The Last Musketeer

by Stuart Gibbs

  Suddenly Dinicoeur sniffed in disgust.

  Greg’s massive desk had just come off the truck. Before it was Greg’s, Grandpa Gus had used it as boy, and he’d claimed that it had belonged to his grandfather. It was sturdy and ornate, hewn from oak. Greg knew why they had to get rid of it, and it wasn’t for the money. There was no place for it in their cramped apartment; it couldn’t even fit through the door.

  “What is that?” Dinicoeur asked with a sneer.

  “Just an old desk,” Greg’s mother said apologetically, as if she was embarrassed to have brought it. “We know it’s not of the same period as everything else, but . . . We thought you wanted everything.”

  Dinicoeur clucked his tongue. “Being old doesn’t make something an antique. Though I suppose we can find a place for it in our offices.” He waved it aside dismissively. The workmen dutifully set it on the dock near Greg, far from the rest of the heirlooms, as if it carried a disease they might catch.

  For Greg’s whole life, the desk had been placed against the wall of his room. He’d never seen the back of it until now. To his surprise it was covered with intricate carvings. Perhaps it had been a businessman’s desk, and the back was supposed to face and impress clients. Greg instantly recognized fleurs-de-lis, the famous emblems of French royalty. There were a dozen emblazoned on raised circles . . . though one was tilted to the side, as if it were a knob. . . .

  Without thinking, Greg reached out and twisted it. The fleur-de-lis rotated easily. Greg heard a click, and then the thump of something dropping inside the top drawer. Greg scurried around to the other side of the desk and yanked the drawer open. He’d cleaned out the desk before they’d moved—but now, nestled in the back of the drawer, he saw a small book, bound in leather with a strap knotted around it.

  The pages were brown and the cover was coated in a thin layer of dust. Greg wiped off the book on his shorts and found four words embossed on the leather:

  Property of Jacob Rich

  Greg’s eyes widened in surprise. Jacob was Gus’s grandfather, Greg’s great-great-grandfather. Intrigued, Greg opened the book. The spine was stiff with age and the pages coughed up clouds of dust. They were filled with neat rows of Jacob’s crisp, concise handwriting, vestiges of a time when people wrote actual letters rather than text messages. At the top of the first page was a brief introduction:

  4/7

  In any life, there comes a time for introspection. This is my time. Or more importantly, to detail what I know. Here now, perhaps more than ever, it is important that pen meets paper. This is the task I will undertake for thine eyes.

  “You must be Gregory.”

  Startled, Greg palmed the diary and whirled around to find Michel Dinicoeur looming over him. “Greg,” he corrected.

  “Sorry I’ve been so distracted since you arrived, but I wanted to say hello.” Dinicoeur extended his right hand.

  Greg shook it—and flinched. Dinicoeur’s hand felt cold and inhuman. He glanced at it. It wasn’t real. Instead, it was an amazingly lifelike prosthesis. Greg had never touched a fake hand before. He recoiled, snapping his own hand away before he was even aware of what he was doing. His face flushed. “Um—sorry—”

  “Greg!” his mother scolded.

  “No, it’s my fault.” Dinicoeur smiled. “I should have warned him. I’ve had it so long, I forget about it sometimes.”

  “What happened to it?” Greg asked.

  Dinicoeur laughed good-naturedly. “I made a mistake long ago. I simply wasn’t careful. But I’ve learned my lesson. Were you doing something with the desk, Greg?”

  “Just saying good-bye to it.” Greg patted the scarred wood top.

  Dinicoeur studied him carefully . . . until a loud bang diverted his attention. One of the workmen had dropped a chest of drawers. Dinicoeur cursed under his breath and ran back down the loading dock. “Careful with that! It’s worth more than you’ll earn in ten years!”

  Greg took advantage of the distraction. The diary was just small enough to fit in one of the large pockets of his cargos. He was dying to read more of it, but not while Dinicoeur was on the prowl. There’d be plenty of time later, back at the hotel.

  “I hate to sound picky,” Dinicoeur announced to Greg’s parents. “But we did discuss one piece that wasn’t furniture. . . .”

  “It’s right here,” Greg’s mother said, pointing to her necklace, which was now concealed beneath her shirt. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist wearing it one last time.”

  Dinicoeur’s eyes lit up, glittering like the crystal itself. “I understand completely. Well, we’ve spent more than enough time on this horrid dock, haven’t we? How would you like to see the future home of your belongings?”

  Greg’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe it. Mom was giving up her necklace too?

  But his parents were beside themselves with excitement. Night was falling and the Louvre had closed, meaning that soon they’d be seeing some of the world’s greatest works of art without fighting the crowds like everyone else.

  Dinicoeur led the way. The loading dock was on the basement level, which opened into a long hallway flanked by massive, climate-controlled art storage rooms with thick steel doors and coded keypad entries. Dinicoeur swiftly ushered them through the passage and into the museum itself. To Greg’s amazement, the first thing he saw was a huge stone wall with rounded turrets at each end—as if part of an ancient castle sat in the basement of the museum.

  Dinicoeur chuckled. “This is the medieval Louvre,” he explained. “This building has been many things throughout its history, though it began as a fortress. Eight centuries ago, when Paris was a walled city, this building guarded the main entrance. But when the city expanded beyond the walls in the 1500s, the Louvre became useless as a defense. So it became the royal palace, home to the king and queen of France for over two hundred years.”

  For a moment, Greg forgot his worries. “Wow. I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s true,” Dinicoeur said. “In fact, I suspect many of the items you’ve brought back with you used to be in the palace. Now, after four centuries, they have finally returned home!”

  “Isn’t that exciting?” Greg’s mother asked. “I always suspected they were special! Imagine, Greg. King Louis XIII might have sat on one of our chairs!”

  “I can practically guarantee it,” Dinicoeur said with a sly smile.

  Over the next hour, he escorted the Rich family through the vast, ornate halls, pointing out everything of interest along the way. Except for the security guards who patrolled in teams, the foursome had the entire museum to themselves. They made their way up massive stone staircases and through gigantic galleries, past Greek antiquities, Egyptian artifacts, and medieval art . . . until they finally arrived in a grand room filled with paintings of Paris four hundred years before.

  “This was one of the staterooms of Henry IV, the father of Louis XIII,” Dinicoeur began. “Both kings were instrumental in turning the Louvre from a medieval fortress into the great building it is today.” He waved around the room at its beautifully decorated walls, the inlaid wooden floor, and a soaring ceiling painted full of fat cherubs and clouds. “The royal family lived here during the reconstruction, but then, they had to. It took over fifty years to renovate this entire building. But it was worth it. Here’s what this very room looked like back before it was redone.” He pointed to a painting so large that it stretched almost from the ceiling to the floor, portraying a dark, dismal room decorated with dreary tapestries. The only furnishing was a large, spindly-looking chair.

  “What is that?” Greg’s father asked.

  “The king’s throne,” Dinicoeur replied.

  “That was the throne?” Mom cried. “It looks like it came from IKEA!”

  Greg laughed in spite of himself, glancing around. “I can’t believe this is the same place. When was that picture painted?”

  “In 1615, five years into the reign of Louis XIII,” Dinicoeur replied. “Have you studied French history at
school?”

  “Not much,” Greg admitted.

  The truth was, even at Wellington Prep, they’d focused a lot on American history, but not much on the rest of the world. All of European history had been crammed into two semesters, and he’d missed most of the last part when he’d transferred schools. He didn’t know squat about the major players in French history except for Napoleon.

  “Such a shame,” Dinicoeur said with a sigh. “France has a magnificent history, filled with great men, great wars, and—”

  “Great Scott,” said Greg’s mother, peering into the next room. “This is incredible.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the Frenchman. “The crown jewels.”

  Greg followed the three adults through the archway and gasped. Behind thick protective glass sat the property of kings: crowns, tiaras, pendants, and scepters, all forged from gold and silver and encrusted with precious stones. Diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires gleamed. Greg’s eyes roved over swords and daggers with gem- covered hilts.

  Dinicoeur turned to Greg’s mother. Greg noticed him lick his lips. “Shall we return your necklace to its rightful place here?”

  Greg’s mother’s hand reflexively went to her crystal. “You mean . . . this was one of the crown jewels?” she gasped.

  Dinicoeur laughed. “Well, no. That crystal isn’t precious. But the piece does date back to the time of the Bourbon kings. It doesn’t belong in this room, but it will be a wonderful addition to our collection.” He extended his hand.

  Greg held his breath. Please, Mom. Don’t do it. Not that . . .

  To his surprise and relief, his mother stepped back. Her hand closed around the crystal protectively. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dinicoeur. I’ve changed my mind about this one. It’s too special to me. . . .”

  Anger flashed in Dinicoeur’s eyes. Only for a second, but it was there.

  Greg looked to his parents. His father put his arm around his mother protectively.

  “Mrs. Rich,” Dinicoeur began. He was trying hard to sound calm, but Greg could hear frustration seeping into his voice. “We had a deal.”

  “I know,” Greg’s mother said. “And I’ll be happy to refund the money to you. You can have all the other pieces. Just not this one.”

  “But that’s the one I need!” Dinicoeur shouted. He lunged at Greg’s mother.

  She shrieked and tried to slip away, but the Frenchman moved with surprising speed, knocking Greg’s father out of the way. Dinicoeur’s hand closed around the crystal and, with one powerful jerk, he snapped the chain that held it. At the same time, he shoved Greg’s mother backward into the display case that held the ceremonial crowns.

  Alarms blared.

  And with that, Dinicoeur bolted from the room, the crystal in his hand.

  Chapter Three

  IT TOOK A MOMENT FOR GREG TO PROCESS WHAT WAS HAPPENING. Dinicoeur had escaped. Red lights were flashing. A piercing siren filled the air. Far more troubling, a metal security wall had started to drop in the doorway, threatening to seal his family inside the exhibition gallery.

  Greg spotted a small wooden stool, presumably left for the museum guards. Without thinking, he snatched it and shoved it under the descending steel slab. It struck the stool, splintering the wood and buckling the legs. But miraculously the stool held. A narrow gap remained between the wall and the floor.

  “Hurry!” Greg cried over the alarm. He ushered his parents toward the doorway.

  Neither Dad nor Mom protested. They fell to the floor and slithered out of the chamber. Greg went last. Barely a second after he was through, the stool collapsed and the wall came crashing down.

  Dinicoeur stood in front of the massive painting of the pre-restored room. He removed something shiny from his pocket, and Greg saw a jagged black glint in the flashing alarm lights. For a moment, Greg thought it was his mother’s crystal—until he noticed Dinicoeur already held his mother’s crystal in his other hand; the silver chain still dangled from it. It’s the other half! Greg thought. He raced toward Dinicoeur—just as the Frenchman fit both pieces of the crystal together.

  There was a blinding flash of light, and a powerful wave of energy rippled through the air like an invisible tsunami. Greg was blown off his feet and tumbled backward into the wall.

  For a moment he lay still, rubbing his aching head. When he stood up again, he wondered if he’d banged his head and was hallucinating.

  Dinicoeur had focused the crystal’s light on the huge painting of the old throne room . . . and in response the painting was starting to ripple. It was far more vivid, somehow, as if it had come to life.

  “Arrêtez!” Greg’s father barked.

  He was already on his feet, filled with a determination Greg had never seen in him. He charged, tackling the Frenchman. Both pieces of the crystal toppled from Dinicoeur’s grasp, skittering across the floor. The men tumbled into the painting. To Greg’s astonishment, the wavering canvas didn’t rip. Instead, his father and Dinicoeur seemed to have been swallowed by the painting itself.

  Greg’s mom chased after them, reaching for his dad’s hand. Greg saw her fall forward behind her husband, into the painted throne room.

  Deep down inside, Greg figured his eyes were playing tricks on him. There had to be a rational explanation for all this. Perhaps the painting wasn’t really a painting at all, but an incredible trompe l’oeil illusion, a hole in the wall that led to another gallery of the museum. And so he leaped through the frame into the throne room as well.

  A wave of energy surged through him . . . and everything changed.

  The rippling ceased. So did the flashing red lights. And the wail of the alarm siren.

  But what really stood out was the smell.

  Wherever Greg was, it stank. The room reeked of old wood and burned oil and a distant tang of raw sewage. It was hot, too. Nasty hot.

  Greg wiped his brow, blinking the sweat out of his eyes in the dim flicker of oil lamps. He spun around, trying to make sense of it all. The frame through which he and his family and Dinicoeur had just passed shimmered with an image of the Louvre gallery—and then it winked out of existence. There was only a bare wall where it had been.

  Greg rubbed his eyes. His pulse quickened. He turned to his parents, who staggered to their feet, gaping in shock.

  Dinicoeur glared at the three of them. “Fools!” he barked. “You should have stayed on the other side!”

  “What do you mean?” Greg’s father demanded. “What’s going on?”

  Before Dinicoeur could answer, four soldiers raced into the room. Each wore a blue tunic emblazoned with a cross. Each carried a sword. Their dark hair was matted and stringy. Greg stared at them in astonishment. The soldiers stared back, coming to a halt. When they noticed Dinicoeur, however, they gave a gasp of recognition. They knelt before him, bowing their heads in submission.

  Without missing a beat, Dinicoeur spoke to them in French. Though it wasn’t exactly the French Greg had studied in school. It was more nasal, and the inflection was odd, sounding a bit like the way French Cajuns spoke in Louisiana. But Greg could still understand it.

  “Arrest them! They’re here to assassinate the king!”

  Greg’s father was closest to the soldiers. The four came for him first, swords at the ready.

  Greg was now sure he’d hit his head. There was no way any of this could be real.

  He ran to help his parents, but his mother’s scream stopped him cold in his tracks. “No, Greg! Run!”

  Greg glanced at his father. There was a don’t-you-dare-disobey-me look in Dad’s eyes. “Go! It’s the only way to help us!”

  “But—,” Greg started.

  “Seize the boy!” Dinicoeur yelled in French.

  One of the soldiers lunged for him. Greg cast one last look at his parents, and then dashed through the closest doorway with the soldier on his heels. He ran as far as he could, retracing his steps through the museum—

  —but it wasn’t exactly the same place. All the art was gone. The rooms
were dark and cavernous, lit only by oil lamps, if they were even lit at all. The grand staircase, made of stone when Greg had climbed it before, had been replaced by wood. A huge chandelier, thirty feet across, hung suspended by a heavy chain above it, a hundred candles flickering in its sconces.

  Greg skidded to a stop at the top of the rickety stairs. Five stringy-haired, tunic-wearing soldiers waited at the bottom. The soldier behind Greg ordered them to stop him. They charged up, blocking his escape.

  If this is a dream, I might as well risk it all, Greg thought. He leaped off the stairs and grabbed the chandelier.

  It creaked ominously with his weight. Half the candles blew out as he swung above the stairwell. Greg let go, hit the wooden floor with a thud, and somersaulted forward, leaving the guards on the stairwell behind—then started running again.

  Even in his delirious condition, a part of him wanted to turn back for his parents. They’d ordered him to go, yes. But now they’d been captured . . . or worse. And if Greg had stayed, he would have been captured or worse, too. As his father had said, the only way to help them was to run. But where? Even if he escaped, he had no idea where he was or what had happened. Everything was so unreal. The crystal, the picture . . .

  It has to be a dream. Of course it’s a dream.

  Greg ran through room after room, the wooden floors creaking under his feet, the stuffy, smelly air threatening to suffocate him. The building was endless, with no sign of an exit anywhere. He could hear the soldiers pounding along in pursuit—and thought he heard whinnying through the floor below. Was there a stable directly beneath him?

  A window appeared ahead, open wide. A soothing breeze caressed Greg’s hot face. He stumbled as he ran the last few paces and peered outside, his lungs heaving, assessing the distance to the ground. It was only ten feet—high enough to prevent enemies from climbing in, but not to prevent him from leaping out, if he was careful.