On the Brink of Paris (5 page)

A
s it turned out, I didn't need Charlotte for information about what the next day had in store for us. Madame Chavotte paid us a visit in our room before breakfast and told us repeatedly that she had booked us on a group tour at Paris's most famous museum, the Louvre, beginning at one
P.M
. sharp. Yay! Educational, and GUARANTEED to provide gems and nuggets! Although having not read the sheet in the information packet, I could only assume this to be the case.

We would have the morning to ourselves and would be permitted to explore our neighborhood WITH THE STRICT PROVISION that we remain all together or in two groups, boys and girls. No one, for any reason, was to become Separated from the Group. We were to take
the bus or the metro to the museum, using the map and directions provided in our information packets. Or in my case, the map and directions provided in Charlotte's information packet. There we would assemble by what Madame Chavotte called “ze glesspairmeed,” which both Charlotte and Janet claimed to understand. Because of what Charlotte had said on the train last night, I didn't ask her what “ze glesspairmeed” was. I didn't want another lecture. All would become known to me in good time, I figured. Like Bonnie always said, the Universe revealed everything to us when we most needed it.

We were standing outside the VEI as Madame Chavotte reviewed the instructions for the fourth time. She had intensified her tone so that she sounded more like she was auditioning for a yodeling contest than performing her chaperoning duties.

“Okay, zen, if you MUST spleet up, you go in TWO GROUPS ONLY. Ze boys wis ze boys, ze girls wis ze girls,
ça va
? Do NOT GET SEPARATED FROM ZE GROUP. Eet ees
absolument
forbeeden. Eef you break zis rule, forget eet. No more Paree. No more nussing! We will cancel everysing. No more treeps ever.
D'accord?
Good. Okay. At lunchtime, you are taking
le métro
or
le bus
to the Louvre, where we will all meet at ze glesspairmeed at exactly one
P.M
.
Comprenez
?”

Everyone nodded energetically. After yodeling the same
set of instructions one final time, Madame Chavotte reluctantly released us. As instructed, we separated into two groups and dispersed like a flock of carrier pigeons suddenly freed in the wild. Well, the girls did at least. I looked back to see the boys standing around, looking genuinely flummoxed. Bud and Chaz were taking tentative steps back and forth. Lewis, polishing his Sidekick case with his shirt, looked like he was trying to figure out a way to come with us. And the Mysterious Tim was missing altogether, the unfortunate victim, apparently, of a stomach virus. Or maybe he did the chili-dog-before-the-ride thing at Disneyland Paris too. Though I'd never even made eye contact with Tim (that I was aware of), I couldn't help feeling sorry for him—blowing chow on vacation in Paris. But Charlotte was already blazing a path down the street, and there was no time to offer them helpful suggestions. We had to take care of ourselves. Or rather, we had to let Charlotte take care of us. Which at this moment involved running down the street after her.

“Where are we going?” I called to Charlotte. I had to practically jog to catch up with her. Janet was plodding clumsily beside me, out of breath, but Bonnie had somehow managed to get way up ahead, drifting like a medieval apparition with her long, straw-colored hair streaming behind her.

“You absolutely
must
see Victor Hugo's house, Lily,”
Charlotte said, “and of course we can't miss the Pompidou. If we hurry, we might even have time to stop into the Musée Carnavalet before heading over to the Louvre.”

It was really rather alarming how Charlotte knew about all these places, their hours of operation, and how to get there on foot. When Charlotte acted like this—like some kind of Madame-Chavotte-in-Training—I had to remember her loyalty, her sweetness, and her commitment to me. Even though she'd been positively parental with me last night, I knew that most of Charlotte's lectures were intended for the Benefit, Education, and Advancement of Lily M. Blennerhassett, a charity to which I myself was quite partial. Worry though she might, Charlotte believed in me. She believed I was a Great Writer, that I was going to become an even Greater Writer, and that I was fully capable of penning the Great Parisian Novel. Charlotte always stuck with me, through thick and thin. She helped me believe in myself. So if she was being kind of bossy, that was just fine with me.

Plus, I couldn't imagine ANYTHING more important, more inspiring, more legitimately Parisian than visiting the actual home of that genius
écrivain
, author of the masterpiece
Les Misérables
, Victor Hugo. It absolutely went without saying that the bona fide home of this Universally Acknowledged Literary Great would be bursting at the seams with gems and nuggets for my
Mental Pool. Just standing within those four walls, breathing that literary air, would probably inspire me to write the first sentence of my Great Parisian Novel!

I trotted alongside Charlotte happily, while Janet brought up the rear. But then we found ourselves deviating from the plan.

Charlotte started to cross the street, yet Bonnie was walking really fast—almost flying, in fact—down the Rue de Turenne. She looked, Dear Readers, like she was on a Mission from God.

“Bonnie! Bonnie, it's this way!” Charlotte called. Janet had caught up with us and was panting and heaving, muttering that we all walked
trop vite
and we needed to slow down a little and enjoy
la vie
. But there was no time to stand around gasping for air and listening to Janet itemize her complaints. Bonnie was a full block away and steaming ahead at full speed. If we didn't take off after her immediately, Bonnie would become Separated from the Group.

And that was not allowed.

So we went after her.

“Je need rester!”
Janet was calling. “
Je veux
Diet Coke….”

We made up a little ground when Bonnie had to pause at an intersection, but as we got closer, the light changed and she charged on. She seemed to be heading
for the river. But then she made an abrupt turn down a curved street. By the time Charlotte and I reached the spot, we couldn't see Bonnie at all. We exchanged a quick look, ascertained (on the basis of the garbled fake-French–accented exclamations coming from that direction) that Janet was indeed behind us, then headed down the street where Bonnie had disappeared.

And came upon a vision.

It was as if Bonnie had walked right into a fairy tale. Directly in front of her was what looked like a small castle. But REAL. I mean, it put Sleeping Beauty's Castle to complete and utter shame. There were towers. There were arched windows. There was a massive Gothic doorway. All it lacked was Heath Ledger in a suit of armor atop a white stallion.

Bonnie was standing in front of the castle looking hypnotized. I know you're not supposed to disturb people who are sleepwalking, because you might startle them and they might accidentally attack you and yank your ears down below your waist. But I wasn't sure if the same thing held true for people who stood outside castles looking hypnotized. As a Writer I wanted to know immediately and in great detail what was going through Bonnie's mind, so I could add it to my Mental Pool. As a Human Being I was slightly freaked.

The dilemma was solved by Janet, still wheezing and
huffing and muttering about obtaining cold drinks. She marched up to Bonnie and tapped her sharply on the shoulder.

“Bonnie. Can we go now,
s'il vous plaît
? I have
le
thirst
terrible
.”

Since Bonnie didn't rear back and swipe off Janet's head with her metro map, I cautiously approached her.

“Um…Bon? You okay?”

I have to say she looked okay. She was still staring at the castle, looking all golden and fresh like a daisy in a field. (Ew. Sorry for the oversentimentality.)

“I'm fine, man. I'm phat.”

Janet made an explosive sound.

“You're not FAT, Bonnie. If anyone here needs to cut back a little on the carbs, it's—”

“What IS this place?” I asked, nodding toward the building.

“I used to live here,” Bonnie said. She looked at me with a pleased smile, like she'd just worked out the theory of relativity all by herself, with a crayon on the back of a napkin.

“You used to live in PAREE?” cried Janet.

“What?” I added.

“When?” asked Charlotte, who was now exhibiting somewhat milder symptoms of hypnotization as she squinted up at the building.

“Three, maybe four hundred years ago,” Bonnie said.

Charlotte, Janet, and I simultaneously paused with our mouths open in prequestion gape.

“Four hundred,” Bonnie clarified, having been given some quiet time for thought.

“Wow,” I said, trying to look casual and impressed at the same time. “Do they still forward your mail?”

Charlotte, meanwhile, was flipping rapidly through her guidebook.

“Okay, okay, here it is!” Charlotte said. “The Hôtel de Sens. It houses a fine-art collection. It was named for the archbishop of Sens.”

“It's a hotel?” I asked. I couldn't help feeling disappointed. Bonnie lived in Paris four hundred years ago in a HOTEL?

“
Hôtel
can also mean private mansion or important building,” Charlotte said. “It says the Hôtel de Sens is one of only three medieval-era residences left in the city.”

I couldn't stop staring at Bonnie. And it wasn't just because she'd made this outrageous statement or led us straight through a city we'd never been in before directly to a building none of us, not even Charlotte, knew existed. I was staring at her because I believed her, and that might possibly indicate that I too had gone as nutty as a half-baked fruit loaf.

“I told you I had a past life in Paris,” Bonnie said to me.

“I know,” I said. “I just sort of thought it was…you know…a EUPHEMISM.”

“It was built in 1475,” Charlotte added.

“Are we going in?” I asked. Bonnie shook her head.

“Not necessary, man,” she said. “I want to remember it the way it was. The past is past.”

And then she turned and walked on, just like that.

“Finally!” Janet cried. “First café we see, we're stopping!”

“Lily,” Charlotte whispered conspiratorially.

“What?” I whispered back.

Charlotte discreetly showed me a page of her guidebook, shielding it like it was a naughty magazine or a subversive publication.

“Look at this,” she said.

The page was devoted to the Hôtel de Sens. It had a picture of the outside view and a few shots of the interior courtyard, which looked…well, medieval.

“Yeah, that's definitely the one,” I said.

“No, here! This!” Charlotte whispered.

“In 1605 the first wife of Henri the Fourth, Queen Margot, lived in the Hôtel de Sens,” I read.

“Shhh!”

Now I admit, math is not my strong point. But I realized what Charlotte was pointing out. The year 1605 was more or less four hundred years ago. Which might just make Bonnie…royalty.

Bonnie, once again, was in the lead.

“Follow that queen,” I murmured.

 

We'd found a café with outdoor tables near the metro stop, and we were lounging back, our tummies bulging with pleasure. Janet had finally obtained her drink. After several futile attempts to communicate her desire for
un Coca diète,
the waiter finally inquired in perfectly good English if she meant a Coca Light.

In spite of the warm weather, Charlotte, Bonnie, and I had opted for what we'd heard was a fabled drink of mythical proportions: the French hot chocolate. We were rewarded for our daring by the appearance of three soup bowl–size servings of a deep brown liquid that seemed part drink, part meal. The first sip confirmed what we'd heard. I made a sound like a cat that had found a way into a fish market. Charlotte's eyes actually rolled back in her head. And Bonnie, whom I've seen looking peaceful more times than I can count, looked so serene, she appeared to be levitating several inches out of her chair. We were spoiled for life. We would never find satisfaction in powdered Nestlé's or Swiss Miss again. It is a moment I will remember until I take my last breath (which I may use asking for another French hot chocolate). I slurped desperately at the last dregs of chocolate, while Charlotte paid the bill (she was in
charge of all Official French Transactions) and declared we needed to get going if were going to reach the Louvre on time.

But we were interrupted.

“Look!” Janet said, pointing. “Look at her, you guys. Look at that woman, right there!”

Janet was gesturing at a woman coming down the sidewalk with a tiny white dog. She didn't look like anything special to me—just a woman in a short skirt and a top that might be more appropriate for someone a tad younger. A decade or two.

“That,”
whispered Janet reverently, “is a real
Parisienne
. Look at her posture! Those pearls! That outfit! Have you ever seen anything so chic? So sophisticated? So positively
formidable
? They simply do not make women like that in America. They simply do
not
. Edith Piaf could NEVER have been an American.”

“Who is this Edith Piaf you keep going on about?” I asked.

But Janet was fixated on the approaching figure of alleged chicness. Oh, crapstick. It looked like Janet was going to try to TALK to the woman. The situation was morphing from Simply Stupid to Enormously Embarrassing. I thought about hiding under the table, but the quarters were too cramped. So I attempted to look like I didn't know Janet, like she'd just sat down with
us accidentally. Then, to my horror, my fears were realized. Janet leaped up and extended a hand toward the woman.