Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [97]
Maybe they had a fight. Maybe she fell for someone else. Maybe her dad didn’t like musicians. Maybe she lived in Brooklyn.
“A chamber concert is starting soon, miss,” a staff member says to me. “It’s part of our Saturday afternoon series. If you’d like to attend, you might want to go up and get a seat.”
I look at my watch—it’s four o’clock—and tell him no. I really would like to hear it but I have to get back to G’s house. I still have a lot of work to do.
I give Malherbeau one last look. So much sadness behind those eyes. And so much music. “I wish I knew what happened to you,” I whisper.
I walk to the door and let myself out. As I close it behind me, a lone guitar starts to play.
49
Almost done. Almost there.
The portrait on my laptop screen fades. Malherbeau’s Concerto in A Minor continues to play. A line of text appears on the screen:
… and Malherbeau’s legacy—of its time, yet timeless—echoes down through the centuries, as much an inspiration to the Beatles as it was to Beethoven, to the White Stripes as it was to Stravinsky.
The text fades, the music stops. I save the file and close out of PowerPoint. Then I compose an e-mail to my father, attach the file, and hit SEND. I already e-mailed the outline. He has everything now. I’m done.
I shut off my laptop and carry my coffee cup to the kitchen. It’s Saturday night, almost eleven. I don’t know where he is. He said he’d be home late, but I didn’t think he meant this late. I was really hoping he’d read it tonight so I could get an answer from him before I went to bed. It’s good. I know it is. But I still need his say-so before I can get on that plane. I decide to wait up for him.
I go to my room, drag my suitcase out of the closet, and put most of my things into it. I find my passport and e-ticket and put them on my night table, ready for tomorrow. Then I lie down on my bed and open Alex’s diary. I plan to leave it on the table with a note for G when I go. I want to finish it first. I only have a few entries left.
21 May 1795
It rains tonight. I cannot go out. The water will ruin my rockets.
I sit at my table with pen and ink instead and a guttering candle stub. In my old room on top of the Palais-Royal. I do not like this room. There are still bloodstains on the floor from when Orléans beat me. It is dark here and cold but I dare not light a fire. I take chances enough just coming here.
The authorities took the Palais from Orléans two years ago, in ’93, the same year they killed him, and made it property of the state. They plundered it of its valuables but not my treasures. They knew not where to look for those. A few of Orléans’ old rooms are used for government business but most of the Palais is empty, its doors padlocked—though one can still get in if one knows how. There is a basement passage from the Foy to the Palais kitchens. Once spies traveled it. Intriguers. Informers. Now I use it to get to my room and the robber Benôit makes me pay him for the privilege.
The rain comes down harder as I write. It sheets off the roof in torrents. I wish it would pound against me. Pound the life from my body. The flesh from my bones. The pain from my heart.
I bribed a guard at the Temple today. He told me that a doctor has been ordered to attend Louis-Charles. He can no longer stand. He will not speak or eat.
What are they, that they do this to a child—they who spoke of Liberty, Fraternity, Equality? What is this cesspit of a world that allows it?
I have my head in my hands, to stifle my sobs, when I hear it, the sound of footsteps in my room. I look up. It’s Orléans. He is standing by the fireplace, running his fingers along the mantel. His coat has begun to rot. Blood has stiffened the lace at his throat.
I wipe my eyes. Is it lonely being dead? I ask him.
Hardly.
Do you miss Paris? Is that it?
Miss it? It’s become so dreary I barely recognize it.
Then why do you return? Simply to plague me?
To urge you to leave. They