by jeff brown
At that moment Stanley couldn’t help himself! A loud guffaw escaped his lips!
The girls gasped in shock.
An Artist’s Eye
Stanley froze quickly. His face went slack. His eyes focused on Mona Lisa’s smile.
The girls stared, their mouths hanging open. One of them imitated the sound of Stanley’s momentary burst of laughter. They giggled and whispered to each other.
Suddenly their teacher appeared behind them. She was a tall spidery woman in a long black dress. She said something quick and stern in French. The girls looked at the floor and mumbled apologetically.
One of the girls went across the gallery to the Mona Lisa. The girl with blue eyes stayed where she was, pulled out a sketchbook, peered up at Stanley intently, and started drawing.
Stanley had never seen a person concentrate so hard. As she worked with her pencil and eraser, feelings blew across the girl’s face like seasons: She was disappointed, then frustrated, and finally pleased.
Stanley was very, very curious: What did her drawing look like? Did it look like him?
After nearly an hour, the girl paused. She held the book at arm’s length, judging her work. Stanley’s curiosity got the best of him, and he peeled his head forward to see.
The girl looked up, and he immediately snapped back into place.
Her big blue eyes narrowed. She took a step forward, studying him more closely than ever.
Stanley didn’t dare move. The Mona Lisa was smiling as if she knew what a fool he’d been.
Then the strict teacher’s voice barked something, and the girl snapped to attention. She fumbled to put away her pencil and sketchbook.
A guard by the door made an announcement, and people started exiting the gallery. The museum was closing!
The girl crept close to Stanley’s painting. “Au revoir,” she whispered, and rushed out after her classmates. As she did, her sketchbook, which she’d shoved into a pocket of her satchel, fell out and onto the floor.
Stanley almost called out after her, but he caught himself. Soon the gallery was empty.
When he was sure the coast was clear, Stanley slipped from his frame and dropped to the floor. Creeping over to the girl’s sketchbook, he picked it up, opened it, and found page after page of sketches—one painting after another, drawn in fine detail. There was even one of the Mona Lisa. Finally Stanley came to the girl’s latest sketch.
Stanley was impressed. It looked just like him, except with a beard and a floppy hat. The girl with big blue eyes was very, very talented.
He turned back to the front cover. It read:
Le livre du
Etoile Dubois
L’école d’Art
22 rue d’Excaver
Montmartre, Paris
Her name is Etoile, Stanley realized. I have to return this to her!
Stanley looked up at the Mona Lisa. No one had tried to steal her . . . yet. She was safe for the night. Surely it would be okay for Stanley to stretch his legs after hanging on the wall all day—as long as he stayed in disguise and was back at his aunt’s in time for dinner?
Stanley crept through the museum, moving silently along the walls and floors. He slipped behind one guard, and then another. He passed paintings by artists with names like Degas and Caravaggio. Stanley slithered down a staircase. He passed the pale bust of a woman whose arms had broken off; a sign said she was called Venus de Milo.
Finally Stanley found his way back to the front of the museum. The last of the visitors were leaving, and he caught a glimpse of a girl in a school uniform and a dark ponytail walking out the front doors—Etoile!
Stanley slipped into the coatroom. In a corner he found a large cardboard box labeled Perdus et Trouvés. Inside was a jumble of items, including clothing, umbrellas, and hats. This must be the lost and found, Stanley realized. He rummaged through the box and found a trench coat, a scarf, a dark hat, gloves, and tall boots. The coat and the boots were a little big, but Stanley felt that his shape was well hidden. He found a box of tissues and took off his beard and makeup. Then he put Etoile’s sketchbook in the coat’s pocket.
He walked out of the coatroom, across the lobby, and into the sunshine.
Etoile was nowhere to be seen. Stanley found himself staring out at a river, which ran like a giant stone-lined canal through the center of the city. If he looked to his left, he saw a grand cathedral in the distance. He glanced right and saw the Eiffel Tower far away on the opposite bank. He looked down at the sketchbook. Montmartre, Paris. But which way was Montmartre?
As Stanley started walking, a sweet odor wafted through the air. At a nearby street cart, a jolly man in a cap was making razor-thin pancakes on a round griddle, topping them with fruit or chocolate. The smell hypnotized Stanley. His stomach grumbled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
“Une crêpe?” the man offered.
Stanley suddenly remembered Chef Lillou, the famous French chef who had plotted to steal La Abuela’s secret ingredient in Mexico. In a fit of rage, he’d called Stanley a “crêpe.” For the first time, Stanley understood why: A crêpe was even flatter than he was!
Stanley pulled out the pockets of his overcoat to show that he had no money. The man shrugged, slathered a crêpe in fresh strawberries and cream, folded it up, and handed it to Stanley.
“Merci!” said Stanley gratefully. Then he held up Etoile’s book and pointed to the address on the cover. “S’il vous plaît?” he said.
“Ah, Montmartre!” the man said. He pointed in the distance and made the shape of a tent with his fingers: a hill, that way.
Stanley said merci again and hurried on his way.
A Fresh Canvas
Winding his way through the streets of Paris, Stanley finally found a grand stone building in a maze of cobblestoned streets. The sign above the doorway read L’école d’Art, the same words that were on the sketchbook.
Stanley pushed open the giant door. Once inside he realized what l’école d’art meant: It was an art school. He crept down a dimly lit hallway lined with empty classrooms until he came to one at the end, where he spotted the spidery teacher from the museum through the door’s window. Inside, a handful of students were painting.
Stanley scanned the room. . . . There was Etoile, painting near the back! He’d found her! Now all he needed to do was find a way to return her sketchbook.
Stanley quickly removed his scarf, hat, boots, and gloves. The less he wore, the more invisible he could make himself when he snuck inside. He even pulled off the puffy-sleeved shirt from the painting, so he was wearing only a white undershirt and his pants. He folded everything into a neat pile and hid it behind a trash bin in the corner of the hall.
Then, holding nothing but Etoile’s sketchbook, he slipped beneath the closed door.
Stanley stayed low, skirting the edge of the room until he was directly behind Etoile. She was painting a young woman bending over a piece of lace she was mending. It reminded Stanley of one of the paintings he’d seen at the Louvre.
When the teacher’s back was turned, Stanley popped up between Etoile and her painting. Her big blue eyes widened in surprise, but she stayed quiet. Then her eyes darted across the room—she was clearly worried that Stanley would get caught. As the teacher looked their way, Stanley quickly handed Etoile her sketchbook and folded his head and arms back behind her easel so his white T-shirt looked like a blank canvas itself.
Etoile immediately started painting on him. Stanley tried not to giggle as she gently dabbed her brush against his chest.
Fifteen minutes later Stanley held his breath as the teacher came to look at Etoile’s painting.
“Très bien, Etoile,” the teacher said in an unusually soft voice. Stanley remembered that meant “very good.”
Soon class was dismissed. Etoile said something to her teacher in French as the other students filed out—Stanley guessed that she was saying she wanted to finish her painting. The teacher left, closing the door behin
d her. And then they were alone.
Etoile said something excitedly in French.
Stanley rose up and shook his head. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” he told her.
She grinned and poked his shoulder. “You were in the painting at the Louvre!” she said in English.
Stanley gulped. His mission was supposed to be a secret! “How do you know?”
The girl gestured at Stanley’s T-shirt. He looked down and saw that she had perfectly re-created his painting.
“Who are you?” she said, her blue eyes dancing.
“My name is Stanley,” he replied.
“I knew it!” she said, throwing up her hands. “I told my friend Martine you looked like Stanley Lambchop, the famous flat boy!”
Stanley felt himself blushing: Etoile knew who he was! “You dropped your book,” he said. “I thought you would want it. You’re a really good artist, you know.”
Now it was the girl’s turn to blush. “Madame Sévère would have been very angry if I had lost it. Thank you for returning it to me.” Then she said, “What are you doing in a painting in Paris, anyway?”
“Uh, j-j-j-just visiting,” Stanley stammered. He couldn’t let on that he was a spy!
Etoile raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Well,” she said, “at least let me give you a tour of Paris. As a way of saying merci.”
Beautiful City
“This neighborhood, Montmartre, has been home to great artists for centuries,” Etoile told Stanley after he had put his puffy-sleeved shirt and trench coat back on and they returned to the street. “Claude Monet painted here. So did Pablo Picasso and Vincent van Gogh.”
“Do you want to be an artist when you grow up?” Stanley asked.
“I am an artist already,” Etoile said. “L’école d’Art is a special boarding school for artists. Madame Sévère says the only way to paint like the masters is to copy them. Every day we go to a different museum to draw the paintings. And then we come back to our classroom and paint.”
They walked down the hill of Montmartre, passing the famous Basilica of the Sacré-Coeur. As they wandered the streets of Paris, Etoile explained how the city was laid out in a series of rings, one inside the other. In the center was the neighborhood around the Louvre.
While they walked, Etoile asked about Stanley’s travels. He told her about performing with the Flying Chinese Wonders and jumping from a plane over Africa. He asked her questions about herself. Etoile meant “star.” She had grown up in a seaside town in the south of France. Sometimes she missed her family. Stanley knew just how she felt.
Etoile and Stanley browsed the bookstalls on the Left Bank of the river Seine. In honor of his travels, Etoile bought Stanley an English copy of Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne, one of France’s greatest writers.
Then they visited the grand cathedral Notre Dame, which Stanley had seen in the distance when he’d first exited the Louvre. It had gargoyles peering down from two huge towers and a colorful, round stained-glass window that stretched thirty feet across. The cathedral was nearly eight hundred years old!
Finally Etoile took him to the Eiffel Tower. They rode an elevator to the top and looked out over the city.
Stanley had never been anyplace that was so full of art and beauty. “How do you say ‘beautiful’ in French?” he whispered.
Etoile looked at him with her big blue eyes. “Belle,” she whispered.
“Belle,” Stanley repeated softly.
Suddenly Stanley was startled by a shout. “Arrête!” a familiar voice called. “Stop right there!”
From the elevator behind them leaped Agent Lunette. “I’ve been all over the city looking for you!” He put a firm hand on Stanley’s shoulder. “You are late for dinner!” he said in Stanley’s ear. “Let’s go.”
Stanley’s heart lurched. He was about to protest, but Agent Lunette stopped him with a stern look.
Stanley forced himself to say, “Au revoir, Etoile.”
“B-but Stanley—” Etoile sputtered.
“Please don’t tell anyone you saw me,” he said sadly. “I’m sorry.”
Etoile’s blue eyes stared back helplessly as Agent Lunette dragged him away.
Minutes later Agent Lunette and Stanley arrived at Aunt Simone’s apartment. She shrieked when she opened the door.
“Stanley!” she cried, wrapping her arms around him. She examined his face. “Did they hurt you?”
“Who?” Stanley wondered.
“The thieves who kidnapped you!” Aunt Simone said.
Agent Lunette grimaced and cleared his throat. “Monsieur Lambchop was not kidnapped, Mademoiselle.”
“I went for a walk,” Stanley said. “I made a friend.”
“A friend!” Agent Lunette huffed. “Monsieur Lambchop, nobody was supposed to know you are here. You have put the mission in danger! We found you only because we alerted the entire police force, and an officer at la Tour Eiffel recognized you!”
“You’re right, Agent Lunette,” Stanley said. “I made a mistake. And I’m sorry I worried you, Aunt Simone.”
Agent Lunette straightened his glasses. “Is there anyone else in Paris who knows you have come, Monsieur Lambchop?”
Stanley shook his head. “No. And I don’t think Etoile will tell anyone.”
“Let us hope not,” Agent Lunette said. “Because tomorrow you must guard the Mona Lisa once more.”
False Appearances
The next morning, after he dressed and his aunt reapplied his beard and makeup, Stanley hung alone in his painting. The Mona Lisa looked over at him with her sly smile, as if she knew all about yesterday.
Stanley still felt terrible. He had disappointed Agent Lunette and scared his aunt. And when he thought of Etoile, his stomach ached. She had looked so confused and hurt when he had been taken away. She had been friendly and generous, and now he’d probably never see her again.
Museumgoers came and went, remarking on Stanley and his painting. The Mona Lisa smiled her smile.
Suddenly there was a loud clattering, and all the visitors in the gallery turned to look. Even Stanley shifted his eyes.
But it was just someone whose camera had dropped by accident.
The murmur of the crowd resumed, and Stanley brought his gaze back to the Mona Lisa. But it took all his control not to furrow his brow. Something wasn’t quite right. He’d never noticed the tree beside her head. And had she always turned her body at him that way? She looked back at Stanley with her—
Wait a minute, thought Stanley. She’s not smiling!
The Mona Lisa had been switched with a frowning fake!
Stanley scanned the crowd for anyone suspicious but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then he looked up.
There was a masked person, dressed all in black, sticking to the ceiling of the gallery. The person had suction cups on both hands and legs . . . and over their back was slung the Mona Lisa! The burglar was creeping ever so slowly toward the door.
“Stop!” Stanley yelled, reaching out of his painting to point to the ceiling. “Thief!”
The thief began scrambling more quickly. Agent Lunette burst into the gallery, shouting to the guards. A woman fainted when she saw Stanley pull himself from his painting, and a man rushed forward and doused some water on her face.
“S’il vous plaît?” Stanley asked the man, pointing to the water.
“This is no time for a water break!” Agent Lunette shouted.
Without answering, Stanley splashed some water on his face and hands. Then he took three giant steps back, got a running start, and leaped onto the smooth gallery wall. His damp skin stuck like plastic decals on a window, just like when he had climbed the Washington Monument in Washington, DC.
By peeling his hands off and re-sticking them a few inches ahead of him, he was able to creep up the wall and onto the ceiling. The thief stuck and unstuck the suction cups speedily to flee.
Stanley inch-wormed across the ceiling as the crowd watched below.
When he had almost caught up, the thief looked back, unstuck their right leg, and brought their knee down hard on Stanley’s hand.
“Argh!” Stanley cried out in pain. The thief lifted their leg again, and Stanley grabbed the suction cup and hung on to it with one hand as he dangled over the crowd. Everyone gasped.
The thief jerked around, trying to shake Stanley loose. But Stanley wouldn’t let go. Instead he grabbed the thief’s leg with his other hand and started swinging back and forth, stretching the thief’s leg farther and farther. The thief groaned. With a pop, the suction cup on the other leg came unstuck from the ceiling.
The thief was now attached to the ceiling by nothing more than the suction cups on their hands, with Stanley swinging from the thief’s legs like an acrobat.
“Say au revoir,” Stanley growled. He swung harder. With a squeak, the remaining two suction cups came undone.
“Nooooo!” cried the thief as they began to fall. Stanley swung up toward the ceiling as the thief fell down. He hooked his feet around the thief’s shoulders. In midair, Stanley’s body ballooned upward like a parachute, holding the thief beneath him.
They landed gently, with the Mona Lisa unharmed.
“You are under arrest!” Agent Lunette immediately cut the Mona Lisa from the thief’s back and handed the painting to one of the officers. Then he pulled the thief’s hands behind them and handcuffed them. Finally he pulled off the mask . . . and a short crop of dark hair spilled out.
Stanley sucked in a breath. “It’s M-Madame Sévère!” he stammered. “She’s a teacher at L’école d’Art!”
“As I tell my pupils,” Madame Sévère said coldly, “the only way to paint like the masters . . . is to steal from them. My plan was perfect.”
“No,” Stanley replied. “Your plan fell flat.”