The Tale of Despereaux

bravery and courtesy and honor and devotion. Just so.”

“How do you know that?” Despereaux said. “How do you know about fairy tales?”

“Shhhhh.” The mouse leaned in close, and Despereaux smelled celery again, green and alive. “Be brave, friend,” whispered the threadmaster. “Be brave for the princess.” And then he stepped back and turned and shouted, “Fellow mice, the thread has been tied. The thread has been knotted.”

A roar of approval went up from the crowd.

Despereaux squared his shoulders. He had made a decision. He would do as the threadmaster had suggested. He would be brave for the princess.

Even if (reader, could it be true?) there was no such thing as happily ever after.

12

THE SOUND OF THE DRUM changed again. The final tat disappeared and it became nothing but boom.

Boom, boom, boom.

Boom, boom, boom.

Lester used only his tail, bringing it down with great force and seriousness upon the drum.

The threadmaster retreated.

The room full of mice fell silent, expectant, waiting.

And as Despereaux stood before them with the red thread around his neck and the fourteen members of the Mouse Council perched on the bricks above him, two burly mice came forward. Black pieces of cloth covered their heads. There were slits for their eyes.

“We,” said the bigger of the two mice, “will escort you to the dungeon.”

“Despereaux,” Antoinette called out. “Ah, my Despereaux!”

Despereaux looked out into the crowd of mice and saw his mother. She was easy to spot. In honor of her youngest mouse being sent to the dungeon, she had put on a tremendous amount of makeup.

Each of the hooded mice put a paw on Despereaux’s shoulder.

“It’s time,” said the one on the left, the first hood.

Antoinette pushed her way through the crowd. “He is my son,” she said. “I want to have a last word with my son.”

Despereaux looked at his mother. He concentrated on standing before her without trembling. He concentrated on not being a disappointment.

“Please,” said Antoinette, “what will happen to him? What will happen to my baby?”

“Ma’am,” said the first hood. His voice was deep and slow. “You don’t want to know.”

“I want to know. I want to know. He is my child. The child of my heart. The last of my mice babies.”

The hooded mice said nothing.

“Tell me,” said Antoinette.

“The rats,” said the first.

“The rats,” said the second.

“Yes. Yes. Oui. The rats. What of them?”

“The rats will eat him,” said the second hood.

“Ah,” said Antoinette. “Mon Dieu!”

At the thought of being eaten by rats, Despereaux forgot about being brave. He forgot about not being a disappointment. He felt himself heading into another faint. But his mother, who had an excellent sense of dramatic timing, beat him to it; she executed a beautiful, flawless swoon, landing right at Despereaux’s feet.

“Now you’ve done it,” said the first hood.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the second. “Step over her. We have a job to do. Nobody’s mother is going to stop us. To the dungeon.”

“To the dungeon,” repeated the first hood, but his voice, so deep and certain a moment ago, now shook a tiny bit. He put a paw on Despereaux and tugged him forward, and the two hoods and Despereaux stepped over Antoinette.

The crowd parted.

The mice began again to chant: “To the dungeon. To the dungeon. To the dungeon.”

The drumbeat continued.

Boom, boom, boom. Boom, boom, boom.

And Despereaux was led away.

At the last moment, Antoinette came out of her faint and shouted one word to her child.

That word, reader, was adieu.

Do you know the definition of adieu? Don’t bother with your dictionary. I will tell you.

Adieu is the French word for farewell.

“Farewell” is not the word that you would like to hear from your mother as you are being led to the dungeon by two oversize mice in black hoods.

Words that you would like to hear are “Take me instead. I will go to the dungeon in my son’s place.” There is a great deal of comfort in those words.

But, reader, there is no comfort in the word “farewell,” even if you say it in French. “Farewell” is a word that, in any language, is full of sorrow. It is a word that promises absolutely nothing.

13

TOGETHER, THE THREE MICE traveled down, down, down.

The thread around Despereaux’s neck was tight. He felt as if it was choking him. He tugged at it with one paw.

“Don’t touch the thread,” barked the second hood.

“Yeah,” echoed the first hood, “don’t touch the thread.”

They moved quickly. And whenever Despereaux slowed, one of the two hoods poked him in the shoulder and told him to keep moving. They went through holes in the wall and down golden stairs. They went past rooms with doors that were closed and doors that were flung wide. The three mice traveled across marble floors and under heavy velvet drapes. They moved through warm patches of sunlight and dark pools of shade.

This, thought Despereaux, was the world he was leaving behind, the world that he knew and loved. And somewhere in it, the Princess Pea was laughing and smiling and clapping her hands to music, unaware of Despereaux’s fate. That he would not be able to let the princess know what had become of him seemed suddenly unbearable to the mouse.

“Would it be possible for me to have a last word with the princess?” Despereaux asked.

“A word,” said the second hood. “You want a word with a human?”

“I want to tell her what has happened to me.”

“Geez,” said the first hood. He stopped and stamped a paw on the floor in frustration. “Cripes. You can’t learn, can you?”

The voice was terribly familiar to Despereaux.

“Furlough?” he said.

“What?” said the first hood irritably.

Despereaux shuddered. His own brother was delivering him to the dungeon. His heart stopped beating and shrunk to a small, cold, disbelieving pebble. But then, just as quickly, it leapt alive again, beating with hope.