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They also liked to talk about caves. I understood from them that many other people in the region did as well. The area they lived in, and more exactly the land to the north and northwest, was very hilly and rocky, actually mountainous in places, and prehistoric passages ran into and through these elevations. Jean's stories often started in such caves and told of ferocious men with superhuman powers emerging from them to do extraordinary things. Those men, he said, had the power to create wonderful art. They were, Provençal folklore insists, the world's first artists. They drew fabulous depictions of themselves and of animals on the walls inside their mountains. Jean's yarns sometimes started from that artwork—stories of incredible beings stepping out from the stone and coming to life.

He said that several ancient caves with drawings had been found in the past half century. But he was fond of predicting that THE cave, the GREAT cave, had yet to be discovered. In it, the world would see history's oldest art—and when modern people viewed it, they would be astonished. This work, he often said, would be magical. It would show the world the meaning of life. He insisted that this was not a dream—one day such a place would actually be uncovered. The discoverer would be a local person, because they can almost “smell” the caves.

I, of course, took what Jean said on these subjects with a pinch of salt even more substantial than what Yvette used to fling over her shoulder. In other words, I didn't believe him.

But when I returned home, I decided to read a little about French caves and learned that much of what he had been trying to tell me was true. In the early twentieth century, several remarkable caves had been located in France, all with ancient drawings on their walls. Perhaps the greatest was the Lascaux Cave, stumbled upon in 1940, just four years before I ended up with the Noels. It was situated just a few hours northwest of Arles. But no respected writer, no scholar, ever said anything about the great cave that contains “the meaning of life.”

Until 1994.

I distinctly remember the day I picked up a copy of the New York Times and read of the groundbreaking discovery of a new cave in southern France that had the worldwide science community stunned. It had been found by three local people, one named Chauvet, who had been walking along the side of some cliffs in a semi-mountainous area. It was near Vallon-Pont-d'Arc on the Ardèche River. I looked it up on a map. It was about an hour from the Noel farm.

And as I read more about it, it began to fill me with a longing to see it. I don't know why, but I started to believe that it might, somehow, contain the meaning of life.

Inside the cave, accessed through a tiny hole, were the oldest drawings ever made by human beings. Scientists believed that this cave had been sealed for more than 20,000 years! Their tests showed that some of the art was as old as 32,000 years! It was mind-boggling. On the walls were depictions of animals that had lived there, and among them were lions and rhinoceroses.

Of course, I wanted to go there immediately. But several things held me back. First, stupidly, I was always too busy. Secondly, just as (or perhaps even more) stupidly, I didn't want to return to that area, near the Noels and the one great shame of my life. And most importantly, I couldn't get into the Chauvet even if I went there. The Lascaux Cave had been open to the public for many years, and as a consequence, some of its drawings had been damaged and in some cases destroyed. Over the decades, scientists determined that it was the presence of human beings and specifically their breath that had been the cause. So it was decided that the Chauvet Cave should not be accessible to the general public. Only select scientists and a few academics and historians would ever be allowed into it.

No one, other than that handful of people, has ever seen the drawings inside that marvelous place.

Here, Adam, is your task, the most difficult task of your adventure…an impossible one, I think.

Get into the Chauvet Cave.

See if it contains the meaning of life.

THIRTEEN

CASING THE CHAUVET

“Okay,” I said aloud to myself, “how am I going to do this?” I sat there staring at the yellow wall for a moment. Four words kept coming back to me from the letter:
There is danger involved.
What did he mean by that? It almost sounded like he didn't want me to attempt this.

But I had to.

The first thing I needed was more information. Where, exactly, was this place? I got out the map again. I located Arles and looked northward. I couldn't find Vallon-Pont-d'Arc for several minutes, even though I could see that the Ardèche region was just west of the Rhone Valley. The main highway went up that valley from Arles and Avignon to the city of Lyon. Finally, I found the Ardèche River, and then followed it west from the Rhone and there it was: the village or town of Vallon-Pont-d'Arc. There were no caves marked on the map, but I noticed that on the way to the town there was a large green-colored park with a river running through it, labeled
Réserve Naturelle des Gorges de
l'Ardèche
. I could also see from the map's topography that the land was much higher there. All of this looked promising. This was where you would find caves.

I got out my cell and looked up the town, the park, and the Chauvet Cave itself. What was revealed was enticing but not very promising. The town was attractive, a beautiful little place full of old buildings and tourist shops and restaurants. And the park looked spectacular, perfect for canoeing and kayaking, with little beaches here and there. But the cave was something else. It wasn't that it wasn't fascinating. It definitely was. But everything I read about it made my task seem more and more difficult. It didn't look like it would be easy to get to, and just as Grandpa said, there didn't appear to be any public access. I couldn't even find its exact location; it was as if they were hiding it.

It was evening by now, and I had been so intrigued by the letter and my task that I hadn't even taken the time to eat. Feeling depressed about the impossibility of what was before me, I went out to the café I'd been eating at the last few days. I was hoping to see that young waitress again.

I was disappointed at first. She wasn't anywhere in sight, and the woman who came to wait on me was middle-aged and grumpy. She didn't speak a word of English.

“
Américain?
” she barked right away.

“I'll look after him.” A much sweeter voice came from inside the restaurant. It was my waitress. She had always seemed shy before and had only spoken short bursts of French, so I was surprised to hear her utter more than a word or two and especially pleased to hear it come out in English.

But I wasn't so pleased with the way she looked. She was obviously finished work for the day, probably on her way home, and though she was nicely dressed in faded cropped jeans that showed off her slim calves, and a bright yellow halter top tied with a ribbon around the neck, her face looked different. I couldn't tell what it was at first. The glow seemed to have left her, or at least the sort of glow that she'd had before. It took me a minute to figure out what it was—she wasn't wearing any makeup. And when she sat down across from me, looking a little pale but smiling, she swept her blond bangs off her forehead and I noticed a little scar on her hairline, almost in the shape of a cross. I have to admit that I had been thinking a lot about her and now, suddenly, she looked awfully ordinary.

“May I sit?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, sure.”

“Shall I order for you again? I do not know your name.”

“Uh…” For some reason I was hesitant to give it to her. “Adam,” I said finally, “I'm Adam Murphy.”

“Well, I am Rose.” She turned to the other waitress and ordered something for me. I was sure it would be delicious, like everything else she had ordered for me over the last few days.

“You know,” she began, “I have always been wondering, since the time I first see you, who you are.”

“Who I am?”

“
Oui.
At first I thought, he is a tourist. But then, where are his parents? Or is he older than his appearance and is vacationing
en Provence
alone?”

“I am seventeen,” I lied.

“Really? Maybe.” She smiled. “You are
un peu
mystérieux
. I like that. Most
Américains
, you know, they are not
mystérieux
, not at all. They are predictable. Very sad. You do wear all those clothes from Aéropostale, so you are a bit, uh, materialistic…buy the things the others buy? Still, you are different too. So I imagined, sometimes, that you were doing something
mystérieux
in Arles, that you were on some sort of
mission dangereuse
.” She laughed.

“Well, maybe I am.”

She laughed again. “Adam Murphy, I think you are just a nice boy from America and your parents are somewhere nearby, no?”

“Uh…”

“
Mais
, still an
interesting
nice boy.” She smiled at me. I was beginning to forget her lack of makeup and that scar. Her personality was awfully attractive, and now that I really checked her out up close, she looked good, makeup or not.

“My parents”—I hated to tell her this—“aren't too far away.” Then I added quickly, “But I am really on my own here, no strings attached.”

“
Oui?
”

“And I am—kind of—on a dangerous mission. Or, at least, there is something very difficult and unusual that I have to do.”

“Tell me!” she exclaimed and patted my hand.

I really didn't want to tell anyone. But for some reason, out it all came, minus the bits about taking the painting, of course. I told her quickly about the first two assignments, just the highlights, then spent lots of time explaining the next task, the one directly in front of me. As I spoke, I realized that I had needed to tell someone what I was doing. I really wasn't sure I could do what my grandfather had asked, and it was kind of freaking me out.

But her face became very serious.

“You cannot do this.”

“Pardon me?”

“
La Grotte Chauvet
, it is
un endroit sacré
, a sacred place almost. You cannot just go barging in there. I thought you were not like the other
Américains
?”

“I don't intend to barge in. I won't hurt anybody or anything. I just want to look.”

“You just want to accomplish this task! You just want to win. All you want is to be someone important in your grandfather's eyes.”

“No.”

“
Oui!
And he is dead anyway.”

“I-I want to go into the Chauvet Cave because it
is
a sacred place. I want to see those drawings; I want to feel what is special about them. I want to know whatever truth they reveal. I want it to make me a better person.”

It was true. And when I said it to her, it kind of shocked me. I wasn't sure I was a very good person, though I had never admitted it out loud to myself before. I knew I was a jerk a lot of the time, but I also knew I was struggling to be the person I should be.

“Really?”

“Really.” I swallowed.

The older waitress brought my meal, which was some sort of crepe with cheese and herbs. Rose insisted that I eat and wouldn't have any herself. She watched as I began, knowing I would enjoy what was on my plate. “
Bon appétit!
” she said, her good humor suddenly returning. She sat and watched me for a while. It was a little unnerving. Then she patted my hand again and pushed back her chair. “Well, I must go. If I were you, I would not try to go into La Grotte Chauvet
even
if I was doing it for
la bonne raison
. You should know it is dangerous for you, very dangerous.”

“I don't get that. My grandfather said that too.”

“But of course it is! The drawings on those walls are the most important art in the world. They are easily destroyed. The presence of too many person damages them. They are well protected. The authorities will do
anything
to protect them. Getting in is impossible! And if you are found in there, I don't know what they would do to you. You would need a good—how do you call it?—lawyer?”

“Lawyer?” I gulped.

“
Mais oui. En France
, we take art seriously. Despite your age, you might not get back to America for a very, very long time.”

I stopped eating.

“Besides,” she added, getting up and smiling at me, “the meaning of life, Adam, it is not in that cave. It is somewhere else.”

She was gone before I could ask her what she meant by that. She vanished down the street like a ghost. I finished my meal, paid and returned to my room. I wanted to be in bed early tonight. I wanted to get up first thing tomorrow morning and make my way to Vallon-Pont-d'Arc. I was going to need all my wits about me when I got there. I felt like a thief readying himself to check out the lay of the land before the big job.