“We do think the Bessancourts escaped to England, yes. In 1802 a man named Friedrich Besserschein died in northern Yorkshire. The village records list four surviving daughters, and they also state that Mr. Besserschein was a foreigner born in 1734, the same year as Frédéric Bessancourt. We think that was Frédéric Bessancourt. And no, unless the entire palace is airtight and there was an expert embalmer present, there will be no corpses on this expedition.”
Dorf sets down the tablet and smiles. “Now. What we will find should be far more interesting. The marquis will have brought down with him everything he wanted preserved. That should include an extensive collection of art and manuscripts, servants, his wife and children.” Dorf chuckles, like equating wives and servants to paintings and manuscripts is actually hilarious. “And they will have brought jewels, wardrobes, favorite musical instruments, toys, diaries, medicine. If it is even slightly intact, the Palais du Papillon will be much more than only an architectural wonder. It will be a feast of historical detail, an entire banquet of eighteenth-century French life preserved just as it was, waiting for us to study it.”
The waiters are back. I’ve barely started my soup, but they’re whisking it away and a new bell-covered dish is set in front of me. Tender green asparagus this time, so tiny and bright they’re like plastic children’s toys. A silver teaspoon heaped with caviar. A seashell full of hollandaise sauce.
“We’ll be distributing your equipment in the morning,” Dorf says. “You’ll find the schedule in your rooms when you go upstairs. We’ll be roping into the palace from the wine cellar at nine o’ clock sharp, so make sure you get a good’s night sleep. Set your alarms, eat a healthy breakfast. . . .” He trails off, looking amused. “And from there, who knows? Whatever happens, whatever we find down there, this is going to be the experience of a lifetime.”
Jules and Hayden look at each other like Aw, yisssss. Will peers gravely at his plate. Lilly eats a single nub of asparagus and swoops her hair over her shoulder. I don’t know what to do. Something is off here. I don’t know what it is, but something feels wrong.
Chateau de Bessancourt—October 23, 1789
We locked ourselves in the library when we heard them: heavy boots in the lower chambers, voices calling to each other. I have been dreading this for days—strangers following the avenue up from the muddy road; hungry, bird-eyed people shattering a window latch, creeping in—but now that they are here, my heart twists in terror.
“Perhaps they are monarchists,” I say hopefully.
No one answers. Mama sits like an unfinished fountain nymph, her face stony and expressionless, Delphine clutched in her lap. Bernadette and Charlotte hunch together on the sofa. All of us are staring at the locked doors.
The footsteps approach the second floor—the iron snap of hobnails on the staircase, echoing up into the gallery. When they reach the library, Delphine cannot stop herself. A noise escapes her throat, high and piercing, like a kitten’s mew. It is impossible not to hear. The handle to the library rattles. Fists begin to pound viciously at the doors. I watch the wood splinter around the hinges. When no one goes to unlock them, the doors are kicked down.
Two men rush in, clad in Father’s colors, red and gold. Guards. One of them is ancient, weathered like the figurehead of a ship. The other is hardly older than I am, his face chiseled, a strand of dark hair fallen from under his hat, stuck in a curl to his forehead. Both are dripping sweat, breathless.
“Madame Célestine,” the younger one says. “Mesdemoiselles.” He nods quickly to my sisters and me. “They are coming.”
Mama sits up in her chair, wide-eyed and frozen, like a rabbit before the butchering. Delphine clings to her, burying her face in Mama’s side and watching the guards keenly out of the corner of her eye. Bernadette and Charlotte look on from the sofa, their arms wrapped around each other, the lace of their sleeves trembling, though their bodies seem motionless.
I stand. “Are you sure?” My voice is weak; I clear my throat. “Father said they would not come here. He said he had made an agreement, a pact with the Assemblée nationale that we would be left alone.”
The old guard speaks, his voice gruff and sticky. I am afraid he is going to spit on our floor: “If you wish, my lady, step outside and inform them of this agreement. Six hundred fishwives from Paris are coming through the park as we speak. I am sure they would be thrilled to meet you.”
The old guard’s face is scarred and pitted with age and disease. He is making no turns toward civility. In that case neither will I.
“What of the delivery road at the back of the kitchens?” I say. “Did you come on horseback? Can you drive a carriage?”
The guards exchange glances. “Mademoiselle, you misunderstand,” the young one says. “We are not from the estates. The marquis sent us; we are from. . .”