was spinning around in circles in the Marble Courtyard, dreaming of her future on the stage, to someone with a price on her head, someone who wrote: I am seventeen years of age. I will not last much longer.

  Do I really want to find out?

  I hear Lili’s voice in my head: “… I’m not so sure I want an answer.… Some things are too painful to know.”

  Then I hear Alex’s. It’s louder, stronger. Do not close these pages. Read on, I beg you.

  Just a few entries, I tell myself. Two or three, and then I’ll go to bed. For real.

  32

  1 May 1795

  I came close tonight. My God, so close. I am safe now, underground in the catacombs with none but the dead. I have stanched the bleeding and bound the wound, but I cannot stop trembling, for in my head I still hear them. I hear their feet pounding behind me, their ragged breath and grunted curses.

  I said stop, you bitch! the guard shouts. He grabs the back of my dress, jerks me to him. Who are you? Where are your papers?

  I live on the Rue de Berri, I tell him. I am on an errand for my master—

  I hear the pain before I feel it. The crack of his hand against my cheek.

  Your papers! he roars. He takes my basket from me, pulls at the cloth. The candle falls out and clatters to the ground. The fuses flutter after it. He picks one up, sniffs it, raises his eyes to mine. Sulfur, he says. My God, it’s you, the Green Man. Not a man at all, but a girl.

  Let me go, I beg. Please. I’m all he has.

  But he doesn’t listen. No one in Paris listens anymore. They’ve pulled their liberty caps over their ears.

  Blanc! Aubertin! he shouts over his shoulder. Here! Quickly! I’ve got the—

  He never finishes. He took my basket, but left me my lamp. Too bad for him. I swing it at his head. It explodes in a shower of fire and glass. He staggers backward, shrieking.

  Captain Dupin? a man calls. Captain Dupin, what is it?

  Two more men, fast as jackals, come after me. I run. Down the dark street, as fast as I can. My life is lost, I know it, and then I see an open door ahead of me. A carriage door left ajar. I run through it, slam it shut, drop the latch. I stumble through the courtyard, tripping over a rake, banging into a washtub. A dog barks. Voices shout from the street.

  I turn in circles, trapped. A light comes on in the house. In its glow, I see a stone wall at the back of the yard. I run to it, hurl myself against it. A man comes at me, a poker in his hand. I jump at the wall again. And again. And then my feet find purchase and I’m climbing. Just as I throw my arms over the top, the poker comes down on my leg. It rips through my skirts into my flesh. I scream into the hard stones and kick out with my other leg.

  There’s a yelp as my foot connects with the man’s head, then sparks as his poker misses me and hits the stones. I heave myself over the top and come down on the other side. Waves of pain shoot up my ripped leg. I stumble and fall. I want to be sick, but I hear the guards again. I hear them shouting, hear their oaths and curses, and I know if they catch me there will be no guillotine for me, no quick death—just a rope thrown over the nearest lamp iron.

  I stand up and run. Not to the Palais-Royal, where I am called Alexandre and go about in britches, but west to the Church of St-Roch and the Valois Crypt. There’s a passage leading from the crypt to the catacombs. Orléans told me of it before he died. He said it might someday prove useful. I keep a lamp hidden there. An eternal flame, burning for the Valois dead, lights it.

  I have a rule I follow in the catacombs—eyes down. But sometimes I forget and then the shriveled hands, still clenched in fear, and the shit-stained britches, and the rotting heads piled high against a wall, make me want to scream. But I do not, for I know if I start I will not stop.

  I keep a blanket here. A hunk of cheese. I have wine also. I used to drink it down fast when the dead would talk to me so I could tell myself I was only drunk, not mad. I drink it slower now.

  I will rest here for a night, perhaps two, and write my account, for I can do little else. It will be even harder for me from now on. T
hey will be waiting, and I can neither climb well nor run fast with a torn leg and I must be able to do both, for I must not be caught. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

  Because in a small dark room, a broken child lies on a filthy bed and stares up at a high window.

  He waits for me, too.

  And I—I who have failed at everything and have failed everyone—I must not, I cannot, I will not fail him.

  I turn to the next entry, but the pages are blank. Another newspaper clipping is wedged between them.

  GREEN MAN NEARLY CAPTURED

  Paris, 13 Floréal III—A captain of the Paris Guard was grievously injured last night as he tried to subdue a person believed to be the Green Man.

  Captain Henri Dupin stopped a suspicious-looking woman walking away from the Rue de Berri shortly after a round of fireworks was set off there. She was carrying a basket, which Dupin searched.

  “The basket was empty, save for some paper fuses. It, and she, smelled strongly of sulfur,” Dupin said. “When I detained her, she hit me in the face with a lamp. The doctor now fears for my sight.”

  The near-capture of this dangerous woman has led many to suspect that the Green Man is no man, but that he is, in fact, a woman.

  In response to the attack of one of his guards, General Bonaparte said, “I wish to reassure the city of Paris that I am doing all in my power to capture this madman, and I appeal to all citizens to be vigilant and to report any suspicious behavior.”

  Shortly after making this statement, Bonaparte increased the head price on the Green Man to two hundred fifty francs.

  4 May 1795

  They call me a woman now, and mad. They write it in the broadsheets. They cry it in the streets. Bonaparte speechifies in the Assembly, makes comparisons to Shakespeare in hopes of greatness by association, and laughingly says that I, being a lunatic, will simply walk into the Seine one night and drown myself like mad Ophelia. How convenient.

  Poor Ophelia. She was the smartest of them all, worth more than her toadying father, her dupe of a brother, and Prince Dither put together. She alone knew that one must meet the world’s madness with more madness.

  Let them bluster. Let them threaten. If they want me dead, they will have to make me so. I will not do it for them.

  I’ve been in the catacombs for days but am back amongst the living now. My leg no longer bleeds. I have burned the bloody rags and bound the wound anew, and though it makes me want to scream with pain, I walk the streets straight-legged in britches and a striped frock coat and bid good morning to Camille the flower seller and Raymond the butcher and Luc, the Foy’s chef, and all greet me—Alexandre the player, the one who recites at the Palais-Royal—and none guesses that I am the Green Man.

  I will go out again this very night with my rockets and fuses. I will blow them straight out of their comfortable beds. Blow the rooftops off their houses. Blow the black, wretched night to bits.

  I will not stop.

  For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.

  No, she wasn’t convenient, I think. But she was clever. She was wily, brave, and smart.

  Was it enough? Being clever and brave? Enough to keep her ahead of the guards? Enough to keep her alive?

  I hope so. I really do. And the hoping makes me nervous.

  Like it did earlier today. At the library. When I was thinking about Virgil.

  I don’t like hope very much. In fact, I hate it. It’s the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard. It’s bad news. The worst. It’s sharp sticks and cherry bombs. When hope shows up, it’s only a matter of time until someone gets hurt.

  I hear G’s clock go off again. It’s twelve-thirty. I’ve got to get some sleep. I carry the diary into my room and put it on my night table. Ten minutes later, I’m in bed. Teeth brushed. Face washed. Pills popped. Lights out. The only problem is, I’m so churned up over Alex’s story, I can’t sleep.

  I close my eyes, toss and turn. Decide to try some music. I feel around on the night table for my iPod and remember—again—that I don’t have it. Virgil does.

  I reach for my cell phone.

  33

  “Hello?” a voice says, a few seconds later.

  “Hey, Virgil.”

  There’s a split second of silence, then, “Andi?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “Hey, yourself,” I say, smiling back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Not sleeping. How about you?”

  “Also not sleeping. In fact, I’m driving around the Arc de Triomphe.”

  “Wow. Good thing.”

  “That I’m driving around the Arc?”

  “That you’re not sleeping. And driving. At the same time,” I say, cringing. God. Who let the dork out? Why can’t I be cool when I talk to him?

  He laughs. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  “I was just wondering if there’s any chance of me getting my iPod back tonight.”

  “Um, no. I’m really sorry. I meant to drop it off earlier, but a friend who works eight to midnight got sick and I took his shift and didn’t have time to head over your way.”

  “You’re driving for twelve hours straight tonight? Wow. Okay. I totally understand, but you’re still on the hook.”

  “For what?”

  “For a song. I can’t sleep and I’ve got to get up in five hours. Sing to me.”

  He laughs. “All right. But I’ll have to stop if I get a customer.”

  He starts rhyming. He’s got one song about Africa. And one about New York. One about cabdrivers. His best friend, Jules. And his neighborhood. He’s got one about Paris, his city, the city of his dreams. He raps about driving around it all night long; and all the night people he meets; and then stopping at Sacré-Coeur, high above the city, to watch the sun come up. I hear him in his songs. His dreams and his fears. His braggedy-ass rapper’s shtick. His kindness and his anger. I hear his soul in his songs, and I could listen to the sound of it all night.

  A customer gets in the cab as he finishes Sacré-Coeur, and he has to be quiet for a while. He starts rhyming again when the guy gets out.

  “Wait,” I say, stopping him.

  “What?”

  “Do you really do that? Hang out at Sacré-Coeur to watch the sun come up?”

  “Yeah, I do. Sometimes I bring my guitar. It’s my favorite place in Paris. That and the catacombs. Hey, aren’t you asleep yet? It’s almost two o’clock.”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’m taking out the big guns now. If this doesn’t do it, nothing will.”

  He starts singing. In some language I don’t know. It sounds old and beautiful. His voice rises and falls, carried by the melody. Rises and falls like a chant, a prayer. It’s soft, his voice, and so beautiful that it hurts my heart hugely. Tears slip from my eyes and fall onto my pillow as I listen to him.

  “That’s so lovely,” I whisper when he finishes.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Dude, you’re too modest,” I say sleepily.

  He laughs. “I meant the song, not my voice.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “ ‘Ya gamrata ellil.’ It’s a Tunisian song. You should hear Sonia M’barek sing it. Or my mom.”

  “Sing it again,” I murmur. “Please.”

  He does. Over and over. I don’t know how many times. I lose count. His singing takes me out beyond. Beyond the pills, beyond the pain. It carries me until I feel still. And safe. Until sleep finally comes and finds me wrapped in the dark velvet warmth of his voice.

  34

  Yves Bonnard looks at me like I’ve just dumped a shovelful of shit on his desk.

  “What?” I say, pushing the little brown bag closer to him. “It’s a croissant. For you. I thought you might be hungry.”

  “Have you any idea—any idea at all—what grease can do to paper?” he asks me, his voice shaking with anger. “Take it away. Now. And wash your
hands before you come back.”

  “Hey, you’re welcome,” I say, grabbing the bag.

  Get on his good side, the professor guy told me yesterday. Looks like I’m well on my way. I go outside, to the courtyard in front of the building. There are some workers there, fiddling with a standpipe. “You hungry?” I ask one of them, then thrust the bag into his hands before he can answer me.

  A few minutes later, I’m back in line, with squeaky clean hands and four perfectly filled-out call slips. After ten minutes or so of waiting, it’s my turn. I hand the slips to Yves Bonnard and he examines them, one by one. I’m sure he’s going to tell me to get lost again, but no.

  “Good,” he says, putting them into the vacuum tube. “You are actually capable of filling out a call slip correctly. I had my doubts.” He tells me the papers I requested will be brought up shortly, then launches into his list of rules. He goes on and on, but I don’t care. I’m going to get the stuff I need.

  He finally finishes, hands me a pencil from the box on his desk, and a pair of thin white cotton gloves. I take them and sit down at my space at one of the reading tables. I glance at the clock on the wall: 9:52 a.m. Not bad, considering I only got here at 9:30. I’d hoped to be earlier, but the trains were slow, and even after I got off the Métro, I took a bit of an unplanned detour. I was just walking out of the station with a big gush of people when my phone rang.

  “Your turn,” Virgil said.

  “Um, can’t. I’m right smack in the middle of Paris at rush hour.”