We pulled up in front of Madeleine’s turret office in Montmartre. It was late and the streets were almost empty. The last few parties were slowly dying down in windows above the street. Madeleine’s light was still on, so we knocked and went in, climbing the ramp carefully with our arms full of pastries. We could hear that she was listening in on the CAFTA party, still going strong, on her two-way radio. “Ah, Rudee, Mac, bonsoir. Quelle fete!” She indicated the party sounds in the background as she rolled over to meet us.
We relived some of the night’s events, and she told us that she’d heard lots of good stories from her chauffeurs who stopped in on their way to CAFTA. “Ah, but you know I don’t like crowds, Rudee. And I feel like I’m there, especially with this delivery of yours. Merci!” She happily investigated the deserts and zeroed in on the gâteau amande with strawberries.
“Madeleine, how did you know to send the cabbies to Notre Dame?” My curiosity couldn’t wait.
“Look, ma petite.” She led me to the screen on her console and hit a couple of buttons. The map of Paris, showing all the cabs currently at one place, CAFTA, zoomed in to the Isle de La Cité. She made another adjustment, and it zoomed in on Notre Dame.
“I was looking for you all over Paris when you disappeared with that horrible smoky man, and finally I found you here.”
She shifted the perspective on the screen and caught the giant crane full on then the rooftop of the cathedral. “What’s that hanging on the spire?” I asked.
Madeleine arched her brows and gave me a motherly look. “Your special scarf, ma cherie. Très jolie and very strong. It held you and that crazy man in mid-air until you could be rescued!”
I was speechless. Rudee jumped in. “You saw all this on your screen in 4D?” he asked, sounding shocked.
“Oui. Technology. C’est magnifique!” She did a little wheelie and spin in her chariot for emphasis. “Rudee. Time for the Hacks’ second show, non?”
I thanked her for co-ordinating my rescue, and Rudee and I returned to CAFTA, where the crowd was refusing to give it up for the night. When we got back, many in the room were gathered around the little TV set, waiting for the news coverage of the evening’s events. It was still showing highlights of parties around the city when it cut to our windswept reporter, who dramatically related a prime time version of the attempted monument thefts, with no mention of Shadows or gargoyles. Then, to my amazement, the camera panned to her right, and there was Luc Fiat, who with some serious help in the hair and makeup department, didn’t look much like his mad brother anymore.
“Yesss. Ouiiii. I think it was the best Bastille Day ever,” he commented as they were showing footage of the fireworks and the river rats with their torches, followed by crowds carrying candles and lighters. I could see how it all looked like part of the fun. “It shows the world that Paris does really know how to lighten up!” He laughed gaily at the mention of his beloved campaign.
“But, Monsieur Fiat,” Louise attempted to redirect the interview, “what about the unfortunate timing of the power failure? Events all over the city had to be cancelled. It was almost impossible to get around. So much food was spoiled.”
“Yes, oui, Louise, that’s true. By the way, did I mention how flattering those earrings are? They pick up on the colour of your eyes wonderfully.” He practically oozed. Before she could bring things back to her question, he continued, “But there is someone I wish to thank especially.”
Everyone at CAFTA began calling out my name, and I blushed beet red, as the expression goes. On the screen, Fiat gestured to his left, and the camera panned again, this time to include a grinning face. I couldn’t believe who it was — the gluttonous cloud doctor responsible for so much of Louche’s mayhem. “Dr. Etienne Brouillard, the eminent scientist, expert in all matters of light and dark. He was able to sort out the little power problem and to restore the electricity before the night was over. He was also instrumental in locating the missing monuments.”
The doctor, who had obviously switched sides overnight, just wasn’t ready for his close-up. The camera caught him sliding what looked like a large ox tongue, covered in mayonnaise, down his eager throat. He tried to speak as the light found him, but his mouth was too full to allow any words to come out. Mayo splashed on his coat, and Louise must have directed the cameraman to spare us any more of this sight. “Well, thank you, Dr. Brouillard and the prefect of Paris, Luc Fiat. And to all of you at home, happy Bastille Day.”
The CAFTA crowd lost interest in the news coverage and returned to the spirit of the party. “The Hacks. The Hacks! Encore!” they shouted.
The band launched into “Stinkbomb Serenade,” and the place was jumping once again. It all gets a bit blurry for me at this point. Fatigue had finally started to overcome the excitement of the last couple of days. I remember Rudee lifting me up on stage at one point and insisting I play “Transatlantic Train” on the organ. I guess those piano lessons with my dad must have come in handy, because I vaguely remember faking my way through the song. My last clear recollection is of Rudee leading Sashay onto the dancefloor for a blissful romantic moment, at least for him, I’m sure.