Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [56]
29
“Wow,” I say to myself, turning to the next page. “That’s pretty wild. Alex talked to dead people.”
I did, too, back in Brooklyn, but I had an excuse. I was stoned on Qwellify. She wasn’t.
I look up and see that the line hasn’t moved so I keep reading.
27 April 1795
I must write about him now, about Louis-Charles. I must tell you what he was like. They call him Enemy of the Republic, Viper, and Wolf Cub—his captors. Because they are clever. Beat a child, cage a child, starve a child—and the world will call you monster. Beat a wolf cub, cage him and starve him, and the world will call you hero.
He was no wolf cub. He was gentle and kind. Courtly and brave. He was a statesman at the age of four, parrying questions from ministers and nobles when others his age could not yet say their letters.
Well now, young sir! brays the Italian ambassador. Tell me which is mightier—Austria’s army or Spain’s?
It is an impossible question. Austria is ruled by his grandmother, Spain by his cousin. Praise one and he insults the other. All around the table, heads turn. His mother’s. His father’s. Scores of courtiers’. All eyes are upon him.
Sir, I cannot say which is mightier, only which is mightiest, he gamely replies. Neither Austria nor Spain, but my own glorious France.
The guests laugh and clap. All are pleased. He smiles, sits straight and tall, but under the table, his small hands make knots of his napkin.
I spirit him away as soon as I am able. We go to the terrace to listen for owls and watch bats swoop over the fountains, and I tell him stories of Paris. I tell him of Luc the dwarf, who has flippers for hands and plays a trumpet with his feet. Of Seraphina, who rides horses standing on their backs. Of Tristan and his dancing rats.
I tell him of the Palais-Royal at midnight, raucous with music and blazing with torchlight, and of all the marvels to be seen there—snake charmers with their hissing vipers, mannequins who come to life for a sou, a man with a hole in his chest, through which one can see his beating heart.
He does not believe I wander such places. Or that I do so alone. He has never been alone, not once in his life, and cannot conceive of it.
When it grows dark, the court comes out of doors to see fireworks. We sit on the grass and watch the rockets explode above us. He loves them better than chocolate or his tin soldiers or even his pony. He loves the sparkling fountains and cascades and says the strangest things as he watches them.
They look like stars breaking.
Or, They look like Mama’s diamonds.
Or, They look like all the souls in heaven.
And once, They make me sad because they are so beautiful.
Beautiful things are supposed to make you happy, Louis-Charles, I tell him. The firemaster doesn’t go to all this trouble to make you sad.
They do make me happy. Except sometimes they don’t.
Why not?
Because beautiful things never last. Not roses nor snow nor my aunt’s teeth. And not fireworks, either.
I cannot make him an answer, not at first, but I know I must, for my work is to make him happy. I look around, then see it—my answer.
Some beautiful things do last, I say.
They do not.
They do. Look there. Behind you. At the table where your family sits. I see three beautiful things. One, the queen your mother. Two, the dainty goblet she sips from, and three, Versailles rising behind her. All of these are here now and will be here tomorrow and the day after and the day after that.
He smiles and hugs me, happy again.
Now his mother is dead. Her pretty goblet smashed. The palace shuttered and empty.
I have stolen. I have deceived. I have damaged things and people. And yet nothing grieves me more than to think he now remembers that night.
And calls me liar.
“Holy shit,” I say out loud. “The fireworks were for him. For the dauphin. For Louis-Charles. She was—”
“Quiet, please!” Yves Bonnard barks, glaring at me.
“Sorry!” I whisper, slinking down on the bench.
But it’s true. It must be. Louis-Charles loved fireworks. That’s why