Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [37]
I riffle through them, find the one I want, and hold it next to the portrait. The clothes are different. The hair in the miniature is longer. But still, it’s him—Louis-Charles, the lost king of France.
“Can’t be,” I say again.
But it is, a voice inside me whispers.
It is.
19
I put the photo away. Put the portrait back in the case. And the diary, too. And then I lock it as fast as I can.
I tell myself it’s a bummer, that diary, a sorry trip. And I don’t need someone else’s sorry trip. I’m already on one of my own.
But the truth is that I’m afraid of it and I don’t know why. Reading it feels like taking candy from strangers. Hitchhiking. Riding the subway late at night.
I flop down on the sofa, turn on G’s TV, and watch CNN. Two minutes later, I turn it off, call Vijay, and get his voice mail. I pick up the book I’m reading on Amadé Malherbeau and flip it open.
… the surviving scores show us that his pieces for the theater were pleasing but undistinguished. In no way did they presage the brilliance and complexity of his later work…
I slap the book closed. I can’t concentrate. Can’t sit still. I get up, rummage in the kitchen for something to eat but don’t find anything, then walk back to the case, key in hand, like Bluebeard’s idiot wife.
I get the diary out and page past the first entry. As I do, something flutters out and lands on the table. It’s a newspaper clipping, small and fragile.
GREEN MAN STRIKES AGAIN
Paris, 2 Floréal III—The Green Man, a street name for the outlaw who has been terrorizing the citizens of Paris with destructive firework displays, struck again last night, causing damage to property on the Rue de Normandie.
No one knows the purpose of his pyrotechnical displays. Some believe the Green Man—so named because of the fresh leaves fire-workers once wore to protect themselves from sparks—is sending up rockets to signal foreign armies. Others think the fireworks are coded communications between members of an insurrectionary force within the city.
General Bonaparte, commander of the Paris Guard, was grilled by the Assembly this morning as to why the Green Man remains at large. Bonaparte assured them that he was doing everything within his power to capture the miscreant.
“I have increased the number of guards on the streets and have placed a bounty of one hundred francs upon the Green Man’s head,” he said. “He will be caught—it is only a matter of time. And when he is, justice—swift and severe—will be served.”
“Two Floréal,” I say aloud. I remember that word—Floréal—from my class on the Revolution. The Assembly banished the old Julian calendar and made September 22, 1792—the day France became a republic—Day One of Year One. They declared that time would begin again—with them. The III stands for Year Three or 1795, I think.
But who’s the Green Man?
I flip back to the first entry. The writer mentions a green man in it. She says it’s the last role she played. But she’s a she, not a he. Her name is Alexandrine. Did she pretend to be a man? Why? And, if so, what was she doing with the fireworks? Other than pissing off Napoléon Bonaparte, which doesn’t seem smart. Dude had a temper. And an army.
“Who are you?” I say out loud. To nobody.
My cell phone goes off. I nearly jump out of my skin.
“God, Vijay! You scared the hell out of me. What do you want?”
“What do you want? You left me a message.”
“Yeah, I did. Sorry. You’ll never believe this. I just found this diary. It was hidden in an old guitar case. I think it might be really old. Like, from the Revolution.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it is a wow. There’s an old newspaper clipping in it. It has a weird date—two Floréal three. Any idea what month that corresponds to?”
“May, maybe?” he says. “Hang on a minute.…” I hear him typing on his keyboard, then “Okay, got it. April 21, 1795.”
“How’d you do that so fast?”
“I found a conversion chart online. So what’s it say?”
“I’m not sure yet. I just started reading it, but—”
“Vijay!” I hear in the background. “How can you study on an empty stomach?