Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [21]
“At the height of the Terror, many hundreds were guillotined in Paris alone,” he says. “Many on mere accusation, without a proper trial. Blood ran in the gutters. Quite literally. The executions were a grand spectacle. Refreshments were sold. Spectators vied for the best vantage points, and—”
“Guillaume!” a voice calls from someplace above us. “Stop giving lectures and bring our guests upstairs. They are tired and hungry!”
It’s Lili, G’s wife. I recognize her voice.
“Right away, my love!” G shouts back.
We walk up to the second floor. G unearths things from crates and boxes as we go. He shows us revolutionary flags, a huge banner with The Rights of Man printed on it, and an ancient coat of arms with a red rose, pierced and dripping blood, at its center.
“This dates from the fifteenth century,” he says. “It’s the coat of arms for the counts of Auvergne. It hung in the family’s château until the Revolution, when the last count and his wife were guillotined for defending the king. ‘From the rose’s blood, lilies grow,’ the Latin says. You see? The rose drips its blood on the fleur-de-lis, the white lily, symbol of the kings of France. The powerful counts of Auvergne were always loyal to their kings, fighting for them, sometimes giving their lives for them.”
We climb up past the third floor—which is Lili’s studio—to the fourth, carried along by the smell of garlic, chicken, and a wood fire. Lili’s waiting for us on the landing. She kisses us, and as my father and G go inside, she kisses me again and hugs me tightly. I hug her back. She’s wearing two rumpled sweaters. Her black hair is gray with marble dust. She ushers us inside their home—a huge loft on the top floor of the old factory.
“I was so happy when Lewis called to say you’d be joining him!” she says. “He says you are going to work on a school project while you’re here. How exciting!”
“Yes, it is. Very exciting,” I lie.
She asks about my mother, and when I tell her what’s happened, her eyes well up. They were roommates at the Sorbonne, Lili and my mother. She took my mom to a party at G’s flat one night. My father was there. It’s how my parents met. I’ve known Lili and G my whole life.
“Oh, my poor Marianne,” she says now. She wipes her eyes on her sleeve and hugs me again. She smells of her cooking and the perfume Eau d’Hadrien. My mother wore it, too. She used to cook, like Lili. Our house smelled of garlic and thyme instead of sadness. Lili asks me how I’m doing and I tell her fine. She holds my face between her strong sculptor’s hands and says, “How are you really?”
“I’m fine, Lili. Really,” I say again, forcing a smile. I don’t want to go into it. I don’t want to start crying in her foyer. All the traveling’s made me tired and numb and I want to stay that way. It’s easier. I ask her where to put my jacket. She tells me to keep it on. The furnace is temperamental and the fireplace only does so much.
She says that dinner is still an hour away, and hands me a tray with glasses and a bottle of wine on it. I head over to my father and G, who are sitting a few yards from the big open kitchen at a long wooden table. I pour wine for them but they’re sorting through papers and photographs and don’t even look up.
“The trust will allow us only the tiniest piece for testing,” G is saying to my father. “Only the very tip. About a gram in total.”
“One gram for three labs?” my father says, looking concerned. “Brinkmann and Cassiman are okay with this?”
“They have to be. We get what we are given. No more.”
Dad didn’t tell me much about the work he’s doing. Just that G is involved with some kind of historical trust and that he asked him to come to Paris to do some DNA tests for them. Which is kind of overkill if you ask me. Like asking Stephen Hawking to explain how a pulley works.
G and Dad continue to talk work, so I check out the loft. As I look