by jeff brown
Contents
1. La Mission Impossible
2. Hello, Please, and Thank You
3. Hanging in the Louvre
4. An Artist’s Eye
5. A Fresh Canvas
6. Beautiful City
7. False Appearances
8. Crêpe Stanley
9. Au Revoir
What You Need to Know about Paris
Excerpt from Flat Stanley’s Worldwide Adventures #12: Escape to California
Back Ad
About the Authors and Illustrator
Books by Jeff Brown
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
La Mission Impossible
Stanley Lambchop stood before the map that his teacher, Ms. Merrick, had yanked down at the front of the classroom. She nodded at him to begin. “I’ve traveled all over the world,” Stanley told his class. “I’ve been to Canada, Mexico, Egypt, Japan, Kenya, and China.” He pointed to each country as he spoke.
His classmate Molly raised her hand. “Do you always travel by mail?” she asked.
Ever since the bulletin board over Stanley’s bed had fallen and flattened him, he had been easy to fold and mail in an envelope.
“Not always. Sometimes I fly,” Stanley replied. He thought for a moment. “On a plane, I mean. Or I can float thousands of miles if the wind is right.”
Stanley’s friend Carlos raised his hand next. “So you’ve never been to Europe?”
Stanley turned and found Europe on the map. He scanned the countries that made up the continent: England . . . Spain . . . France . . . Germany . . . Italy . . . “Actually, no, I haven’t been to any of the European countries. . . . But I have been to Australia.” He reached over, past Europe and Asia, and proudly tapped the country in the bottom right corner.
The map shuddered and snapped up like a window shade. All at once it was dark, and Stanley’s body felt very tightly wound.
He’d been rolled up with the map!
“Hilph!” Stanley cried. He could hear his classmates laughing.
Suddenly there was a muffled announcement over the loudspeaker. A moment later Stanley felt himself being unwound.
“Stanley,” Ms. Merrick said as she pulled the map back down. “You are to report to the principal’s office at once.”
“But it was an accident!” Stanley pleaded. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. The map just snapped!”
“I know, Stanley,” his teacher said gently. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
Stanley slouched into the office, but the principal wasn’t there. Instead Stanley found someone else—a man he recognized!
“Mr. Dart!” Stanley cried. “What are you doing here?”
Mr. O. Jay Dart was the director of the Famous Museum. Stanley had once helped him catch some art thieves. Stanley had been forced to disguise himself as a shepherd girl in a painting, which was very embarrassing. It was worth it, though, because he caught the thieves red-handed.
“Hello, Stanley,” Mr. Dart said, quickly closing the door. “The principal was kind enough to lend me an office. I’ve come on official business.” He laid a leather briefcase on the desk.
“Stanley,” he continued as he turned the combination lock on the front of his briefcase. “Have you ever heard of the Mona Lisa?”
“The painting?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Dart said as the case unlocked with a click. “She was painted around 1505 by the great artist and inventor Leonardo da Vinci. When you see her, say hello for me, will you?” Mr. Dart winked mysteriously and lifted the briefcase’s lid. A screen rose from inside with a whirring sound.
Suddenly a dashing man with a polka-dot tie, thick eyebrows, and large, round glasses flickered to life on-screen.
“Stanley, I would like you to meet Agent Lunette of the Police Nationale in Paris, France,” Mr. Dart said.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Lambchop,” the man said in a thick French accent. He looked down his nose. “Eez it true you are v-air-y flat?”
Stanley nodded and turned to the side, and Agent Lunette whistled approvingly.
“Then you are the right boy for the job,” Agent Lunette said. “The world’s greatest art is going—poof!—into thin air, and only you can stop it!” His glasses made his eyes look very large.
Mr. Dart cleared his throat. “There have been a series of art thefts in Paris recently, Stanley,” he said. “They believe the Mona Lisa will be next.”
“Imagine! The Mona Lisa stolen from the Musée du Louvre, the greatest art museum in the world!” Agent Lunette cried. “We cannot let this happen!”
“He’s right, Stanley,” Mr. Dart said. “And as strange as it may seem, you are now a leading expert on museum theft. I’ve already spoken with your parents, and everything is taken care of. You’ll be flying to Paris and staying with your aunt Simone.”
Mr. Dart pressed a button, and the on-screen display split in two. “Staaaaaanley!” Stanley’s aunt Simone squealed as she appeared on half of the screen beside Agent Lunette. Stanley hadn’t seen his aunt since he was small, but he remembered her bright-red lips and her stylish red hair, which fell in a slant across her face.
“Hi, Aunt Simone!” Stanley said.
“Let me see how you’ve grown!” she said, gesturing for Stanley to turn around. “Mon chéri! You are too thin! You must come to Paris and eat!” she crooned.
“I’m not too thin, Aunt Simone,” said Stanley. “I’m flat.”
“Come!” Aunt Simone repeated. “We will delight in the City of Light! The food! The fashion! The culture!”
Agent Lunette cleared his throat. “Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle. But Monsieur Lambchop cannot be seen in public in Paris. His presence will be a secret.”
Aunt Simone huffed. “No, pardonnez-moi, Monsieur! My nephew will enjoy his visit!”
“No, no!” Agent Lunette snapped. “Absolument non! Absolutely not!”
“Oui!” Aunt Simone shouted back. “Yes!”
Aunt Simone and Agent Lunette glared at each other from opposite sides of the screen.
“We’ll have fun, Aunt Simone, I promise,” Stanley interrupted. “And don’t worry, Agent Lunette. I’ll keep a low profile.”
Aunt Simone and Agent Lunette both nodded grudgingly.
Mr. Dart glanced at his watch. “Your flight leaves in a few hours, Stanley. We’d better get you packed!”
Hello, Please, and Thank You
In an empty airplane hangar, Mr. Dart stood holding a floppy hat with a fur brim and a shirt with puffy sleeves. “While in France, you will be disguised as a member of King Francis I’s court, as painted by the magnificent Renaissance painter Jean Clouet,” he told Stanley.
Stanley blinked. “You mean I have to change now?”
“I’m afraid so,” Mr. Dart said, handing Stanley the hat and shirt. “The only way to keep your arrival secret is for you to travel like any other priceless work of art.”
Stanley changed his clothes, and a makeup artist powdered his skin and attached a beard on his face. When he was finally ready, Stanley climbed inside the frame. Because it was only a portrait from the waist up, he had to fold his legs behind the canvas.
Mr. Dart stepped back and looked Stanley over. “Clouet painted all the most important people in France during the early sixteenth century,” he said. “But if I do say so myself, this may be his best work.”
Mr. Dart carefully lifted Stanley’s frame and laid it in a wooden crate. The crate had airholes and was filled with shredded paper for comfort. “Your mother has sent a cheese sandwich, some celery sticks, a bag of pretzels, and a juice box for your trip,” he said, placing a small
bag in Stanley’s hand. “Also, here is a French dictionary and a book light. Good luck, Stanley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dart.”
Then Mr. Dart closed the crate tightly, and Stanley’s adventure began.
It was a little bumpy when Stanley was loaded onto the plane, but then the crate came to a rest. Soon he heard the roar of the airplane’s engines, and everything tilted upward. The plane had taken off.
Stanley switched on the book light and opened the French dictionary. He heard his mother’s voice in his head. “The three most important phrases in any language are hello, please, and thank you,” she had once told him. “A polite visitor is a welcome one.”
Stanley turned to the Hs and found the word hello. He already knew that one: bonjour.
Please was harder. Stanley frowned. The French phrase seemed like a strange jumble of letters: s’il vous plaît. Was it “sill vows plate”? But then he read that it was pronounced quite simply: “see voo play.” “See voo play,” Stanley repeated.
And finally thank you. “Merci,” Stanley said, stressing the “ee” sound on the end.
“Bonjour, s’il vous plaît, merci,” Stanley said over and over, until he became very sleepy.
Stanley awoke with a jolt as the plane touched down on the runway. Before long he heard French voices and was suddenly jostled around as the crate was lifted and carried off the plane. After a few minutes—and a bumpy ride—the crate was set down again.
The top was pried off, and Stanley squinted in a sudden glare of morning light coming in through the window. He was in a bare room at the airport. Staring down at him was an officer in uniform.
“Bonjour!” Stanley said brightly.
The officer jumped. “The art, it talks!” He gasped, staggering backward.
Agent Lunette stepped in front of the man.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Lambchop,” Agent Lunette said. “Please excuse my associate. He has never seen a painting like you before.” He shook Stanley’s hand.
Aunt Simone muscled Agent Lunette aside. “Stanley!” She bent down and kissed Stanley on one cheek and the other.
“Bonjour, Aunt Simone!” said Stanley. “Will you help me out of my frame, s’il vous plaît?”
His aunt carefully slid him out of his frame and stood him on solid ground.
“Merci!” Stanley said, happy to have used his third French phrase. But all of a sudden his legs felt funny, and he slumped to the floor.
“What is wrong?” Aunt Simone shrieked.
“My legs must have fallen asleep,” Stanley said. “I’ve had them folded behind me for the whole trip. I just need to bend them back and forth for a minute, and then I’ll be able to stand up.”
Aunt Simone looked horrified. “This is how you welcome your guests?” she said to Agent Lunette as Stanley stretched. “By putting them in a box until they turn to mush?”
“Madame,” said Agent Lunette. “We had to transport Monsieur Lambchop in this way to keep his mission a secret.”
Aunt Simone wagged her finger. “It is against the Rights of Man! It is a crime!”
“Non!” Agent Lunette protested.
“Oui!” Aunt Simone said.
Stanley sprang up in between his aunt and Agent Lunette. “S’il vous plaît!” he said. His legs were awake now. “I’m okay. Really.”
They glared at each other over Stanley’s head. Then his aunt turned away in a huff.
“The Louvre opens in a few hours,” Agent Lunette said, recovering his composure. “We have prepared breakfast for you here, and then we will depart for the museum.”
“Merci,” Stanley said. “I’m starving!”
“Madame, will you join us?” Agent Lunette said, turning toward Aunt Simone.
Aunt Simone scowled at him then slowly nodded, reluctantly following them into the next room. There was a small table set with a white tablecloth. At each place setting was a plate with several rolls of different shapes and sizes, a boiled egg in a small cup, and a glass of orange juice. In the center was a bowl of fresh fruit, a vase of flowers, and crystal salt and pepper shakers.
After sitting down and putting his napkin on his lap, just as his mother had taught him, Stanley took a rectangular roll and bit into it. It was warm and light and buttery and sweet all at the same time—and in the center was a pocket of gooey chocolate.
Stanley closed his eyes and slumped back against his chair. It was the most marvelous thing he’d ever eaten—except, perhaps, for La Abuela’s secret ingredient, which he’d learned how to prepare in Mexico.
“What is this?” said Stanley in a daze.
“Pain au chocolat,” Aunt Simone said. “Bread with chocolate.”
“It’s so delicious,” cooed Stanley.
Agent Lunette and Aunt Simone exchanged small smiles.
“This is France,” Aunt Simone said. “Everything is delicious.”
Hanging in the Louvre
After breakfast it was time for Stanley to climb back into his painting. Agent Lunette repacked him in his crate, but at Aunt Simone’s insistence, the top of the crate was only gently shut. This meant Stanley was able to raise the lid a tiny bit and peek out as Agent Lunette and the other officer carried him toward the Louvre.
They were walking by a giant modern glass pyramid in the courtyard of a very large, old, important-looking building.
“The Louvre is one of the greatest art museums in the world,” Agent Lunette said in a low voice. “More than eight million people from all over the globe visit each year.”
They passed by a line of security guards and entered the building.
“The thieves have targeted the finest museums in Paris. Centre Georges Pompidou. Musée d’Orsay. One after the other, their most famous paintings have been stolen in broad daylight, during museum hours.”
“But how?” Stanley whispered as they passed a statue of a sphinx the size of a lion. Now they were walking past a series of mummies. Stanley hadn’t seen one of those since he’d been to Egypt.
“We do not know,” Agent Lunette said. A statue of a woman with wings but no head towered over them. “They were swapped with fakes, without anyone noticing until it was too late.”
They walked through hall after hall lined with paintings in gold-colored frames and filled with glowing faces against dark backgrounds.
Finally Agent Lunette and the other officer set the crate down gently. “Because of the thefts, all museums in Paris are closing early. The Louvre will close at three o’clock this afternoon. You will guard the Mona Lisa until then.”
Agent Lunette carefully lifted Stanley’s frame and peered into his eyes. “You are a spy here, Monsieur Lambchop,” he whispered. “Do not give yourself away. Do not smile. Do not sneeze. Do not move a muscle. You are a great painting by a Renaissance master. Act like it.”
“Absolument!” said Stanley, pulling himself up straighter as he said his fourth French phrase. Agent Lunette hung him carefully on the wall and stepped back to assess the painting. Then he moved forward and straightened Stanley’s frame.
“Très bien,” he said. “That means ‘very good.’”
He turned to walk away. “If by some chance you are stolen, do not panic,” Agent Lunette murmured. “We will find you eventually.”
Stanley’s eyes widened. “What?”
Agent Lunette looked at his watch. “The museum opens in three minutes and will remain open until three o’clock. After that, you will be able to stretch your legs before returning to your aunt’s for dinner at seven. Bonne chance, Monsieur Lambchop.” And then he translated: “Good luck.” He marched out of the room without another word.
Stanley adjusted his arms and was freezing himself into position when he looked up and saw her. Directly across from him, on the opposite wall of the gallery, was the most famous painting of all: the Mona Lisa.
It was much smaller than Stanley had expected—no larger than one of the big art books his parents kept in the living room. But even from here, he could see her
face: She had the slightest trace of a smile, as if she knew a secret. Her hands were folded calmly before her.
“Mr. Dart says bonjour,” Stanley whispered.
Moments later the gallery began filling with people. Stanley quickly made his face a blank. A crowd gathered around the Mona Lisa, with many people jostling one another to take a photograph of her. Stanley kept his eyes trained on her smile.
It wasn’t easy. Every time someone came close to Stanley’s painting, he grew terribly nervous.
A group of Asian tourists talked excitedly about his painting for a long time. They must know I’m a fake! he thought.
A man in dark sunglasses studied Stanley’s frame. He’s plotting to steal me! thought Stanley.
A little girl pointed right at him. She can see my heart beating! thought Stanley.
But eventually everyone moved on to the next painting. Hundreds of people from all over the world walked by. Some barely glanced at Stanley. Some studied him silently for minutes on end.
Hours passed. Stanley grew tired. Mona Lisa continued to smile her mysterious smile.
Then a pair of young men walked up and stood in front of Stanley. One said, “Here’s another one! Why is everyone in these paintings so serious?”
“Yeah,” said the other. “It’s like the Mona Lisa is the only one with a sense of humor around this place.”
Stanley imagined the Mona Lisa bursting into laughter. And in that moment he was overcome by an emotion far worse than nervousness or boredom.
Oh no! he thought. I’m getting the giggles!
He bit the inside of his lip.
A woman with an English accent observed Stanley’s painting and dryly told her husband, “This painting is more lifelike than you are.”
Stanley’s sides ached from holding in laughter.
Then a pair of French girls about his age came up to look at him. They were wearing school uniforms. The one on the right had big blue eyes and shiny dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She tilted her head, looked at Stanley’s face, and murmured something to her friend. They both burst out laughing.