Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (21 page)

Rose places her fan between us so that no one may read our lips. “And every day it becomes more like a rats’ nest. Have you been to the palace this week?”

“We rode by this morning, but we didn’t go inside.”

“Crawling,” she says, “with men you wouldn’t admit to the Salon de Cire. Men without any money at all. They blame the queen for everything. The rain, the wind, the bad harvest …”

I think of Robespierre, who came to Curtius to borrow a coat before he left. For all of his fine wigs and embroidered waistcoats, he could not afford a jacket with tails. I am ashamed to be speaking this way at the queen’s own fête. “Perhaps she can do something to change their minds.”

Rose gives me a long look. “You run a show. How do you sell a foreign queen to a people determined to believe the worst? I have tried myself. And failed. She was the ruler of style as well as France.
Now
look.”

Across the salon, Marie Antoinette is attended by half a dozen women. She is wearing satin gloves and a
pouf
studded with pearls. She is flawless.

“Nothing unique. Nothing original. Every woman in Europe wanted to follow her once. I could dress her in burlap and the Duchess of Devonshire would follow. She has given up her elaborate wardrobe, and still they hate her. I am useless here.”

The queen was Rose Bertin’s living doll. Who else could dress herself at noon and see a hundred likenesses by noon the next day?

“And now they think they can live without a queen. There is talk,” she whispers, “that the Estates-General will call for a constitutional monarchy.”

I glance over my shoulder, but the other guests are all laughing and enjoying the chance to eat pâté de foie gras.

“I know that men visit your salon each Tuesday night. It’s not a secret. And everyone knows that your uncle is close with Orléans.”

“It’s a relationship of convenience,” I say. “We have no love for him.”

“But what does the Duc believe?” she asks. “Will they propose a constitution?”

I owe Rose the truth. After all, it’s no secret, just as she says. And it was her gamble that placed me here. “Yes,” I reply, but very quietly. “And they have drafted a declaration so we can be like England.”

“A country too weak even to hold on to its colonies?” We both look at Madame Élisabeth, who is reaching for her sister-in-law’s hand. “They are too good,” Rose says. “That is their problem. Another king would send soldiers to arrest the Duc and execute him. Anyone who dissented would follow.”

Chapter 16

M
AY
3, 1789

The hallways, the courtyards, even the buildings and corridors are all filled with urine and fecal matter
.

—J
EAN-
L
OUIS
F
ARGEON
,
PERFUMER TO THE COURT OF
V
ERSAILLES

O
N
S
UNDAY, AFTER PRAYERS
, I
’M ALLOWED TO VISIT MY
brothers. Wolfgang meets me at the door of the Grand Commune, under its triangular pediment and carved
cherubini
. The hall beyond us is empty, but come night, it will be filled with the hundreds of representatives who have come to Versailles.

“Where are Edmund and Johann?” I ask.

“They couldn’t get away. You have no idea what it’s like in the palace. Hundreds of people, and who knows what any of them are carrying. The doors are open at all hours, and cats have taken over the halls. I saw a pig yesterday—”

“In the
château
?”

“It’s a zoo.” We begin to walk, and I notice that his black shoes and silver buckles are new. “No more Sundays off until the Estates-General is finished.”

“But then how did you get here?”

“I’ve become somewhat friendly with my commander, the Baron de Besenval,” he confesses. “I’ve been making it my mission to impress him.”

This isn’t like Wolfgang. “Are you in debt?”

We reach a small fountain and sit on the ledge. “It’s his daughter.”

I study his face. “You’re not serious? He’s a baron! What does Edmund say?”

“Oh, Edmund doesn’t know,” he answers quickly. “He can’t know. Not until I’ve convinced the baron I’m suitable for Abrielle. She is such a kind woman, Marie. And beautiful. With a face like that of the Princesse de Lamballe—only sweeter. I’ve been exemplary these past few weeks. And Besenval has taken notice.”

“He’ll want to marry her off to someone with a title,” I warn. “And if she’s as pretty as you say, then someone with a fortune.”

His shoulders sag. “I met her last year at a celebration her father hosted. I thought I would forget about her. Then I saw her again last month in the palace. There really is no one like her, Marie. I wouldn’t pursue this if she didn’t want me as well. I see her at every Sunday Mass, and on Tuesdays we meet in the Château Opéra. No one uses it anymore.”

Like Camille and Lucile, a pair of lovers determined to decide their own fate. “And what does she tell her father?”

“There are seven hundred rooms in the palace. You could set a dog loose and never find him again.”

So he doesn’t know
. “And how old is she?”

“Twenty-three.” He adds defensively, “She’s not a child.”

“But she’s Besenval’s child.”

“Yes.” He stands. “Which is why I must get back. He gave me leave to see you, but only to wish you well. I heard the queen held a masquerade in Montreuil last night,” he remarks.

“Not a proper one with costumes, but there were masks.”

“You were there?” he exclaims.

“I was invited by the princesse.”

“I wish I could hear all about it. You will have to write to me, and I will tell you how it’s progressing with Abrielle.”

“Be careful,” I say. “If her father discovers you—”

“Then both he and Edmund will want my head.” He holds out his gloved hand, and I take it. “Don’t worry.” He winks. “I don’t plan on being caught.”

“Someone will talk.”

“You are the only one who knows.”

“And you don’t think she’s told half a dozen of her friends?”

“No. She can keep a confidence.”

As we make our way toward the palace, I try to imagine my brother with a title, and giggle. “Baron Wolfgang,” I whisper.

He grins. “And really, who wouldn’t want me for a son?”

“It all depends,” I tease him. “Do you plan on gambling away the dowry?”

Suddenly, he becomes serious. “I haven’t gambled in six weeks. Honestly, Marie, I want this more than anything. Write to me. I want to know everything you hear this month. In the palace … on the Boulevard …”

I think of Rose Bertin’s words,
It’s no secret
. “It might not be fit for letters.”

“Then we can meet at the same place on Friday nights and you can tell me.”

We stop in front of the marble courtyard, where the king looks out every morning from his bedchamber down the Avenue de Paris. “Will you give my love to Edmund and Johann?”

“If you will kiss Curtius and Maman for me.” He doffs his hat. “Now it’s back to the menagerie.”

Chapter 17

M
AY
4, 1789

France revealed itself in all its splendor. And I asked myself, what muddled minds, what ambitious, vile men, for their own interests, are trying to break up this whole, so great, so respectable, and dissipate this glory?

—M
ARQUIS DE
F
ERRIÈRES
,
REMARKING ON THE
E
STATES-
G
ENERAL

A
LL OF
F
RANCE HAS BEEN WAITING FOR THIS DAY
. N
OW THAT
it’s here, every person in the town of Versailles is watching. Even God, from His place in the heavens, must be looking down at this magnificent assembly of the Estates-General in Versailles’s Church of Notre-Dame. It is a pageantry of silks and velvets and gold that would have gladdened the heart of the Sun King himself.

“Push to the front,” Rose Bertin says. When I am too demure, she uses her parasol to make our way through the crowds. “You see?” she exclaims. “That’s how it’s done.”

We are standing so close to the altar now that I can see the individual fleurs-de-lis embroidered into the gold and purple cloth draping the chancel. The king and queen will preside over the roll call of the
bailliages
before leading a procession through the streets of Versailles to the Church of Saint-Louis. There are so many people that it’s impossible to see anything but the space in front of me. Somewhere in the crowd, Marat and Camille are watching, while Robespierre is sitting with the members of the Third Estate.

The clock strikes nine, and as the trumpets begin to sound, the entire congregation turns. But there is nothing to see. No sign of the royal family or the men who will take the velvet seats beneath them. “The dauphin was ill this morning,” Rose whispers to me. “I had to dress Her Majesty while she was tending to him.”

But as the time passes and the twelve hundred representatives begin to shift in their seats, I hear women say, “The queen is probably searching for another gown” and “Perhaps she forgot what day it was.” When the man next to us posits, “Perhaps she is asking her lover for one last
baiser
before she goes,” Rose Bertin answers him loudly, “She is with the dauphin, who is ill and may die.”

This shames those around us into silence, but it is another hour before the royal couple arrive, preceded by a fanfare of trumpets and fifes. As soon as they appear, there is a collective gasp. The king and queen have come dressed as the true regents of France. From head to toe the king gleams with diamonds. In the cold light of the chancel, they shine like raindrops. Rose points to the gem in King Louis’s hat. “The Regent Diamond, the largest in the world.” Which means the queen must be wearing the world’s second largest. It sparkles from her hair, and smaller gems catch at the light from the bodice of her gown.

“There’s no necklace,” I say, and Rose sniffs her response, as if to reply,
Little surprise
, given the scandal of the Diamond Necklace Affair. But the queen is still shimmering, a silver snowflake to the king’s bright gold. And behind her comes Madame Élisabeth, dressed in the most exquisite gown I have ever seen her wear.

As the royal family approach, the congregation of Notre-Dame bows. First the clergy, then the nobility, then the Third Estate. Only the members of the Third Estate aren’t bowing. They are standing! Over six hundred men are standing with their hats on their heads and their legs unmoving.

“They’re refusing!” Rose grips my arm. “They’re all refusing.”

The nobility look to the clergy in confusion. Is this a sin? The king is the manifestation of God’s will, the blessed leader. I can see shock register in the queen’s eyes. Then the king takes his place to the right of the choir screen while the queen and her ladies take their seats to the left. The performance must go on, whether or not the dauphin is ill, whether or not the king wishes it so.

Beneath the altar, on long velvet benches, are the king’s most important men: the Comte d’Artois, the Comte de Provence, the Swiss-born Minister of Finance, Jacques Necker. They are all pretending that this terrible snub has not happened. But up close, I can see that the queen is strained. She must be thinking about her son, wishing that she could be with him instead of here.

Two by two, the representatives of the First and Second Estates approach the king. They bow first to him, and then to the queen. The roll-call ceremony is long and boring, but everyone is waiting to see what will happen when the Third Estate’s members are called. When the first representative’s name is announced, I am sure my heart stops. But the first man bows, and then the second. The queen exhales visibly, and Rose relaxes her grip on my arm.

“Now that they stand before God’s altar,” someone says, “they aren’t too proud to show their respect.”

When it is all finished, I wonder if perhaps I haven’t dreamed that first slight. The trumpeters begin to play, joined by harpists and men on fifes. Then Rose and I pour into the streets with the rest of the assembly. After two days of rain, the sun has made its way through the clouds, gilding the courtiers in their embroidered stockings and the clerics in their golden robes. The men of the Swiss Guard have lined the road from the Church of Notre-Dame to the Church of Saint-Louis, and they stand at attention like a row of toy soldiers. It is useless to look for my brothers. There are hundreds of guards, and ten times as many people.