Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (14 page)

We cross the drawbridge and pass beneath the portcullis. Henri reaches out to take my arm under the pretense that the ground may be slippery. But I know the truth. This is a haunted place, where men have lost their lives for nothing more than offending the king, a place where no one wants to be alone.

“Have you been here before?” I ask him.

“No. My family was kind enough not to request a
lettre de cachet
when I told them I wanted to follow in Jacques’s footsteps.”

I laugh, despite the solemnity of the moment. We approach a long table where a dozen guards are playing dice. The men wear the riband of the Order of Saint Louis, and none of them appear the way I would expect prison guards to be, fiendish or cruel. Their wigs are heavily powdered, and their golden military badges catch the light of the candles.

“I wish to speak with the governor of the prison,” Curtius says. When one of the men asks what sort of business we have inside, my uncle replies, “We have come to visit the Marquis de Sade.”

A middle-aged man separates himself from the group. The bejeweled hilt of the sword at his side is extraordinary, and his attire is more befitting the court than a prison. “I am the Marquis de Launay,” he replies, “and I am the governor here.” He has dark eyes and a strong, square jaw. He must have been a handsome man in his youth. He looks at our clothes and is obviously shocked that we have chosen to walk in the rain.

“There were no cabriolets to be had,” Henri explains.

The marquis sighs heavily. “No. Not on days like this. I will have my men find one for your return.”

After introductions are made and we pass through the prison, Henri releases his hold on my arm. Despite the forbidding entrance with its iron gate, there is almost nothing menacing about this place. Heavy tapestries have been hung along the walls to keep in the heat, and somewhere—perhaps in one of the cells—a man is playing the violin.

“Are prisoners allowed instruments?” Curtius asks.

“Of course,” de Launay says. “Books as well. What else would keep them occupied?”

“But they must pay for these privileges,” I guess. Why else should the king care if his prisoners are entertained unless it’s to make money?

De Launay turns to my uncle. “She is quick. Yes,” he says to me as we walk. “They must pay a fee to bring an instrument inside. They may also have coffee, and wine, and their own fire … for the right price.” He winks, and I wonder what else may be had for the right price.

“It’s not what I expected,” Henri admits.

“No,” my uncle says thoughtfully.

Perhaps there are prisoners languishing in the dungeons below our feet. But the ones shut behind these doors of heavy wood and iron do not seem to be suffering. “How many prisoners do you have?” I ask.

“Oh, not many,” de Launay confides. “Only seven.”

“I thought there would be hundreds of prisoners,” I admit. “Thousands.”

“Did you think we were imprisoning a foreign army? How would hundreds fit on the bowling green? There must be room for socializing. Imagine hundreds of prisoners at billiards.”

Bowling and billiards?
“And do all of the men belong in here?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” de Launay answers me. “These are rapists and murderers. A few are vicious thieves.”

“None have come unfairly?” Curtius asks. “Shut up for offending the king?”

De Launay stops. “Our king is just, Monsieur. Such things do not happen.”

“What about Voltaire?” Curtius challenges. “Voltaire was sent here.”

“More than sixty years ago. Those mistakes don’t happen in this reign.”

“So, for all of Marat’s ranting,” Henri says quietly in my ear, and the warmth of his breath on my skin makes my heart race, “there are only seven prisoners, all of whom belong here.”

I nod, thinking about the small, enraged man. What would he say if he were walking through these richly decorated passageways and inhaling the aroma of spiced venison in stew? I wonder if the king knows that his prisons smell better than his palace. A clap of thunder echoes through the walls, and although I should be afraid, I’m not. Since my childhood, this fortress has loomed large in my nightmares as a place of interminable suffering. The reality is even more shocking. Tomorrow, I will tell Marat the truth. I will tell them all—Robespierre, Camille, even the Duc, with all of his conspiracy theories.

“You are the only people who have come to see the marquis today,” de Launay says, then sighs again, since he charges all visitors a handsome fee. We stop outside an unmarked door. “Mademoiselle. About the marquis … I feel I must warn you. He may be old and fat—”

“So what should we be afraid of?”

De Launay looks at me as if he’s never heard such an ignorant question. “His words, Mademoiselle. They are his weapons now.” He takes out a key and opens the door.

I hold my breath, expecting to see a monster, a prisoner with wild hair and unwashed clothes. Instead, there is a corpulent man nearing fifty, sitting at his desk with ink and a quill. He turns slowly, and I see that it pains him to move. A lifetime of excess has stiffened his joints and ravaged his face. But his eyes. My God. They are the piercing blue of an icy winter’s sky.

“Your guests,” de Launay says.

The marquis rises and doffs his hat to us. “I hear you have come to make me immortal.”

“We have come to sketch your likeness,” my uncle replies.

The marquis looks at me. I think of a vulture, the way it studies its meal. “And is this your lovely assistant?”

“She is the artist,” Henri says shortly.

“A lady artist!” His brows raise. “Well, why not? The queen’s painter is a woman. Not as pretty as you, of course. And certainly not—”

“Are you going to ask us to sit?” There is a hardness in Henri’s voice, but the marquis is not offended. He is interested only in me.

“Yes, sit,” he says distractedly, for his eyes never leave my face. “Here are three chairs. And Mademoiselle the Artist may take my desk.” He pushes his papers to one side and makes a tidy pile in the corner.

I cross the room to his leather chair, and the marquis seats himself across from me. The cell has been decorated with handsome bookshelves and an embroidered settee, a wealthy nobleman’s chamber. The bed is of fine wood, and I can see that the linens are of high quality. A cheerful fire burns in the fireplace, where the marquis has hung out his stockings to dry. I cannot imagine how he has gotten them wet. On the bowling green, perhaps? On his way to billiards? Curtius hands me his leather bag, and I take out my supplies, arranging them on the marquis’s table. Then I turn and study the old man’s face. He is smiling—no, leering—at me, but I am not afraid. He is a shark with no teeth, a hawk without its claws, and I refuse to become unnerved. “I would like to sketch you,” I say.

“Many women do.”

“Then you know what I require. Sit still, do not fidget, and I will study your face.”

“Only if I may study yours.”

“That is enough!” Henri exclaims.

The marquis is laughing. “Would you prefer that I put on a blindfold?” He is like a child who cannot hold his tongue. “Or perhaps a blindfold and some chains?”

Curtius rises, and the marquis says quickly, “Stay!”

“Then keep civil,” my uncle warns.

“If that is the price of infamy.” The marquis leans forward, and I can see his strange features up close. “I hear I am to be added to the Cavern of Great Thieves.”

He is a madman. That much is certain. His eyes are spaced too close together, the way they are in children who will grow up to be imbeciles. Only there is cunning reflected in them instead of ignorance.

“But tell me”—the marquis holds up his hands in protest—“what have I stolen?”

“A great deal, I hear. Lives. Innocence.” I study his face while we talk. There is no symmetry in it at all. I have brought my caliper, but I have not yet decided whether I should use it. Perhaps I will ask Curtius to take the measurements.

“Ah.” The marquis sits back. “Yes. A great deal of innocence.”

“Which is why you are here,” Henri says harshly.

The marquis stares at him. “You have never had a longing you wished to satisfy? A longing for Mademoiselle the Artist, perhaps? I noticed that you escorted her into my cell with the care that only—”

“Enough,” I say sharply.

“Oh. So the feelings are not returned.”

I don’t dare to look at Henri. I look down at my hands, at the paper and the quill. “Curtius, will you take his measurements?” I ask.

My uncle takes the caliper while the marquis reaches beneath the waist of his
culottes
.

“What are you doing?” my uncle demands.

“Mademoiselle says you wish to take my measurements.”

The marquis is so crass, so subhuman, that I burst into laughter.

“You see,” the marquis says cheerfully. “Already, we have broken the tension.”

“Let Curtius take his measurements,” Henri says to me, “and then we will leave.”

“No sketch?” the marquis exclaims.

“No,” I say flatly.

I have memorized his features. With the measurements, that is all I will need.

“I will be still,” the marquis promises. “As quiet as a virgin on her wedding night.”

“Then begin now,” Henri warns.

Curtius calls out numbers, and I write them down. As I wait for the figures, I study a large roll of paper on the desk. It is covered in writing and so thick that it must be at least ten meters in length when it’s fully unrolled. The marquis sees the direction of my gaze and says quietly, “My masterpiece. I call it
The One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom.”

I can see the muscles working in Henri’s jaw, and Curtius is frowning over his caliper. He thinks he has taken the measurements wrong—that the marquis’s eyes cannot be so close together. “A very interesting title,” I say.

“For an immensely interesting story. Would you like a peek?”

I should say no. Nothing good can come of seeing the contents of a story entitled
The 120 Days of Sodom
. But I scribble the last of Curtius’s measurements, then motion for Curtius and Henri to sit beside me. They pull up their chairs, and Henri whispers, “Why do you want to see this?”

“It will be offensive,” my uncle warns.

But I want to see the truth of this man. I want to know what lurks behind those close-set eyes, what sort of devilry humans are capable of.

The marquis crosses the room and unfurls the manuscript across his long desk. He has drawn pictures on separate pieces of paper to accompany the story.

“What sort of perversion is this?” Curtius asks, aghast.

“Oh, every kind,” the marquis says with pride.

There are images of urination, whippings, cross-dressing, and anal sex with boys who are clearly being forced into submission. Girls are chained naked to walls while the flames of lighted candles are applied to their nipples. Excrement is everywhere, as if no fantasy can be fulfilled without this.

“I’ve had enough,” Curtius says.

“But you haven’t even seen my favorite!” he exclaims and unveils an image of a girl being scalped while her attackers fondle her genitals and breasts. Beneath the picture the Marquis de Sade has written, “How delicious to corrupt, to stifle all semblances of virtue and religion in that young heart.”

I put on my showman’s mask, determined not to give him what he wants. “I hope you know you have not corrupted me.”

“But I’ve surprised you.”

“No. Nothing surprises me about human depravity.”

“These are not just dreams. I enacted them in the Château de Coste.”

Behind us, de Launay clears his throat. I had forgotten he was there.

“I run a show on the Boulevard du Temple, Monsieur. What you have created,” I say, and I wave my hand, indicating the pictures and the manuscript, “is theater. No more real than my Cavern of Great Thieves.”

“It happened,” he says hotly.

“Perhaps. But now it’s over, and the actor must return to his room and face the truth that for all of the masks, and all of the applause, there is only him. Your performance couldn’t last, and now that it’s done, all that’s left is your own company. Do you enjoy it?”

The marquis is silent. Now I am the one who has surprised him.

“N
O LADY SHOULD
ever have to see—”

“I am not a lady. I am the daughter of a common soldier,” I tell Henri from the comfort of the carriage de Launay has secured for us. “Everyone has secrets. His are simply darker. And it makes me a better artist.”

Henri shakes his head. “You are a puzzle.”

“It’s an insight into the man,” Curtius explains. “Art is not like science. It’s a product of emotion. It makes the viewer feel something. Jealousy, awe—”

“Revulsion,” I say. “Now that I know who he is,
what
he is, I know how to sculpt him.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence, watching the rain fall slantways onto the dirty streets. I know he doesn’t understand, but when Henri sees the wax model—the set of the eyes, the tension in the mouth—he will know.

When we reach the Boulevard du Temple, Curtius hurries into the warmth of the Salon while I stop with Henri beneath the awning of his shop. “I know you didn’t wish to go. You went for me, and I’m incredibly grateful.”