Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (16 page)

A
PRIL
9, 1789

Lead, follow, or get out of the way
.

—T
HOMAS
P
AINE

I
TIE THE RIBBONS OF MY HAT BENEATH MY CHIN AND THINK TO
myself,
This is how a traitor must feel
. I have no right to be the tutor of Madame Élisabeth. Not when men like the Duc d’Orléans and the Marquis de Lafayette are meeting in my home, discussing the ways in which the king’s power may be carved up and shared with the people.

The carriage pulls up to the courtyard of Montreuil, and as Madame Élisabeth rushes down the stairs, I wonder if God has told her the truth. Surely He looks out for His own. And how will I explain myself then? How will I convince her that none of the men who curse the king and call the queen
L’Autrichienne
are there of my own choosing?

“Marie!”

I hold my breath, expecting the rebuke that must come. If God has not told her, then surely she has spies.

“I am so glad you are here!” she exclaims.

I step out of the carriage.

“The model of Christ is finished, and I want you to see what I’ve done.”

At the door of Montreuil, we are greeted by the Marquise de Bombelles and half a dozen little dogs. The moment they see me, they are jumping and barking, their long tails wagging their entire bodies.

“My puppies,” the princesse says with pride. “Audrey, Amand, Camille, Claudine, Étienne, and Gaspard.”

They regard me with large, dark eyes set in curiously tapered heads. I reach down and stroke the smallest one. She is smooth as silk. “Are these greyhounds, Madame?”

“Yes.” She bends down and allows two of them to lick her face until the marquise claps her hands.

“Amand! Camille! That is enough.” The marquise turns to a nearby servant. “If you will.” As the dogs are led away, Madame Élisabeth watches them disappear like a nervous mother. “They’ll be fine,” the marquise promises. “Let them eat.”

“I hope the cooks are feeding them well.”

“They are eating better than half of Paris.”

The princesse crosses herself quickly. “May God provide for them, too.” She studies me as we make our way to the workshop. “The dauphin is very sick,” she reveals. “The doctors say it is something with his spine. He is only seven and must wear an iron corset.”

What a terrible thing for a child to endure.

“And he has fevers,” she adds quietly. “Perhaps we could each make an image of him today? I would like to bring one to the Church of Saint-Sulpice.”

The pious bring wax models of afflicted limbs to Saint-Sulpice in the hope that the saint will work a miracle for them. Hundreds of waxen arms and feet created by poorly skilled modelers on the Place de Grève are arranged beneath the saint’s reliquary bust. I should be bitterly disappointed by this request. But instead, I am deeply touched. “I am honored to help.”

“Will you come with me to the church? I want you to see what other artists have done. None are as good as you, but perhaps you will be inspired to a … a higher calling.”

She means perhaps I will be inspired to give up my modeling of kings’ mistresses and the daughters of courtesans. We may have hidden du Barry’s tableau for the royal family’s visit, but no doubt she has heard about what is normally displayed. “Yes,” I say without commitment. “Perhaps I shall.” She does not comprehend the true meaning of work. She probably imagines that if I wished, I could simply make my living by modeling the saints.

Inside the workshop, the finished image of Christ on the cross is hanging next to the door. The entire figure is the size of my forearm, large enough for me to see that she has taken pains to model each of the fingers on his hands. I step closer. The eyes and lips are good for someone who has not worked on faces before. “It is
good,”
I say honestly. The paints she has used are of superior quality, and it is clear that she is accustomed to working with oils.
“Very
good, Madame.”

“Élisabeth has so much talent.” The marquise is like a proud older sister. “I’ve told her for years that she should be working with wax.” She ties an apron around her waist, and the material is so fine that it’s a shame she’ll have to dirty it.

We go to the counter, and once again a block of clay and all of the necessary tools have been laid out. There are three bowls of water, sponges, towels, clay needles, potters’ ribs, and even loops. The long wooden spatulas have been arranged in a wide ceramic vase, and in the bright light of the workshop, I can almost believe that they are flowers reaching for the sun.

I dip my hands in the water bowl, and both the princesse and the marquise follow suit. “Be sure to keep the clay moist at all times,” I remind them. “Dry clay will crack.” Then we begin with three pieces. One is molded into the shape of a square, and that will be the base. The other two are rolled into medium and large balls—the first for the neck, the other for the head. When we have all joined the three, we begin the process of modeling the face.

“Most of the work can be done by the thumbs,” I tell them. I show them how to apply pressure with their fingers to create indentations for the eyes and press out the nose. Extra clay must be added for the ears. But before we can attach the ears to the heads, we must score the clay. I pick up a potter’s needle and show them. “Whenever you join pieces together,” I remind them, “you must score and slip.” I scratch the surface of the head where I will be adding the ears, then do the same to the backsides of the ears themselves. “You see? I’ve scored it.” I join the ears to the head. “And now I will cover the seam with a layer of slip.” I dip my hands in the water and show them what this is—a paste made of water and clay.

I explain how the ears must start at the tops of the eyes and end at the bottom of the nose for symmetry. When I feel they have understood my directions, I let them work on their own. There is something soothing about modeling in contemplative silence. There are none of the distractions here that there are on the Boulevard du Temple. No pestering from Yachin, no noise from the kitchen, no customers waiting outside, laughing and calling to their friends. I score the last curl into the dauphin’s head and look up to see the princesse’s eyes wide with envy.

“Look how beautiful yours is! His face.” She comes closer. “It’s so—”

“Realistic,” the marquise says.

The doors swing open, and all three of us turn. It’s Madame Royale, the eleven-year-old daughter of the king, followed by two women in white chemise gowns and powdered hair.

“Marie-Thérèse!” Madame Élisabeth says. “What a wonderful surprise.”

“You see?” Madame Royale turns on her two attendants. “I told you they weren’t busy.”

“But where is your mother?” the marquise asks.

“How should I know?” Madame Royale says. “She’s never with me.” She crosses the workshop, leaving her female attendants at the door. “What are you doing?”

“We are working on busts of your little brother, the dauphin,” the marquise replies.

“Because he’s sick?”

“Yes,” Madame Élisabeth says. “On Friday, we shall take these to Saint-Sulpice in Paris.”

“Why? Do you think the saint can heal him?”

“Perhaps if he recognizes these busts, he will take pity on your brother, yes.”

Madame Royale studies each of the three sculptures, but it’s mine she picks up. “This is yours?” she asks me. “It’s better than the others.”

“This is how I make my living, Madame.”

“I remember,” she says defensively.

“Put it back,” Madame Élisabeth suggests. “They are not yet finished.”

Madame Royale narrows her eyes at me, as if it’s my fault that she is being chastised. As she places the model back on the counter, her finger breaks the dauphin’s nose.

“You’ve broken it!” the marquise exclaims.

“Does this mean my brother will die?” Madame Royale asks.

“Of course not,” Madame Élisabeth says, horrified. She exchanges a swift look with the marquise. “This is a godly practice, not witchcraft.”

“But he won’t be cured. I heard the doctors. They said there’s nothing anyone can do.”

“God is not
anyone,”
Madame Élisabeth says sternly.

But Madame Royale does not flinch. Instead, she squares her shoulders and replies, “I wish God would take Maman instead.”

Madame Élisabeth takes her niece’s hand. “It is time for you to go.”

“Why?
She
gets to stay here, and she is nobody.” She indicates me with her pointed chin. “May I have the model?” She is looking at my sculpture. “I want something to remind me of my brother.”

Both women look at me, and I pass Madame Royale the bust. “I hope it brings you comfort,” I tell her.

She smiles but doesn’t say thank you.

That evening, as I am readying myself for bed, I go to the window to see the orangerie one last time before I sleep. When I open the shutters, something small and hard falls onto the ground. I lean over the windowsill and look down. The little bust of the dauphin is broken in two. Someone placed it outside my window, knowing that, as soon as I opened the shutters, it would fall.

I
T IS
F
RIDAY
night, and the Grand Commune is like an abandoned hive. Anyone with transportation has rushed from Versailles to spend the evening in Paris. There are a few members of the Garde du Corps, who share responsibilities with the Swiss for protecting the king, eating here tonight. And, of course, there are my brothers. But the ambassadors and courtiers have left. No one wants to be confined to a palace where the parties and masques have all stopped, a place where everyone waits for the terrible news that must come any day about the dauphin. I have received permission to come here tonight from Madame Élisabeth. Although I do not expect to be granted this privilege often, Edmund has chosen to eat with his commander, the Baron de Besenval, rather than with me.

I ask Wolfgang how long it has been since the queen last hosted one of her great fêtes.

“Years,” he says and looks to Johann.

“At least two,” Johann replies. “Before, every evening was a masquerade,” he remembers. “One night, Norwegians and Lapps was the theme. Everyone came dressed like Scandinavians. Another night it was the court of François the First, and the men came in jerkins while the women wore Spanish farthingale skirts.”

“The queen would send out lists of what her guests should wear,” Wolfgang adds. “White taffeta and tulle,” he says, “or sixteenth-century costumes with gabled hoods. And then there were the parties at the queen’s private residence, the Petit Trianon.”

“In the morning,” Johann recalls, “the king would go out hunting while the queen would pick wildflowers with her ladies. Then the entire day would be spent in picnics or boating on the canal. And at night—”

“It was like nothing you’ve ever seen. Hundreds of multicolored lanterns illuminating the gardens. And flowers everywhere. On trellises and windows and over specially constructed archways. It was like another world.” Wolfgang sighs. “It’s like a tomb in here now. If the queen hosted a party, she would be accused in every
libelle
of all seven deadly sins. No matter that she is criticized just as bitterly in court circles for economizing.”

I feel sorry for Wolfgang. Johann, at least, has a wife and child. But Wolfgang is young. If not for his service with the Swiss Guard, he would be sitting in a coffeehouse at the Palais-Royal. “So what do you do in the evenings?” I ask.

“The same thing you do,” Wolfgang guesses. “Play cards. Talk.”

“Go to vespers,” I offer dryly.

“Fortunately, not that. I hear you went with the princesse to Saint-Sulpice.”

“When we got there, she was surrounded by people who wanted her blessing. Some asked her to make wax images for them. She took their names and requests.” I am still amazed by this. “But she was really there to pray for her nephew.”

Johann shakes his head. “The dauphin is very ill. There are physicians in and out of the palace all day. I would be surprised if he lasts the month.”

I cross myself quickly. I have become like Madame Élisabeth, hoping that God will intervene in human affairs. “And the queen?” I ask him.