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even the pair of wolves from the mantel in the library. With no women living in the house, there seemed to be no jewelry available, but the count’s guests made up for it in furniture: pairs of men carrying out the Turkish couch, a woven silk one embroidered with figures of peacocks, the Moroccan leather one with a brass boar’s head (I didn’t mind seeing that go), an ottoman, a mahogany writing table mounted in bronze, a veneered tea table, a silver candelabrum, a carved oak armoire that four men tried to take down the stairs, then dropped it halfway and left it there, a clock in gilded bronze, and so many carved and gilt wood chairs I couldn’t tell you.
    The count stood in the vestibule and watched the furnishings of his house, some of which I am sure had been there for decades or even for over a century, leave and wished all his departing guests good day, as if, after dancing dozens of quadrilles, they were about to have their footmen help them into waiting carriages. As one grizzled old man, smiling and carrying one of the embroidered armchairs, passed him, the count clapped him on the back and said, “Rest well in that now, Father.” The count only left the vestibule, ostensibly to get himself another glass of the champagne Etienne had brought, when he saw the hunting tapestry being carried out.
    My brother now sat by me on the marble stairs, beside the fallen oak armoire. It was also our childhood being carried out: the chairs and couches we remembered ourselves or others we knew using, or the tables we had rested our refreshments on, or the clock we had heard chime. The count finally closed the great doors. He waved his arms—“ Things ,” he said, “all things . They mean nothing in themselves—except the tapestry, except the tapestry, but even that—we ’re safe, aren’t we? No one harmed; a peaceful, happy crowd. It could be so much worse. And the finest pieces, of course, like the dining table, my bureau upstairs, our beds—too heavy to carry. The Beauregard coat of arms is pinioned too high for any to reach. Etienne—where’s that champagne hidden in the garden? I stuck some cheese up on a high shelf in the kitchen. Annette, see if there’s any eggs left in the nests in the barn—I doubt that any hens are left—what’s the matter with you two?” He opened his arms wide, as when he had welcomed the peasants. “It is our distinct privilege to dine tonight on omelette and champagne.” Etienne went to fetch the hidden bottles. The count’s arms were still spread wide, as if he were welcoming something that hadn’t arrived. I embraced him, and his big arms went around me. I felt his body shake and heard a sob that he caught in his throat. “This is my home,” he said. “This is my home.”

Shadow World
    Etienne and I left the château de Beauregard the day after the looting; the countryside was quiet, and some of the peasants were even back working in the count’s fields. It had been quite a holiday for them.
    In spite of the turmoils of the summer, in the back of my mind I always knew Etienne would be leaving to start his medical studies, as my father had at his age. We had to act in our everyday life as if the world had not changed. I had partly hoped, though, that the Revolution would keep the Sorbonne from starting, but suddenly the day was here, looming like the old stone church before us, immovable, blocking out the light. Jean, Papa’s groom, had driven us down to Louis XII Square for Etienne to get the diligence that would take him east, through Chartres, to Paris, the violent heart of the Revolution.
    He had said good-bye to Maman and the others the night before.
    Paul and Marguerite had come to dinner. We had said the sacking of the château de Beauregard was just some peasants wanting gifts and to see the irony of the most powerful man in the region making them omelettes. It was really quite amusing, we said. Papa and Paul knew better, and we talked to them after dinner.
    Now