Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (18 page)

“You see?” she says to me in German. To Henri, she whispers, “What is it?”

“It’s only talk,” he begins, but my mother waves this away. Henri leans forward so that our patrons won’t overhear. “Five thousand workers gathered outside of Réveillon’s shop this morning. They were armed with shovels and clubs.” My mother crosses herself. “The rioters destroyed the factory, then turned toward Réveillon’s house.”

The door of the Salon opens, and my uncle appears. His coat is torn. His
culottes
are splattered with mud. He sees that we have been waiting for word and holds up his hands, as if to defend himself. “I had no idea. No idea it would be so violent.”

My mother rushes forward to take his coat. I tell Yachin to mind the desk, and the three of us follow Curtius up the stairs. We sit at my mother’s wooden table. “It is gone. His house, his factory—as if a storm swept through and took everything,” Curtius says. “There was a rumor that Réveillon planned to cut wages. Thousands of men were at the gates of the factory when I arrived, and none of them were Réveillon’s workers.” He tells us the Duchesse d’Orléans appeared, demanding entry. Because Réveillon had no other choice, he did as he was told and let her in. The men flooded through, destroying everything they came across. “What they didn’t burn, they stole,” he tells us. “Tapestries, books, lidded vases, tables—all his family’s treasures either broken or carried away. They smashed the windows and cut down the trees. Destruction simply for destruction’s sake.”

“What of Réveillon and his family?” my mother asks.

“They escaped over the garden wall. When the Gardes Françaises arrived, the rioters climbed onto the rooftops and began to hurl tiles at the king’s men. So the Gardes fired into the crowd. Five hundred are dead, at least.”

Henri shakes his head, and I realize that the stains on my uncle’s
culottes
are not dirt, but blood.

“When I left,” Curtius says, “the mob was growing, and hundreds were making their way toward the archbishop’s palace at Vincennes. A man bragged that he had stopped the carriage of the Duc de Luynes and forced him to shout, ‘Long live the Third Estate!’ They’ll be rioting until nightfall,” Curtius predicts, “unless the king sends more soldiers.”

“Réveillon employed nearly four hundred people,” Henri says. “He’s been elected to represent his district next month. Who would start a rumor that he planned to cut wages?”

Curtius spreads his hands. “When the Gardes Françaises searched the dead, they found six-franc pieces on them.”

The four of us are silent, all thinking the same thing. Finally, it is Henri who says, “So they were paid.”

There is only one man with both the desire and the funds to destroy Réveillon. The Duc d’Orléans. The same man who sent his estranged wife to insist that Réveillon open the gates.

T
HE EVENING’S SALON
is joyful. It is as if great wealth has been created rather than lost with the burning of Réveillon’s house and factory. Camille brags that not only has Réveillon’s manor, Titonville, been burned to the ground, but the saltpeter works belonging to Réveillon’s good friend Hanriot have also been destroyed.

“It is the first step,” Lucile says passionately, “in letting the elites understand that we will no longer tolerate this great division of wealth. And wait until everyone makes their way to the Estates-General tomorrow!”

I wonder what her father would think of this outburst against privilege. If not for his wealth, she would not be wearing those pretty pearls around her neck or the gold watch at her waist.

“Robespierre and I will be traveling together tomorrow morning,” Camille announces. “And you, Marat?”

“If there is space in your carriage, I would be happy to come,” Marat replies.

“Then w-we all go together!” Camille exclaims.

But Robespierre clenches his jaw. For as dirty and disheveled as Marat keeps himself, Robespierre is equally fastidious. His green-tinted glasses are polished to a sheen; his silk jacket and matching waistcoat are perfectly creased. Not even Rose Bertin could find something to complain about in his attire. “I believe,” he says in a slow, deliberate voice, “the space in our carriage was given to the Comte de Mirabeau.” He does not wish to lower himself by riding in the same carriage as Marat.

Camille hesitates, then looks across the table to the Duc. “I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marat says. “I can make my own way.”

There is an awkward moment before the Duc says, “I suspect that this will be the last time we shall meet in Curtius’s salon until the business of the Estates-General is over.” He raises his brandy, and his gold rings clink against the glass. “To Curtius and his generous family. May we all return here next month in triumph.”

While everyone raises their glasses, Marat demands, “Will
you
be voting to abolish all exemptions from taxes due to privilege and rank?”

The Duc lowers his glasses, and everyone at the table holds their breath. “Yes. But this convocation must do more than ease the tax burden of the Third Estate. It must recognize the Third Estate as the driving force behind this nation. As the heart and body that gives life to the powerful beast that is France.”

“Exactly!” Camille exclaims.

The diamond in the Duc’s cravat catches the candlelight. “Now that the three estates have drafted their
cahiers
and presented them to the king, he must take action. The
lettres de cachet
must be abolished. Offices sold by the state to raise money must be abolished. And the
corvée
must be abolished. What gives one man the right to command another man to work for him without pay?”

“It’s modern slavery!” Marat shouts. “The
corvée
must be the first to go.”

The Duc smiles. “And all citizens must be equal before the law.” There are eager murmurs around the table. “Even now,” the Duc says quietly, so that we know this is a great secret he is about to divulge, “the Marquis de Lafayette is drafting a declaration with help from the American ambassador, Thomas Jefferson. He is calling it the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen, and we shall present it to the king.”

“And if the king won’t agree to it?” Marat challenges.

“Then perhaps we will have to find a king who will.”

When we have shown our guests down the stairs and locked the door, I turn to my uncle. “It must have been the Duc’s money that destroyed Réveillon.”

“He wants the crown,” Curtius agrees. He takes a candle from the wall, and I follow him up the stairs. When we reach the landing, he faces me. “Look at what Thomas Jefferson managed for America. There’s no telling what both he and Lafayette might do in France. We should call on him tomorrow, before he leaves for Versailles.”

“What do you think the king should do?” I ask him.

“He should force the nobility to bear the tax burden, just as we do.”

“That’s right!” my mother yells from the kitchen, elbow-deep in dishwater.

“They will refuse,” I predict.

“Then he must force them. He is king. And he must give consideration to the grievances listed in the Third Estate’s
cahiers
. But I doubt he will do either. He is afraid of the nobility. When they shout, he will cower.”

“Do you believe the nobles will follow the Duc’s lead?”

“The Duc has no intention of being their leader. He has seen where the real power lies.”

Chapter 13

A
PRIL
29, 1789

The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants
.

—T
HOMAS
J
EFFERSON

W
E HAVE ARRANGED AN AUDIENCE WITH THE
M
ARQUIS DE
Lafayette, and we are to meet him in Thomas Jefferson’s home on the corner of Rue des Champs-Élysées! Curtius knows what Henri thinks of Jefferson, who is not only a political philosopher and ambassador but an inventor as well. As soon as the offer to come with us is made, Henri is finding his walking stick and hat.

As our carriage rolls away, I look back at the sign advertising
The Auricular Communications of the Invisible Girl
. “And you’re sure you want to come with us?” I ask.

“What?” Henri puts on a look of mock offense. “Am I such bad company?”

I feel my cheeks warm. “No. But your exhibit. Who is watching it for you?”

“My apprentice. I’m training him to take over every afternoon.”

“But he might let his friends in at a discount,” I warn. “Or worse, for free.”

Curtius laughs. “You see what I have to deal with?”

But Henri’s look is endearing. “Marie is a hard businesswoman is all. You are extremely fortunate to have her.”

He smiles at me, and for the first time, I am at a loss for words. They are both waiting for me to say something. “Thom-Thomas Jefferson,” I say swiftly. “You said once that he’s the most interesting man in America. Why?”

My uncle stares at me. He wants me to address Henri’s compliment. But what did it mean? He can’t be interested in me. Neither of us has ever pursued any courtship. We are married to our work. Though, when I look at him, my pulse quickens. And when I see the smile lines around his eyes, I know that his words are sincere.

“Jefferson is a great intellect,” Henri replies, and I am thankful that the awkward moment has passed. “The man can speak six languages, and it’s said he learned Gaelic simply so that he could read
The Poems of Ossian
in their original. He’s a naturalist, and an accomplished architect as well. He designed his own estate and named it Monticello.”

I laugh nervously. “Is there anything he doesn’t do?”

“Fight. He’s a thinker, not a soldier.”

I almost say, “Like you.” But instead I reply, “How funny that they should become fast friends. Lafayette, who went to war in the Americas when he was just nineteen, and Thomas Jefferson.”

“They share a love of liberty,” Curtius tells me. “And they’ve known each other for more than a decade.” The carriage comes to a stop before a two-storied house that towers above its neighbors. Few homes in Paris are as tall or elegant as this. An expansive English garden in front is lush and bright, as if dampness and rain have never touched this corner of the Champs-Élysées. Topiary figures are dotted among the flowering plants, and the pretty pink heads of peonies bob and bow to us in the gentle breeze.

“Magnificent,” Curtius says.

As we descend from the carriage, Henri holds out his hand to me. When I take it, his fingers close intimately over mine. I look into his face, but his eyes are fixed on Thomas Jefferson’s home. A pretty girl with long hair comes out to meet us. Though her skin is porcelain, her eyes are dark and her cheekbones high.
She is an octoroon
, I think.
Seven-eighths white and one-eighth African
. The angles of her face are sharp. She has a symmetry, I realize, almost as perfect as that of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe. She would be beautiful to sketch, and I wonder what she’s doing here. She cannot possibly be a maid. Her clothes are too fine. “Welcome to the Hôtel de Langeac,” she says in greeting. “Are you the wax modelers?”

Curtius lifts up the leather carrying case with my tools as evidence.

“Very good,” she replies. Now that we are close, I see she is older than I first thought. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen. “The marquis and the ambassador are eager to see you.”

When we have paid the coachman, we are shown inside the imposing home with its oval rooms and commanding views. “Did Jefferson design this himself?” Henri asks.

“Yes and no,” the young woman says. “This house was designed by the architect Chalgrin, but the ambassador has made many changes.”

We pass beneath a ceiling painted with an image of Apollo in his chariot. When the young woman sees the direction of my gaze, she says, “Jean-Simon Berthélemy.”

“We have a painting of his in our exhibition,” Curtius says. “Not this size, of course. This … this is tremendous.”

“The ambassador likes his home to make an impression.”