Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [96]
He picked up his basin, threw the bloodied water out my window, and left me. I sank back down upon the floor. Hours later, when I could stand, I hobbled to my bed. Days later, the door opened and Orléans stepped into my room. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.
They have been captured. Bad luck for them. Good luck for you, he said, throwing fresh clothes upon the bed. Wash yourself and get back to your work. And sparrow…
Yes.
Lie to me again and it will not be your bed you crawl to when I’m finished with you, but your grave.
I close the diary and stare at the ceiling.
I see Alex lying on the floor of her room, battered and bloody.
I see Louis-Charles, in his cold, dark cell.
I see Truman waving goodbye.
I see my mother sitting on the edge of her hospital bed.
I see a crappy blue Renault pulling away from me. I see it turning the corner at the end of the street and disappearing.
And then I put the diary down and pop three Qwells. Because I won’t make it through the coming day, never mind the rest of my life, on one.
48
A madé Malherbeau was a rock star.
I’m standing in front of his portrait, painted by Jean-Baptiste Greuze in 1797, but I could be looking at a photo of Mick Jagger taken by Annie Leibovitz in 1977. Malherbeau’s wearing a white shirt, open at the neck. His long dark hair is falling over his shoulders. He’s got full lips, sculpted cheekbones, and dark, intense eyes. I’ve seen reproductions of the portrait in books but they’re nothing compared to the original.
He’s sitting in a chair, holding a red rose. A thorn from the stem has pricked him. Blood’s dripping from one of his fingers. There’s a table next to him and on top of it are two miniatures in a frame of a man and a woman. The man is dark-haired and dark-eyed. The woman is blond and beautiful. They’re also holding roses.
A plaque on the wall explains that the people in the miniatures are thought to be Malherbeau and a woman he loved. As Malherbeau never married, it’s assumed the relationship was broken off, an idea reinforced by the presence of roses in the miniatures, and the presence of a rose in Malherbeau’s hand—a beauty whose thorns have made him bleed.
I look at the rose more closely. The way the petals are painted, the size of the thorn—I could swear I’ve seen it before but I don’t know where. I stand back and photograph the portrait. Then I move on, getting shots of the walls, with their faded hand-painted paper, the old damask curtains, the views from his windows.
It’s hard going. I feel like the walking wounded. The Qwells kicked in. I slept for a bit, then managed to crawl out of bed around noon, shower, and get myself across Paris to the Bois de Boulogne. I said I would get my outline to my father tonight and I meant it. I’m going to get on a plane tomorrow. All I have to do until then is keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I’ve been here for the last hour taking pictures for my thesis. The staff is cool about cameras as long as you don’t use a flash. Part of the downstairs—the old ballroom—has been made into a concert room; the rest of it is used to showcase Malherbeau’s belongings. So far, I have shots of a vihuela, a baroque guitar, and a mandolin that belonged to the maestro, as well as pictures of clothing, furniture, several coffeepots, sheet music, and statues.
I walk from room to room, taking more pictures. I pass the portrait again, and as I do, I suddenly remember where I’ve seen the rose before—on a coat of arms at G’s house. He said it was very old and that it belonged to the counts of Auvergne. There were words written on it—From the rose’s blood, lilies grow.
I wonder if there’s some connection. Probably not. I mean, what could it possibly be? Most likely Malherbeau’s rose was a sad symbol of lost love. Like the plaque said.
My eyes travel from the rose to Malherbeau’s eyes, so dark and haunted. I feel for him. I feel like him. Not like the genius composer Malherbeau. More like the loser star-crossed lover Malherbeau. I wonder if a broken heart