Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (10 page)

“The king has a country to administer,” Edmund replies. “He does not make it his business to know about the bakery lines in Paris.”

“It isn’t just Paris,” I tell him. “It’s likely the whole of France.”

“What about the streetlights?” Wolfgang asks. “This morning, most on the Palais-Royal and the Boulevard du Temple were out. How long has it been since they were refilled?”

Curtius and I exchange looks, trying to remember. “At least three months,” I answer. The city lacks funds to buy the oil. “All of the theaters and cafés, even the Opéra, must close when the sun is set, else their patrons risk collision or robbery on the roads.”

“I would not mention this in the palace,” Edmund says. It is not a suggestion, but a command. “These things are not spoken of to Their Majesties.”

“That goes for Madame Élisabeth as well?” I ask. People are starving, bread is scarce, and Their Majesties don’t know? It is a crime, what the advisers to the king are allowing.

“To
anyone
in the royal family. If you mention it, you will bring disgrace upon us, and you will bring disgrace upon the Salon de Cire. Nothing you say remains secret in Versailles. The royal family is never left alone. There is always someone listening—
always.”

I look across the table at Wolfgang, who does not contradict him.

“When the queen begins her toilette in the morning,” Edmund continues, “there are separate attendants for her hair, her powder, her dress. When she bathes at night, it is in a long flannel gown in front of her women. When she prepares for bed during her
coucher
, the Mistress of the Robes, the
dames d’honneur
, the Superintendent of the Queen’s Household—they are all present.”

“How unbearable.” To be surrounded by people all day. When is there time to be alone with your thoughts?

“It is her job,” Johann says. “From the moment she arrived from Austria, she was trained in these rules of etiquette.”

“Those are the rules of court,” Edmund stresses. “That is what separates Their Majesties from everyone else.”

Suddenly, I am nervous. It is one thing to model and display the royal family, but to have to live their life, that is something else. “I will be discreet,” I promise.

“You must understand the queen’s
lever,”
Johann says. “There are different women to help her dress. The
première femme
must hand the queen’s chemise to the
dame d’honneur
, who then takes off her glove in order to hand the chemise to the queen. However, if a Princesse of the Blood should arrive in the middle, it must all be started over again so that the princesse can be the one to present the queen with her chemise.”

“But that is not all,” Wolfgang says quickly. “The queen is not allowed to reach for anything herself. If she wants water, it must be fetched by the
dame d’honneur.”

“And if the
dame d’honneur
isn’t present?” I ask.

“Then she goes thirsty.”

Ludicrous! “And this happens every day?”

My brothers exchange looks. “Less frequently now that Her Majesty spends her time at the Trianon,” Johann replies.

The king gifted Marie Antoinette with the Petit Trianon as a private residence. It is a quarter league from Versailles, and though I have never seen it, I am told that it is the most charming château in Paris, surrounded by orange trees and an English garden. The queen has turned it into her private palace, with its own special livery of silver and scarlet. “Who can blame her?” I say. “Who wouldn’t want time for themselves?”

“She has a responsibility to the court,” Edmund replies.

“To live like a wax model?” my mother asks, surprising everyone. None of us saw her sit down. “To be dressed and redressed like a doll?”

“She belongs to the people,” Edmund says stiffly. “The king rules by God’s will, and the queen reflects his glory. Whether or not she likes the rules, she must abide by them.”

“But who made them?” Wolfgang challenges. “Not God.
Man
. Courtiers,” he adds, “who want to know that their place in the royal hierarchy is assured. What should it matter who hands the queen her underwear so long as she’s wearing some?”

My mother smiles, but Edmund has gone red in the face.

“Leave it for another time,” Curtius suggests, and Johann puts a restraining hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “He only says it to rile you up. Like Marie.”

Wolfgang grins at me, and I suppress a laugh, since I know it will simply make Edmund more enraged and upset my mother. We see my brothers rarely enough. It would be foolish to spend what little time we have with them arguing over whether the queen deserves privacy.

There is no more talk of Versailles as we eat. My mother has prepared sauerkraut and sausages, potatoes, and warm Viennese bread. For dessert, I help her serve Bavarian crème we purchased in the Palais-Royal. There are no fruits to accompany it, since there are none to be had for any amount of money, but it is delicious. By the time the sun has set, even Edmund has relaxed.

“So when will you bring your son to see his grandmother?” my mother implores Johann.

“Next month,” he promises.

My mother sighs. “And how will he know me if I see him only for Christmas and Easter?”

“I tell him stories all the time.”

“Pffff.” She waves her hand through the air. “It is not the same.”

“We will try to come in summer.”

I see that my mother is already making plans in her head: where Isabel and Paschal will stay, what she will cook, and how she will entertain her four-year-old grandson.

The church bell of Saint-Merri sounds, and Wolfgang looks out the window. “It’s a shame we can’t stay longer.”

“But we’ll see each other soon, at Versailles,” I say.

Wolfgang looks uncertain. “We eat in the Grand Commune with the courtiers. Madame Élisabeth may want to you to dine in Montreuil, the little house the king gave her. It’s at the entrance to Versailles. But—”

“It might as well be in another country,” Johann finishes. “She is very religious, Marie. If she were not the king’s sister, she would have entered a convent years ago.”

“But her aunt is a Carmelite nun,” I say. “Certainly she could enter a convent, if she wished.”

“She does. But the king needs her,” Johann says bluntly.

I look at Edmund, and when he doesn’t protest, I realize what Johann is saying. “So she’s given up her life for her brother.”

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that,” Johann says, uncomfortably. “She is happy to devote her life to him. But she is very religious,” he repeats.

“She dines at four and retires when the sun is set,” Wolfgang clarifies. “She almost never goes to the palace. So it’s unlikely we will see much of each other.”

“It doesn’t matter, Marie,” Curtius says reassuringly. “Montreuil, Versailles, you are working for the king.”

“The king’s
nunlike
sister,” I say with disappointment. I had imagined seeing the king riding out to the hunt and the queen in her latest coiffures. “How will this serve us?”

“She is a good woman,” Edmund says sternly. “It may not serve the Salon de Cire. But you will be serving her, and that should be enough.”

My brothers rise to leave, and when I embrace Wolfgang farewell he whispers in my ear, “If we don’t see each other, write to me. You can trust Madame Élisabeth’s lady-in-waiting, the Marquise de Bombelles, to deliver a message.”

“I will,” I promise. There must be some advantage to this, I think. There has to be!

I hug Johann fiercely, but I do not embrace Edmund. Instead, we stand across from each other as if oceans separate us. It has always been this way. “A safe journey,” I tell him.

He nods formally. “And you.” As my mother and Curtius embrace the others, Edmund speaks quietly to me. “It would do the Salon great credit if you were to clothe the queen in something modest.”

“It is business, Edmund! It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means
everything
. I am not mistaken. I have told Curtius many times. He doesn’t care. I am hoping you have more sense.”

As we watch the carriage roll away, bound for the Palace of Versailles, we hear Wolfgang’s and Johann’s cheerful voices carried on the night air. But I am silently arguing with my eldest brother.
There are images of the queen in every corner of Paris. What separates ours from all other images is the illusion of flesh. The tantalizing curve of the queen’s neck, the softness of her hand, the painted toenails peeking out from beneath her lacy shift. The people want to see this. We are simply giving them what they want. Where is the harm in that?

Chapter 8

A
PRIL
2, 1789

The court lost no time in going à la mode. Every woman became a lesbian and a whore
.

—A
NONYMOUS
LIBELLISTE

E
VERYONE HAS COME TO SEE ME OFF, FROM OUR TAILOR AND
Yachin to the chandler down the street. As I make my farewells to all these people, I remember why this is so important. I may be spending four days of my week in Montreuil, but my absence will only reinforce to the public that our models are worthy of the royal family’s notice. A freshly painted sign in the window now reads,
NEW MODELS COMING SOON FROM MADEMOISELLE GROSHOLTZ, PERSONAL TUTOR AT VERSAILLES
. I read it again, simply because it doesn’t seem real.

“Will you bring something back for me from the palace?” Yachin asks.

I laugh. “Like what?”

“How about playing cards?”

“What? Shall I steal a deck from the queen?”

“Okay, a pair of dice.”

“And how am I supposed to come across dice?” When his eagerness flags, I promise him, “I’ll see what I can do.”

My mother is looking increasingly worried. She thinks I won’t feed myself in Versailles. While everyone is chatting pleasantly, she takes me to one side. “Please, just remember to eat. No model is so important that you should skip dinner.”

“I will eat like a princesse,” I swear. “Or at least, the tutor of one.” But she doesn’t believe me. “Look at Johann,” I tell her. “Going to Versailles hasn’t done him any harm.”

“He is not you,” she says in German. “He does not become so busy that he forgets to eat.”

This is true. I doubt Johann has ever forgotten a meal. Whereas being a guard has kept Edmund fit, Johann has clearly indulged in the rich foods provided in the Grand Commune. He has the round, fat face of a German now, which pleases my mother.

“I will promise to eat,” I tell her, “if you promise to watch Curtius. Don’t let him give away tickets for free. If it’s the Empress of Russia herself, she pays.”

My mother heaves an exasperated sigh. “I will do what I can.”

“Forbid
him from giving anything away.” I take her hands. “This is a business.”

She kisses my cheek.
“Viel Glück,”
she says warmly. “Give your brothers my love.”

I make the rest of my personal good-byes. I hug Curtius, then tell Henri that I will miss his rational talk of politics and science. And to Yachin I say, “I want to know if drunken theatergoers are still pissing in the urns.” Our new plants have become favorite places for uncouth men to relieve themselves.

“I’ll send a message,” he swears. He has been given a good education at his temple. Unlike many children, he can read and write. Then he adds, “If you find perfume, I would be happy to have that as well.”

“Have some manners,” Henri chastens, but the boy only grins.

I make my way through the crowd to the waiting
berline
. The luggage has been tied to the roof by the driver, and Curtius helps me into the coach. Already I feel different. Like a woman of some consequence. Curtius presses his lips to my hand, and I can see in his eyes that he is proud, which is important to me. I want him to know that I shall never disappoint him.

“Remember the honors,” he says, recalling the lessons I’ve had these two months. What he is truly saying is to mind myself at court.

“I will. If you finish the model of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe, and make a second one for the Salon. You will, won’t you?”

“There is nothing to worry about, Marie.” As the carriage rolls away, he calls,
“Auf Wiedersehen!”

I look through the window and study the faces—most happy, some resentful—crowding the steps of the Salon de Cire. Then I sit back against the cushions of the expensive
berline
and wonder how much it cost my uncle to hire. It is a coach for four, and I am the only one inside. But it is for the greater good of the Salon, I remind myself. I am like a farmer who feeds his cow the best hay for the time when it will make his own dinner. I will not disgrace my brothers at Montreuil. And however secluded Madame Élisabeth may be, I will find a way of using this position to our advantage.

I stare out the window at the lines outside every bakery. Countless shops, which once teemed with women in lace-trimmed bonnets, have gone out of business. Dirty
sans-culottes
—men who cannot afford knee-length trousers with stockings—sit on the steps of these empty shops and roll dice. Their long pants hang around their ankles, unhemmed and trailing in the dirt. My mother believes this is God’s work. That last summer’s driving rain and hailstones destroyed France’s crops because of God’s sharp disapproval. But of what? Our Austrian queen? What has she done that a dozen mistresses have not? Our king? He pursues his hobbies of lock making and building the way previous kings bought horses and bedded women. No, I cannot agree with my mother’s reasoning. Nature has done this, and Nature will repair it. Already there are leaves on the trees.