Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [67]
I’ll tell Lili. And G. Not yet, though.
I take our dinner dishes to the kitchen and wash them. After a few minutes, Lili shouts that she’s going downstairs to her studio to work and not to wait up for her. When I finish in the kitchen, I head to the dining table. The guitar case is lying open on it, where I left it yesterday. I go to close it but then take the guitar out instead. It’s still such a thrill to hold it. I run my hand over its beautiful curves, strum the strings.
G’s clock strikes the hour—eight p.m. I know I have to stop procrastinating—I still have an outline and an intro to do—so I put the guitar back in the case, pick up one of G’s books on Malherbeau, and get busy.
Four hours later, I’m through the book and bleary-eyed, but I’ve found some good material for my introduction. I’ve read three of G’s books so far, and there are two more to go, but I don’t think I can take even one more page right now of in-depth analysis of every chord, couplet, and eighth note Malherbeau ever used. I rub my eyes, think about getting a glass of water and calling it a day. Lili’s already gone to bed and I’ve got to get up early tomorrow, get to the archives on time, and make some serious progress. But when I open my eyes again, I spot the diary peeking out of my bag.
I pull it out and turn it over in my hands. I can feel her inside of it. I can see her—a wiry girl in britches. Doing a raucous fart dance in the village square. Cartwheeling across the lawns of Versailles. Leading a flock of laughing children in a noisy parade.
What happened to her? What went wrong?
What changed her from a girl who was spinning around in circles in the Marble Courtyard, dreaming of her future on the stage, to someone with a price on her head, someone who wrote: I am seventeen years of age. I will not last much longer.
Do I really want to find out?
I hear Lili’s voice in my head: “… I’m not so sure I want an answer.… Some things are too painful to know.”
Then I hear Alex’s. It’s louder, stronger. Do not close these pages. Read on, I beg you.
Just a few entries, I tell myself. Two or three, and then I’ll go to bed. For real.
32
1 May 1795
I came close tonight. My God, so close. I am safe now, underground in the catacombs with none but the dead. I have stanched the bleeding and bound the wound, but I cannot stop trembling, for in my head I still hear them. I hear their feet pounding behind me, their ragged breath and grunted curses.
I said stop, you bitch! the guard shouts. He grabs the back of my dress, jerks me to him. Who are you? Where are your papers?
I live on the Rue de Berri, I tell him. I am on an errand for my master—
I hear the pain before I feel it. The crack of his hand against my cheek.
Your papers! he roars. He takes my basket from me, pulls at the cloth. The candle falls out and clatters to the ground. The fuses flutter after it. He picks one up, sniffs it, raises his eyes to mine. Sulfur, he says. My God, it’s you, the Green Man. Not a man at all, but a girl.
Let me go, I beg. Please. I’m all he has.
But he doesn’t listen. No one in Paris listens anymore. They’ve pulled their liberty caps over their ears.
Blanc! Aubertin! he shouts over his shoulder. Here! Quickly! I’ve got the—
He never finishes. He took my basket, but left me my lamp. Too bad for him. I swing it at his head. It explodes in a shower of fire and glass. He staggers backward, shrieking.
Captain Dupin? a man calls. Captain Dupin, what is it?
Two more men, fast as jackals, come after me. I run. Down the dark street, as fast as I can. My life is lost, I know it, and then I see an open door ahead of me. A carriage door left ajar. I run through it, slam it shut, drop the latch. I stumble through the courtyard, tripping over a rake, banging into a washtub. A dog barks. Voices shout from the street.
I turn in circles, trapped. A light comes on in the house. In its glow, I see a stone wall at the back of the yard. I run to it, hurl myself against it. A man comes at me, a poker in