Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer (4 page)

It was incredible. And Hannah and Pilar, used to being fabulously wealthy, moved around it like they owned the place.

While I, as usual, felt like a complete fraud.

The cost of the trip included meals from the
prix-fixe
(fixed-price) menu in the hotel’s café. This was great for me, since I wouldn’t have to spend every meal thinking about cost. But for Hannah, who never stopped to think about the
prix
of anything, much less care if it was
fixe
-d or not, this was a fact worth sighing over.

“So say a person
didn’t
want to drown herself in fat and carbs?” she said, staring dejectedly at the menu. “What then?”

“I’m sure you can order from the regular menu,” I said.

“Yeah —
if
a waiter would ever bother to come by,” she replied. “I meant to warn you, Colette. The service in France is dismal. And the waiters hate Americans.”

Our waiter wasn’t dismal, nor did he seem to hate us — that is, until Hannah started bossing him around. Then he gazed down at us with a glare of disdain and took our orders without even the slightest hint of a smile. When he set our plates down with a series of unceremonious
thunk
s, I gazed at the food.

I’d ordered a spinach and cheese quiche. Mom made quiches sometimes because they were pretty simple — a bunch of eggs in a pie crust.

But, with all due respect to my mother’s cooking, her quiches were nothing like the one in front of me. This one was orangey golden, its surface a perfectly burnt brown, flecked with the green of the spinach. The crust was crispy but buttery. I cut a slice and took a bite.

“Oh,” I said, my mouth full of food. The rich salty, cheesy flavor hit my tongue. “Oh my word.”

“Is it good?” Pilar asked, eyes wide. She’d let Hannah peer-pressure her into ordering a salad.

I scooped a bite onto my fork and handed it to her. When she popped it into her mouth, her eyes closed, and she made a happy little
hum
sound.

“You two act like you’ve never seen food before,” Hannah said, carving at the grilled fish on her plate.

“I haven’t,” I said. “Not food like this.”

She looked at me archly. “Just be careful — you don’t want to fly home with your belly hanging over your waistband.”

“My belly already hangs over my waistband,” Pilar said. “Can I have another bite?”

I put half the quiche on a bread plate and handed it across to her, and we ate in near silence, relishing the flavor. Hannah clearly disapproved, but she didn’t say another word about it.

Even she couldn’t resist the dessert plate made up of cookies and
macarons
, colorful French pastries with a sweet filling sandwiched between two fluffy discs. Delicious and completely addictive. And then the waiter brought over a tray of cheese — soft, melty, creamy cheese that practically collapsed on itself when you sliced it — and we all ate that, too.

By the time the meal was done, Hannah had the same food-glazed look in her eyes that Pilar and I did.

“I’m totally not sorry,” I said, heading back toward the stairs.

“Me, neither,” Peely said. “But I’m taking the elevator.”

“Who am I kidding?” Hannah said, laughing. “I’m not sorry, either. I’ll start my diet tomorrow.”

When we got to the room, Hannah suggested we sneak out to some local cafés. But Pilar was already changing into her pajamas, and I couldn’t stop yawning. So we decided to call it a night, and a few minutes later, I was snuggled under the covers of the pullout couch.

Despite the fact that I hadn’t slept in more than a day, I lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling.
The French ceiling
, I thought. I didn’t want to waste one minute of my trip not remembering that I was in Paris — that the food I ate was Parisian food, that the people I met were actual French people, and that the ground I walked on was the most magical and romantic ground in the world.

The only thing that wasn’t absolutely perfect was a tiny, nagging sense of unease about something — but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. So I turned onto my side and closed my eyes, resolving to put any unnamed worries out of my mind for the next eight days.

“WHO ARE WE waiting on?” Madame Mitchell asked.

We were in the hotel lobby, ready to walk to the Saint-Michel station, where we’d catch a commuter train to our first official French destination: the royal palace at Versailles.

“Hannah and Pilar,” Audrey said. “Surprise, surprise.”

Although the way Audrey presented herself to the world physically was cringe-worthy, you had to admire the way she spoke her mind without worrying who she ticked off.

Madame Mitchell turned to me, pushing her reading glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. “Any idea when they’ll be down?”

As if I had any influence over them? I shrugged.

It had taken me about fifteen minutes to get ready — I wore a gray sweater, a cream-colored corduroy skirt, a pair of gray tights, and knee-high dark-brown walking boots. Based on what I’d observed on the street yesterday, I kept my hair simple, pulling it back in a low bun, and my makeup minimal — pale-brown eye shadow, light blush, and pink lips, no mascara. My only accessories were a pair of small silver hoop earrings and the medallion I’d found in the old box back home. It hung from its ribbon around my neck.

I’d tried to convince Hannah and Peely that French women were lower maintenance than your typical Ohio prep-school student, but they both insisted on performing their usual elaborate grooming rituals.

“Versailles has been there for almost four hundred years,” Hannah said, plugging in her flat-iron as I hurried to load my day bag. “I’m sure it can wait another few minutes.”

Finally, I gave up and left them so I could eat breakfast and meet the rest of the group by nine.

They came strolling into the lobby together at 9:14. Hannah had meticulously straightened her hair and wore gobs of makeup. She was in one of her doubtless brand-new outfits, a dark-blue minidress with a flared skirt and wide bell sleeves, paired with four-inch heels and a Marc Jacobs handbag the size of a small car.

Pilar had gelled her curly hair into a bazillion shiny ringlets and wore a pair of skinny jeans with a voluminous bright-pink poncho-style top. On her feet were three-inch cork platforms.

“Are you going to be able to walk in those shoes, girls?” Madame Mitchell asked, one eyebrow raised.

“I hope so,” Pilar said. “These are the lowest heels I brought.”

Hannah flashed a disdainful smile. “I can walk in anything.”

But after two blocks, we all had to stop and stand around for ten minutes while Hannah went into a shoe store and bought a pair of knee-high flesh-toned boots. At least after that, we could move at a normal pace.

“This is ridiculous,” Hannah said, coming up alongside me. “They need to repave these streets so people can wear real shoes.”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Hundreds of years of history should totally get covered up so you can wear your Jimmy Choos.”

I’d meant it as a joke, but her sharp look stung me like a hornet.

“They weren’t Jimmy Choos, Colette,” Pilar said, a gentle rebuke in her voice. “They were Louboutins.”

“At least Pilar and I don’t look like we just rolled out of bed,” Hannah said hotly.

I didn’t let the comment bother me too much. She was only angry because she’d been forced to admit she was wrong. Looking around, it was obvious that I blended in, while Pilar and Hannah stuck out like a pair of overdone poodles on a hiking trail.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Hannah’s voice was sour.

“To the train station,” Pilar said. “It’s not much farther.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Well, I’ve got my clodhoppers on now, so that doesn’t matter.”

I cast a glance at Hannah’s “clodhoppers,” which had probably cost four hundred dollars.

“I think we should turn left here,” Audrey said. She was walking next to the teacher, directly in front of us.

Madame Mitchell followed Audrey’s advice without a moment’s hesitation, which made Hannah murmur, “
Loser
,” under her breath. Pilar laughed, and I stayed silent — but I could tell by the way Audrey’s shoulders went rigid that she’d heard what Hannah said.

The Saint-Michel station served both Paris’s subway and the commuter rail lines. We stopped near the antique art deco
METRO
sign while Madame Mitchell looked around for our tour guide.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I found myself looking into the bright-blue eyes of a guy a few years older than me.

“
Pardonnez-moi, mais c’est un groupe d’élèves étrangers qui fait une visite guidée
,” he said.

“What?” I said. “I mean …
pardon
?”

His eyebrows went up in surprise. “Oh, you are with the group. I thought you were French. I was telling you that you were mixed in with a bunch of Americans.”

I stared at him, not knowing what to say. He thought I was French! An actual French person
thought I was French
. He gave me a quick smile and walked over to Madame Mitchell.

“Girls!” she said. She flapped a red handkerchief above her head.
“Écoutez! Voici votre guide!”

“That’s him?
That
is our hot French tour guide?” Hannah’s face fell. “I want my money back.”

It was true that this guy looked nothing like the way you’d imagine a dashing European university student to look. I guess we’d all been hoping for Pilar’s vampire — someone tall and slim, with an angular jaw and sexy, unkempt hair. Someone pale and artistic. Someone French-looking. Our guide had tan skin and neatly groomed dark blond hair. He wore a red hoodie, a black T-shirt, and jeans. His shoes, gray Pumas, weren’t bulky white sneakers, but they weren’t exactly sleek leather oxfords, either.

“Mesdemoiselles,”
Madame Mitchell said,
“Je vous présente Jules Martin.”

Jules Martin. Only she pronounced his name
Zhool Mar-tahn
. Which, I had to admit, seemed a little exotic for the boy standing in front of us.

There was nothing wrong with him, exactly. He just looked kind of … American.

Hannah crossed her arms, disgusted. “What a waste of time.”

“
Bonjour
, ladies,” Zhool said.

“At least his accent is cute,” Pilar whispered.

“So we’re supposed to tour Paris with our eyes closed?” Hannah replied.

“Yes, definitely,” I said. “That’s the best way to see the city.”

Zhool glanced over at us, and his expression made me suddenly ashamed. It was this glazed look that told me he wasn’t seeing us as people but as a stereotypical group of silly teenage girls. I half-pivoted away from my friends, but it seemed like too little, too late.

He led us down into the station. I was nervous when I saw that we had to go underground, but soon we were in a wide-open terminal. Madame Mitchell passed out our tickets, and we all sat together on the top level of the train.

Hannah took the window seat (another unspoken Hannah rule: if there was a window seat, she got it) and Peely sat next to her. I went to the next row back and sat down, picking up a newspaper some commuter had left behind.

As I folded it, I caught a glimpse of the headline:
BRUTALITÉ! L’ASSASSINAT DE DEUX ADOS DES FAMILLES DISTINGUÉES!

Right. The murders our van driver had mentioned. I shivered as I glanced at the photos of the two victims, Gabrielle Roux and Pierre Beauclerc. Gabrielle was gorgeous and Pierre was alluring in the way we’d hoped our tour guide would be. I squinted at their faces for a moment, trying to figure out why they looked familiar.

Then Pilar turned around.
“Comment allez-vous?”
she trilled.

“She’s
bien
,” Hannah said, turning around us. “What else would she be?”

I tried to smile.
“Très bien.”

But I felt like the faces on the folded-up newspaper were watching me, all the way to Versailles.

It was a two-block walk from the train station to the palace. Jules spent much of it walking backward, talking about the French monarchy. “Versailles was originally a hunting lodge, until King Louis the Fourteenth — the Sun King — moved the royal court and French government here in 1682.”

“Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” Hannah asked, tugging my sleeve.

“Of course, the monarchy was abolished during the Revolution, beginning in the year 1789, when the Jacobins stormed the palace and captured the royal family.”

Pilar stopped for a second. “Hang on, there’s a piece of gravel in my shoe.”

“King Louis the Sixteenth and his queen, Marie Antoinette, were both imprisoned —”

“Have you ever been out here, Pilar?” Hannah asked.

“No, I —”

“
Shh
,” I said to them both, and they were quiet.

“— beheaded,” Jules said. He paused. “Any questions?”

“You don’t seriously care about all this boring stuff, do you, Colette?” Hannah sniffed. “We’re not supposed to be
learning
.”

Jules went on talking, but I gave up trying to hear him. Instead, I let Pilar lean on me because her feet were already sore, and I held Hannah’s purse while she dug through it looking for her eight-hundred-dollar Bulgari sunglasses.

But when we turned the corner and the palace came into view, even Hannah was struck dumb. It was as big as a shopping mall and covered in ornate stonework and metal accents, with wings the size of slightly smaller shopping malls on either side. In the center was a gigantic cobblestone courtyard that had once, Jules said, bustled with the activities of the royal court. Separating us from the palace grounds was a fence of gleaming yellow-gold, impossibly vivid against the pale-blue sky.

I looked from one side to the other and thought,
My family might have come here. Maybe they even walked on these same cobblestones.

“In front of us is the main palace,” Jules said. “Behind it lie the world-famous gardens. Farther off, you will find the private residences of the king and queen, Le Grand Trianon and Le Petit Trianon. Past Le Petit Trianon —”

His voice faded out of my mind as I tried to imagine what it would be like to cross the bumpy courtyard in a horse-drawn carriage, knowing that when the carriage stopped, there would be an army of servants to help you out … carry your things … bow down to you….

I could practically feel the weight of a gown on my hips, a powdered wig on my head.

“Earth to Colette,” Hannah said. “We have to go get our tickets.”

“Right,” I said, snapping out of it.

After we crossed through the metal detectors, Madame Mitchell gave us the okay to split up, but threatened us with certain death if we failed to meet back by the entrance at 5 p.m. on the dot.

“Are you listening, Hannah and Pilar?” she said.

“No,” Hannah said under her breath. But Pilar nodded and gave the teacher a thumbs-up.

Then we were on our own. Hannah declared that first we would walk through the main house (only
she
could look at this place and call it a “house”), and then we’d venture onto the grounds when the day got a bit warmer.

The wings contained a series of rooms, one leading to the next like links on a chain. You could imagine someone spending a whole morning lounging on the brocade sofas and satin chairs as they waited for their audience with the king. The walls were covered in jewel-toned panels of silk, with huge oil paintings and carved marble busts everywhere.