horrified, but Alexandre laughs. I let out a small chuckle and a louder one until our laughs echo in the empty space.
“Clearly that’s a sign we should get out of this room.” I produce my phone again and skim through the Gautier article—the closest thing we have to Dantès’s treasure map. I read out loud, “I arrived at the designated floor. A worn and shiny velvet tapestry . . . whose yellow borders and bruised threads bespoke long service, showed me the door.”
“That’s not here. Next floor?” Alexandre suggests, gesturing toward the door.
We wind our way up the stairs to an even grungier hall than the one below. It’s smaller and less ornate. I catch my breath and point to a hanging on the wall. Is it possible?
We step closer. Alexandre focuses his light on the border of the cloth. I squint. It’s dull, but yellow enough.
“No way.” I elbow him. “This is it. It has to be. Holy crap.”
Alexandre opens the door beside the tapestry. We step inside; he shines his light across the room. The beam passes over a large oval dining table and then lands on a buffet table against the wall. I read more of Gautier’s account out loud: “I found myself in a huge room lit at the end by several lamps. To enter here was to step backward into a shadowy past. Indeed, time seems to pass strangely in this house, as if it exists outside of time entirely. Delacroix, his eyes ever intent on the minutiae, stood by the side of a buffet examining a platter filled with small Japanese saucers.”
“A buffet,” Alexandre repeats slowly.
“This is it!” I say, trying not to yell. I’m nerding out over a hundred-and-fifty-year-old article about hash-eating artists. “My heart is racing. I had no idea breaking and entering was going to be this fun.” I give him a peck on the cheek and walk toward the buffet. Dust is everywhere. And spiderwebs. Presumably spiders, too. Luckily, spiders have never freaked me out.
The marble top of the buffet must have a half-inch of dust on it. It’s cool to the touch, like the banister on the stairs. Like a tomb. I wipe my fingers on my jeans. I wish I had a roll of paper towels and spray cleaner, but cleaning supplies didn’t seem like burglar necessities. Next time, I’ll remember.
Alexandre and I shine our phone lights on the buffet table.
It’s not large—maybe six feet across and about hip-high. The light reveals two narrow drawers below the marble. There are flowery carvings in the wood and something, maybe lion heads, with brass rings running through the noses. Beneath the drawers is a long cabinet. Intricate scenes I can’t quite distinguish cover the cupboard doors. The sides of the buffet are rounded like columns. Carved into each column is a woman with her breasts exposed. I try to get as many close-up shots as possible. The flash overexposes some of the photos, but I can try and fix that later. Right now, I want to make sure to document every moment.
“These guys were pervs,” I mutter.
“In France there are no perverts, only prudes.”
I laugh. “Whatever makes you feel better about your countrymen, dude.” I tug at the brass pull on one of the drawers. It sticks. I tug a little harder. It gives with a loud creak.
“Oh no. No. No. I think I cracked a French heirloom.”
Alexandre shines his light on the side of the drawer. Sure enough, there is a three-inch-long fissure running parallel to the top. I raise a hand to my mouth, forgetting how dusty it is. I cough, then grimace at Alexandre, who wears his classic mischievous grin.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask him. “I damaged an antique.”
“Okay, but it’s not exactly the Mona Lisa. And I believe you could convince a judge it was a crime of passion.”
“In America, crimes of passion are murders.”
“Of course they are. In France, crimes of passion are about being overcome by desire.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you ever listen to yourself?”
“Sometimes I think it’s better not to.” He smirks at me. I