and rip apart? Blood, like wine, was intoxicating.
He worried about Antoine. If there was a swarm at the gates of the Bastille, the rest of the city might not be faring any better. He wished he had read at least one of Antoine’s Bibles. Maybe he would know how to pray for his friend’s safety and his own. He knelt. Outside, wood thundered against the ground, ripping him from his attempted plea.
The drawbridge to the inner courtyard had been cut. Adrien heardthe crowd storming over it. He shielded his ears from the gunfire and screams, but it was no use. They crept up his spine.
Then it went quiet, but it was not the kind of silence that lulled you to sleep. It was restless and sharp. It twisted inside him. He could feel the mob’s hate seeping through his door. If the silence meant a ceasefire, it was not going to last long.
The stairway to the north tower roared with the angry swarm. A fleeing guard told Adrien that the Bastille’s governor had surrendered the prison and opened the gates. Adrien held his breath. His door shook on its hinges as the mob rammed against it. It cracked but did not fall. They tried again. He shrank behind his bed. The door crashed down. The crowd swept into the room. Adrien squeezed his eyes shut, arms wrapped around his legs, ready to be torn apart. Then he was hoisted up, hovering above the crowd. He opened his eyes. The ceiling loomed closer. He frowned. He was either dead and had not quite made it up to heaven or he was sitting on someone’s shoulders. He glanced down. Antoine grinned at him from the cheering crowd.
Adrien stared at him openmouthed. “What …”
“I apologize for the delay. Some enterprising fellow stole the keys to your cell as a souvenir. I believe he also carted the governor away. I had to get some help.” Antoine smiled. “Now, dear friend, be a good symbol of the people and wave. Repeat after me.
Vive la révolution!
”
Chapter Seven
Pierre and pachyderms
PARIS
Five Years Ago
T he stones of the Bastille grew smaller as the barge made its way down the Seine.
“Records show that the storming of the Bastille yielded a grand total of seven prisoners: two lunatics, four forgers, and one Irish nobleman imprisoned for debt,” Max said. “Adrien and Antoine had left Paris before history could jot their names down for posterity. This suited the two just fine since it was this very anonymity that enabled their safe passage to Scotland. Antoine left Adrien in the care of friends in the French Huguenot community there. Adrien, who had considerably mellowed with age, found country life rather agreeable. He married the daughter of a respected poultry farmer and settled into a long and rich life filled with chickens and children.”
The group applauded. The barge slowed and veered toward a quay.
“That was a lovely story, dear.” Rose patted Max’s arm.
“Yes, great story, Max,” Dex said, “but how do you know all this stuff?”
Max shrugged. “Trade secret—or then again, it could just be a load of rubbish.”
“What happened to Antoine?” Shelley asked.
“Antoine? I … well … I believe he continued to travel aroundEurope.” Max turned to the group. “Campers, this is as far as the story of Isabelle’s family goes on this leg of the trip. You can spend the rest of the afternoon doing whatever touristy thing you fancy. Oh, and if you happen to come by an Eiffel Tower snow globe, I’d greatly appreciate it if you could pick one up for me. I’ll see everyone back at the house for an early dinner.”
A FLIGHT TO THE PHILIPPINES
Now
P aolo took a deep breath. “So Antoine was Max.”
Shelley nodded. She felt numb.
“That makes Nonno about two hundred years old and counting,” Paolo said. “It gives a whole new meaning to the expression ‘midlife crisis,’ don’t you think? I can totally understand why he would have wanted to hang out with Adrien.” He looked pleased with his analysis.
Shelley was not. She looked away.
He worried about Antoine. If there was a swarm at the gates of the Bastille, the rest of the city might not be faring any better. He wished he had read at least one of Antoine’s Bibles. Maybe he would know how to pray for his friend’s safety and his own. He knelt. Outside, wood thundered against the ground, ripping him from his attempted plea.
The drawbridge to the inner courtyard had been cut. Adrien heardthe crowd storming over it. He shielded his ears from the gunfire and screams, but it was no use. They crept up his spine.
Then it went quiet, but it was not the kind of silence that lulled you to sleep. It was restless and sharp. It twisted inside him. He could feel the mob’s hate seeping through his door. If the silence meant a ceasefire, it was not going to last long.
The stairway to the north tower roared with the angry swarm. A fleeing guard told Adrien that the Bastille’s governor had surrendered the prison and opened the gates. Adrien held his breath. His door shook on its hinges as the mob rammed against it. It cracked but did not fall. They tried again. He shrank behind his bed. The door crashed down. The crowd swept into the room. Adrien squeezed his eyes shut, arms wrapped around his legs, ready to be torn apart. Then he was hoisted up, hovering above the crowd. He opened his eyes. The ceiling loomed closer. He frowned. He was either dead and had not quite made it up to heaven or he was sitting on someone’s shoulders. He glanced down. Antoine grinned at him from the cheering crowd.
Adrien stared at him openmouthed. “What …”
“I apologize for the delay. Some enterprising fellow stole the keys to your cell as a souvenir. I believe he also carted the governor away. I had to get some help.” Antoine smiled. “Now, dear friend, be a good symbol of the people and wave. Repeat after me.
Vive la révolution!
”
Chapter Seven
Pierre and pachyderms
PARIS
Five Years Ago
T he stones of the Bastille grew smaller as the barge made its way down the Seine.
“Records show that the storming of the Bastille yielded a grand total of seven prisoners: two lunatics, four forgers, and one Irish nobleman imprisoned for debt,” Max said. “Adrien and Antoine had left Paris before history could jot their names down for posterity. This suited the two just fine since it was this very anonymity that enabled their safe passage to Scotland. Antoine left Adrien in the care of friends in the French Huguenot community there. Adrien, who had considerably mellowed with age, found country life rather agreeable. He married the daughter of a respected poultry farmer and settled into a long and rich life filled with chickens and children.”
The group applauded. The barge slowed and veered toward a quay.
“That was a lovely story, dear.” Rose patted Max’s arm.
“Yes, great story, Max,” Dex said, “but how do you know all this stuff?”
Max shrugged. “Trade secret—or then again, it could just be a load of rubbish.”
“What happened to Antoine?” Shelley asked.
“Antoine? I … well … I believe he continued to travel aroundEurope.” Max turned to the group. “Campers, this is as far as the story of Isabelle’s family goes on this leg of the trip. You can spend the rest of the afternoon doing whatever touristy thing you fancy. Oh, and if you happen to come by an Eiffel Tower snow globe, I’d greatly appreciate it if you could pick one up for me. I’ll see everyone back at the house for an early dinner.”
A FLIGHT TO THE PHILIPPINES
Now
P aolo took a deep breath. “So Antoine was Max.”
Shelley nodded. She felt numb.
“That makes Nonno about two hundred years old and counting,” Paolo said. “It gives a whole new meaning to the expression ‘midlife crisis,’ don’t you think? I can totally understand why he would have wanted to hang out with Adrien.” He looked pleased with his analysis.
Shelley was not. She looked away.
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