Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [22]
Farewell, my wife and children, forever and ever. Love my children, I beg you, tell them often what I was, love them for us both.… I end my days today….
I pick up another: My last linen is dirty, my stockings are rotting, my breeches are threadbare. I’m dying of hunger and boredom.… I shall not write to you anymore, the world is execrable. Farewell!
And a third: I do not know, my little friend, if it will be given to me to see you or to write to you again. Remember your mother.… Farewell, beloved child.… The time will come when you will be able to judge the effort that I am making at the moment not to be moved to tears at the memory of you. I press you to my heart. Farewell….
God, what a bummer. I can’t read any more so I put the letters back, close the box, and keep poking around. There’s a toy guillotine on the floor, complete with executioner, victim, and victim’s papier-mâché head staring up in shock from a tiny willow basket. A pair of blue silk shoes with jeweled buckles stands on a shelf. Banners of red, white, and blue, faded and torn, drape one wall. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, they say, and Long Live the Republic. Men and women with powdered hair stare at me from gilt frames. There’s a painting of Louis XVI’s execution and a horrible cartoon of a man hanging from a lamppost, his feet kicking in the air. A Traitor Dances the Carmagnole, the caption reads. Old books are piled on tables and chairs. A skull grins from the top of a cabinet.
These things are not quiet. They’re restless. Looking at them, I can see the fishwives of Paris marching to Versailles, singing and spitting and yelling for bread. I can hear the crowd cheering at the king’s execution and the patter of blood dripping from his neck. I reach up and touch the edge of a tattered banner and wish I hadn’t. It feels dusty and dry, like ashes and old bones. It feels contagious.
I want to get away from this stuff but I can’t; it’s everywhere. I head back to the table, catch my foot on something, and stumble into a crate, whacking my knee. Nobody notices. Lili’s cooking. Dad and G are still talking work and wouldn’t notice if the roof fell in. I’m hopping around, rubbing my knee, and then I see what I tripped over—a long wooden case—the kind guitars come in.
There’s a swirly pattern on the surface, all leaves and vines, but pieces of the inlay are missing and the finish is dull and stained. A leather strap is wound around it. I bend down on my good knee and see that the case doesn’t close properly. The prong’s stuck down inside the bottom part of the lock.
I unbuckle the strap, ease the lid open, and catch my breath because I’m suddenly looking at the most beautiful guitar I’ve ever seen. It’s made of rosewood and spruce with an ebony fingerboard. The rosette and the purfling at the edges are inlaid with mother-of-pearl, ivory, and silver.
I touch it lightly. Run my fingers over the wood. Trace the edges. I strum the strings and two of them break.
“Ah! You found the guitar!” G says, looking up from his papers.
“I … I’m really sorry, G,” I stammer. “I shouldn’t have touched it.”
“Nonsense! It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he says, coming over. “It’s a Vinaccia. See the name inside the case? They were made in Italy in the late seventeen hundreds. They’re very rare. Very expensive, too. The lock is silver. It’s jammed, unfortunately. Louis XVI owned one of these. There’s a painting of him holding it.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“I bought it thirty years ago from a man who found it in the catacombs. A worker. There was a cave-in in one of the tunnels. It caused