© 2021 College Board. All rights reserved.
486 SpringBoard
®
English Language Arts English I
4.8
My Notes
16 Marie-Laure hesitates at the window in her stocking feet, her bedroom
behind her, seashells arranged along the top of the armoire, pebbles along the
baseboards. Her cane stands in the corner; her big Braille novel waits facedown
on the bed. e drone of the airplanes grows.
e Boy
17 Five streets to the north, a white-haired eighteen-year-old German
private named Werner Pfennig wakes to a faint staccato hum. Little more than
a purr. Flies tapping at a far-o windowpane.
18 Where is he? e sweet, slightly chemical scent of gun oil; the raw wood
of newly constructed shell crates; the mothballed odor of old bedspreads—he’s
in the hotel. Of course. L’hôtel des Abeilles, the Hotel of Bees.
19 Still night. Still early.
20 From the direction of the sea come whistles and booms; ak is going up.
21 An anti-air corporal hurries down the corridor, heading for the stairwell.
“Get to the cellar,” he calls over his shoulder, and Werner switches on his eld
light, rolls his blanket into his duel, and starts down the hall.
22 Not so long ago, the Hotel of Bees was a cheerful address, with bright
blue shutters on its facade and oysters on ice in its café and Breton waiters in
bow ties polishing glasses behind its bar. It oered twenty-one guest rooms,
commanding sea views, and a lobby replace as big as a truck. Parisians on
weekend holidays would drink aperitifs here, and before them the occasional
emissary from the republic—ministers and vice ministers and abbots and
admirals—and in the centuries before them, windburned corsairs: killers,
plunderers, raiders, seamen.
23 Before that, before it was ever a hotel at all, ve full centuries ago, it was
the home of a wealthy privateer who gave up raiding ships to study bees in
the pastures outside Saint-Malo, scribbling in notebooks and eating honey
straight from combs. e crests above the door lintels still have bumblebees
carved into the oak; the ivy-covered fountain in the courtyard is shaped like a
hive. Werner’s favorites are ve faded frescoes on the ceilings of the grandest
upper rooms, where bees as big as children oat against blue backdrops, big
lazy drones and workers with diaphanous wings—where, above a hexagonal
bathtub, a single nine-foot-long queen, with multiple eyes and a golden-furred
abdomen, curls across the ceiling.
24 Over the past four weeks, the hotel has become something else: a
fortress. A detachment of Austrian anti-airmen has boarded up every window,
overturned every bed. ey’ve reinforced the entrance, packed the stairwells
with crates of artillery shells. e hotel’s fourth oor, where garden rooms with
French balconies open directly onto the ramparts, has become home to an
aging high-velocity anti-air gun called an 88 that can re twenty-one-and-a-
half-pound shells nine miles.
25 Her Majesty, the Austrians call their cannon, and for the past week these
men have tended to it the way worker bees might tend to a queen. ey’ve fed
staccato: sudden and short
diaphanous: delicate
Etymology
The word armoire, meaning “a
large wardrobe with doors and
shelves,” comes from a French
word that first appeared in
1570. The narrator’s use of this
word helps readers visualize
Marie-Laure’s bedroom in
a particular way, while also
reminding them of the story’s
setting, which is France.
WORD CONNECTIONS