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“I have you, scoundrel!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He was projecting his voice up the hill toward the security guard and his cohort, who were barreling down toward us.

But I'd had it with Mermoz, big-time French author, artist and self-promoter extraordinaire. He was absolutely nothing like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

So I squirmed sideways and gave him a knee in the…uh…well, I hit him where he didn't want to be hit. Where no man ever wants to be hit. And I did it with a great deal of violence. I wasn't about to let this clown ruin everything.

“
Sacré bleu!
” he cried out, in a voice that was almost two octaves higher than his normal tone. At the same time, he released me and shot his hands toward the area I had so expertly injured. A man like Mermoz has his priorities.

My move had two perfect results. First, it incapacitated my enemy, but even more importantly, it caused him to fling himself, as dramatically as he seemed to do everything, across the path just as the other two men arrived. The collision was spectacular and accompanied by an impressive array of French curses. One sound that echoed in the gorge indicated that at least two skulls had collided. All three men lay on the path for a while, groaning and moaning, not moving.

I made the most of the opportunity. I was down the hill as if I were the fastest guy on the US Olympic track team. Going down, it almost felt like I was flying. There were times when it seemed like my feet didn't touch the ground for several yards at a time. The terrain flattened out near the vineyard, and then I was past the scientists' buildings, through the parking lot and on my way toward the other path that went toward the lot for the Pont d'Arc.

“
Arrêtez!
” I heard a voice cry out and glanced back. The security guard, the biggest and the strongest of the three men who were in pursuit of me, had recovered. In fact, he was already nearing the buildings and had spotted where I was going. It must have been the other two skulls that had smacked together.

“
Le gouvernement de la France
,” he cried, “
vous
ordonne de vous ARRÊTER21
”

I knew that fleeing would probably make whatever they did to me even worse, but I had to take a chance. I had to gamble that I could get away. If I could just reach the next lot, perhaps I could escape. But once I was on that second path, the guard seemed to be gaining on me. He must have known the terrain very well. I was growing more frightened. How on earth would I be able to elude him! Mermoz's getaway car was probably locked and parked near the scientists' buildings. I had no means of driving out of here! I ripped off the goatee and pulled off the wig and stuffed them into my coveralls. I had to take them with me. I didn't want them to be recovered as evidence of the great crime Mermoz would be accusing me of. I was glad I hadn't given him my real name.

I reached the Pont d'Arc parking lot and stood there for a second, looking about, anxious to find some way out,
any
means that was faster than on foot. Should I actually steal a car? Should I go that far? Then I heard words that were like music to my ears.

“TAKE OFF, EH!”

The Canadians! They were at their vehicle and having some sort of a spat. Not a real one, just the sort Canucks like to have when they are teasing each other. They were arguing about something, shoving each other around. Probably about the merits of French beer, or European girls, or maybe something about hockey. I didn't know and I didn't care. They were at their car, ready to leave!

I raced up to them.

“Hey, Buffalo!” one of them called out. “Why the rush? Why the red face? Why the funky blue overalls, man?”

“USA! USA!” chanted the other one. “Run, Yankee, run!”

“Get in the car!” I cried out.

“What?”

“Get in the car! Someone is after me!”

“Dude, did you mess with someone's chick?” asked Molson.

“A car chase?” cried Maple Leaf, and instantly he was behind the wheel, Molson piling in beside him, and me diving in through the open window into their backseat.

Maple Leaf seemed to know what he was doing, or maybe he'd watched too many action movies, because he turned a smoking 360 in the parking lot, wheels squealing, and raced out of there and onto the main road.

“Away from Vallon!” I yelled. “Turn left! Toward the highway!”

He did as I said. Both of them were having a great time.

But that didn't last very long. They weren't too pleased when I told them that the authorities from the cave were after me. It took them a while to get it out of me and I didn't tell them exactly why I was being chased, but that didn't matter. They slowed the car down. That scared me. I was sure they were going to turn me in.

“I think you should get out, dude,” said Maple Leaf.

“Our lips are sealed, Buffalo,” said Molson, “but you gotta go.”

I didn't need an invitation. Out I got. That was fine with me. We were already about ten miles down the road, and I figured that just about any of the kayakers and canoers around here, most of them young and all of them hippies and tree huggers, would give me a ride. They wouldn't know why I was standing there on the side of the road, nor would I tell them.

Still, the five minutes I waited there were excruciating. I kept expecting the security guard to come roaring along with a screaming police escort of cars. I kept waiting for the two-note blare of those creepy French sirens. I knew that if a cop picked me up this time, he wouldn't just take me back to my hotel.

When somebody finally did stop for me, in another dilapidated old Citroën, I didn't say a word about why I was hitchhiking. I sat in the guy's car, scared out of my mind, pretending to not know a single word of French, trying to look composed, thinking about what I had done and wondering why in the world I had attempted it. Grandpa was right: it was impossible, and I never should have tried. The authorities would be asking questions back at the Pont d'Arc. They would be very wound up. This had likely never happened before. There was
no doubt
that they would be coming after me! The whole trip, this adventure that was supposed to change my life, was about to end in disaster.

The driver dropped me off in a town near the main highway that went south toward Arles and Marseilles, and I quickly got myself a cab. I jumped in and sat in the back, hunched down, my breathing heavy, hoping that the police weren't following. The imagined sounds of those sirens haunted me. I still had the distinctive Chauvet Cave coveralls on. I had been seen wearing them on the side of the road. That would help them trace me.

But we got to Arles without any visible pursuit, and I headed right into my hotel, sweating despite not having moved a single muscle in the cab. I glanced toward the café just before I reached the entrance and saw Rose there. She looked over and noticed me too. She could see that my face was white, that I was terrified, and her expression showed concern.

But I didn't have time for her, for anything. I had to get to my room, throw my things into my suitcase, check out, and get my butt down to Marseille. I had to find Mom and Dad and get the heck out of France…
now!

When I reached the room, I tore off the coveralls and Chauvet shoes and tossed them into my suitcase with the wig and goatee. I couldn't leave anything here for anyone to find. I'd burn the whole mess at home, if I ever got home. But once I had everything packed I was shaking so hard I could barely think what to do next. I felt almost paralyzed with fear. I lay down on the bed for a moment. It calmed me. For now, at least, I seemed safe. If I moved, if I went anywhere outside, I might be spotted.

I started thinking about what I had just been through. Despite all the fear, the magical interior of the cave came back to me, the feeling I had had of being in another world. And then the image of that drawing appeared before me too, that mammoth, painted onto the cascade of stalagmites. I had just glimpsed it in the distance before I had been discovered. As I thought of it, it began to overwhelm me. Someone, a human being from another time and space, more than 30,000 years ago, had created it. He had been trying to figure out his world, make sense of it by recreating an image of a small part of it. He had been making art, a magnificent and very human thing; a thing, it occurred to me, that
only
human beings do. A feeling of peace came over me. I had been
so
close to the sacred interior of the Chauvet Cave, perhaps I had been
that
close to discovering the meaning of life.

I suddenly sat bolt upright on the bed.

I had achieved what my grandfather had asked of me, hadn't I? I hadn't been all the way into the cave, but I had actually gotten inside and glimpsed an ancient drawing. Though I couldn't shake the feeling that I hadn't really discovered what he wanted me to find, I soon convinced myself that I had done enough.

I looked down at my suitcase. The last message was in there: the small white envelope. It would tell me everything! It contained my grandfather's final words to me.

I bent down, opened the suitcase and with trembling hands took the little envelope out. I sat there looking at it for a while. It felt awfully light, almost featherweight.

I opened it.

It was empty.

LAST

SEVENTEEN

IN FLIGHT

Surprisingly, my heart didn't sink. I wasn't disappointed. That was the funny thing about it. And stranger still was that I didn't know why. That empty envelope meant something to me, something very powerful. I knew it the same way I knew that my grandfather had made a mistake when he wanted to steal the Van Gogh painting, and that I had been wrong to actually take it. I couldn't find the words, but I knew it. I reached down into my suitcase and brought out the painting. I stared at it for a moment. It was beautiful. In fact, it brought tears to my eyes.

I knew what I had to do.

Five minutes later I was getting into a cab that the concierge had hailed for me outside the hotel, the painting tucked inside my jacket. No one seemed to be tailing me. Just as I was about to get in, I noticed Rose watching me at the café. I smiled at her and she smiled back.

I took the cab all the way past the Noels' old farm to Bellegarde and that busy café in the center of the village. I walked past the outdoor tables and right up to the counter. Monsieur Leblanc was there, working hard as usual. When he saw me, his face lit up.

“Monsieur Murphy!” he cried as he walked out from behind the counter and embraced me. But almost instantly, he could see that something had changed. “What is it?” he asked. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” I said, “not at all. Please take me to the Noels' house. It's very important!”

He got me there quickly. We didn't say a word in his car. He glanced down at the shape in my jacket more than once but never enquired. When we reached the Noels' place, they greeted me with big smiles and ushered me into the living room. I asked them to sit down and took out the painting.

“
C'est l'art bizarre!
” cried Yvettte. “
L'art des
cochons!
”

I told them. I told them straight out. I was nervous but I didn't hesitate. I told them absolutely everything—what my grandfather had done, what I had done and what this painting was worth.

Their reaction was difficult to describe. They were angry, overjoyed and stunned at the same time. I apologized and left the painting with them.

I didn't wait for Monsieur Leblanc to drive me back to Arles. I'm not sure he would have offered anyway. I merely got up and walked out the door and then trudged the many miles back to my hotel. It scared me to be so visible by the side of the highway. I kept thinking that I would hear those sirens again and that when they picked me up this time, they would run my passport on their computers and perhaps discover that someone who looked like me was wanted in the area. But I felt I had to do this: make myself open to getting caught. It was like I had to pay a price for what I had done.

But I made it all the way back without being spotted. The sun was beginning to set by then. As I crossed the street near the hotel, I saw Rose leaving for the day after a long shift. She spied me right away and walked toward me. At first, that sort of scared me because I was so jumpy. But she was smiling at me. She came right up, put her hand on my arm and kissed me on the cheek. I felt a sensation in my chest, kind of like the one I get when I'm really close to Vanessa. I wanted to kiss Rose back, turn her face and kiss her right on the lips and linger there. Of all the girlfriends in the world, she would be the most impressive, maybe even better than Vanessa herself. Imagine having a French girlfriend, exotic and beautiful! But something stopped me. Instead of kissing Rose, I simply turned her toward me and hugged her. We embraced each other for a moment as friends, just friends, and it felt awfully good.

Ever since I had found St. Ex's rock, I had kept it buried in my suitcase. But, despite its size, I had put it in my jacket and taken it with me when I went to see the Noels. It had helped give me courage. I had held on to it tightly in my pocket as I told them what my grandfather and I had done. I reached in now, took it out and gave it to Rose. I did it almost without thinking.

“
Merci beaucoup
,” I said. I didn't know why I said that, but it felt like the right thing to say. I patted her on the back and left her there, standing outside the café, looking down at the rock, gazing at its remarkable color, turning it over, about to read the inscription. I didn't even ask for her full name or phone number. I didn't want it. She was just Rose, that was good enough, and she had been my friend when I needed her. “You do not have to do this,” she had said, and she had been right.

But the minute I entered the hotel lobby, fear returned. Everyone inside seemed to be eyeing me. Adrenaline coursed through my body. I rushed upstairs, finished packing my bags, checked out and got myself another cab, this one headed for Marseille. I phoned my parents and told them I was coming, that it was time to leave France. Though they answered on their cell, they were actually in their hotel room. I wondered why they weren't out somewhere, enjoying France.