Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [152]
And I say, “No, not because of Robespierre and Marat. Or people like them. Because of people like us.”
It’s quiet then.
“Later, Deo,” I say, and head away from them. Into the darkness.
80
I’ve burned my right hand and it hurts like hell. But that’s not why I’m whimpering as I’m walking up the stairs to Amadé’s room. I’m whimpering because I’m scared I’ve injured it so badly, I won’t be able to play guitar again.
I burned it last night. The last rocket caught fire and wouldn’t go. I had to grab it, flames and all, and throw it off the roof before it exploded.
Guards were in the street when I got down off the stable roof I was on. I’d gotten up there with the help of a rain barrel and a drainpipe. I got down a lot faster, sliding on my butt, then I ran into the stable and hid inside a carriage. There was a fur throw on the seat. I got down on the floor and pulled it over myself. It was still dark outside, and the fur was dark, and it must have fooled the guards, because they looked through the window of the carriage—I heard them—but they didn’t see me.
I stayed there for hours, my hand throbbing. Not daring to move, to make a sound. I left just before dawn, before the stable boys rose.
Amadé is working at the table now. He looks up at me when I come in. His eyes travel to my right hand. I’m holding it behind my back.
“How was your night?” he asks.
“Wonderful,” I say, too brightly.
“How is your new friend?”
“Great!”
“Is he handsome?”
“Oh, dude. Totally.”
“Wealthy, too?”
“You bet.”
“Where does he live?”
I hesitate. Just for a second. But it’s enough. Amadé stands. He walks over to me, grabs my wrist, and raises my burned hand. I let out a howl.
“How strange. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you smell like gunpowder. Is your friend a soldier? No? Hmm … does he sell guns? No? Well, then let me see.… Does he perhaps make fireworks?”
“Let go!” I yell. “Go away!”
He lets go, but he doesn’t go away.
“General Bonaparte is not a tolerant man,” he says. “And from what I hear, he does not enjoy fireworks.”
I don’t say anything. I’m busy cradling my hand to my chest.
“You must want to die,” he says. “I tell you what.… Since you are so hungry for death, perhaps you would like a little foretaste. I will give you one.”
Then he grabs my arm and pulls me, howling, across the room, out the door, and down the stairs to the street.
81
“Hurry up! This is the best theater in all of Paris. I want to make sure we have front-row seats.”
“Amadé, please let go.”
“No!” he says, violently jerking me along.
“Where are we going?” I ask miserably.
“La Place du Trône,” he says. He stops suddenly. “Ah! Do you hear it? The overture?”
I can’t hear anything. Just shouting. And cheering.
“We are almost there. Come on.”
I follow him. I have no choice. He has me in a death grip. We continue up the Rue Charlot. Past the Temple prison. The streets are getting crowded. People seem to be in a holiday mood. They are laughing, singing, hugging each other.
Amadé pulls me through the throngs, past newsboys hawking papers and girls selling cakes. We get close to the square, but I still have no idea what everyone is gathering for.
He takes me into Duval’s, a coffee shop. “I know the owner. He lets me stand on the roof for a franc,” he says.
Up three flights of stairs we go. Amadé pushes his way to the front of the roof, dragging me in his wake. And then I see it. Why he brought me here. Why all these people are here. In the center of the square stands a guillotine.
“Shit, no,” I say, terrified.
He smiles at me, claps me on the back. “Shit, yes!” he says. “You’ve seen the blade at work, no doubt. Who hasn’t? I wager you’ve never been so close, though. Duval’s has the best possible view. Worth every sou.”
Just then, a huge cheer goes up. A tumbrel is making its way into the square. Its progress is slow because people keep getting in the way. They make it stop so that they can throw mud at the prisoners inside it. They scream at them, taunt them, laugh at them. Guards are everywhere