Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (23 page)

“Your speech was excellent,” Madame Élisabeth says kindly. “The people could hear you at the back of the hall. Ask Marie.”

The King of France looks to me. “Were you in the audience?”

“Yes. Your Majesty’s voice carried to the very farthest seats.”

This makes him happy. My words—the words of a common woman—have delighted the king. “I have very high hopes for this assembly,” he reveals. “Even with their little mutinies, these are sensible men. Men who want the best for us and for our kingdom.”

I flinch at this astonishing ignorance. But Madame Élisabeth does nothing to correct him.

“The queen thinks I am being too kind about this hat rebellion. But the people love me. We must allow the Third Estate their small defiances.”

I wait for the princesse to produce the newspapers. I wait for her to tell him about the
libelles
. But instead, she offers him bread and tea.

Chapter 19

M
AY
8, 1789

Create citizens, and you have everything you need; without them, you will have nothing but debased slaves
.

—J
EAN
-J
ACQUES
R
OUSSEAU

T
HE PAPERS ARE CALLING HIM
R
OB
-P
IERRE
, R
OBESTS
-P
IESSE
, even Robertz-Peirre. In the Salle des États, where everything echoes beneath the barrel-vaulted roof and the speakers compete with chatty audiences to be heard, only his friends from our salon, Camille and Marat, have gotten it right. Their articles detail his sudden rise to prominence, stressing how this provincial lawyer from Arras has taken the Estates-General by surprise. The
Journal de Paris National
, the
Courrier de l’Europe
, even the daily
Journal de Paris
, have something to say about him. I wonder what Henri and Curtius think, reading his name from the Boulevard du Temple.

Although neither Madame Élisabeth nor I have visited the Estates-General again, it’s impossible to avoid the news. It’s in the halls, on the streets, and in hurried whispers during Mass. When the princesse asks me if I’ve heard of this man, this Robespierre, I admit that I have some acquaintance with him.

“He is bringing the entire Estates-General to a standstill,” she accuses, and she’s not wrong. As it is, each estate has one vote when ruling on taxes or fiscal reform. Since the clergy and nobility will vote together to preserve their privileges, Robespierre is insisting that the votes of every
deputy
be counted. The Third Estate fought to gain greater representation, but it means nothing if each estate is to have only one vote. On Friday night, when I meet Wolfgang outside the Grand Commune, it’s with a packet of letters as thick as a book.

“You must be bored in Montreuil,” he jokes, since he has only one letter for me. But he looks well. And again, his shoes are new. This time the buckles are gold.

“Gifts from Abrielle?” I ask.

“She is very generous.”

“Is that part of her charm?”

He dismisses my question with a laugh, then takes my arm and we sit together inside the Grand Commune. Food will not be served for a few hours, and we are alone with the richly paneled walls and wooden tables. “I’m surprised you haven’t found a wealthy comte, or a rich merchant in the Palais-Royal.”

“Are you talking to Curtius?” I demand. “How would I have time for the Salon if I were caring for a husband and children?”

“You might find a husband who doesn’t want children.”

“Are there men who don’t want heirs?”

My brother thinks about this. “You don’t have any desire for marriage?”

“Not if it means giving up my work. And it will. Children will come, and how will I tutor, or make models, or promote? He will want me by the fireside, knitting bonnets and pouring tea.”

“It’s hard for a woman, isn’t it?”

“Are you feeling sorry for me,” I tease, “now that you’re courting Abrielle and neglecting to write?”

He smiles. “A little. Here.” He hands me his single letter.

“That’s all your news?”

“It’s long,” he says, then adds swiftly, “but promise you’ll burn it as soon as you’re done.”

“And all of mine.” It goes without saying that none of them must be shared with Edmund. “Will you show these to Johann?”

“If you want me to. I think he can keep secrets. Are there things in these he shouldn’t read?”

“No.” I lower my voice. Though we’re alone, there must be cooks in the kitchen. “It’s just the news I’ve heard of the Estates-General. The princesse is convinced that Robespierre wishes to overthrow the king.”

“If she knew that he dines with the Duc in your salon, it would be the end of our careers.”

“Well, she’ll never know it from me. And the Duc wouldn’t say.”

“Robespierre might talk.”

“No. Their paths will never cross.” I am sure of this. “Not unless it’s in front of Rousseau’s grave.”

My brother finds this amusing. “He’s odd, isn’t he? Funny that he should be the one to stir up their passions. I suppose he quotes a great deal from his idol?”

“Every chance he gets.” I repeat, “ ‘There can be no patriotism without liberty, no liberty without virtue, no virtue without citizens; create citizens, and you have everything you need; without them, you will have nothing but debased slaves.…’ He wants a country with citizens, not subjects.”

My brother’s eyes have gone wide. “He should be careful.”

“Why? He has nothing to lose. He borrowed coats from Curtius before leaving Paris. He doesn’t have a single livre to his name.”

“He has freedom. And he must have a family.”

“The king would never arrest them.” I tell Wolfgang about my meeting with Louis XVI. How certain he is of the people’s goodness, and how he wishes to make a speech to inspire them.

My brother shakes his head. “Then I hope he feels inspired to hear more from Robespierre.”

A
SMALL CROWD
is waiting for me when I return to the Boulevard du Temple. Curtius must have told our neighbors that I was coming, and they have all turned up to hear the news. There are Henri and Jacques, Yachin and his father, even the butcher and his portly wife. More people appear as I descend from the carriage, and Curtius proudly leads them up the stairs to our salon. There is no time to inspect the exhibit or see the new room Henri and Curtius have built. Everyone wants to hear what’s happening in Versailles. I tell them what I know without compromising Madame Élisabeth or the king.

“We’ve been hearing a great deal about Robespierre, that he’s become an important voice in the Assembly,” Henri’s brother says. “He was such an unassuming man.”

Everyone around Jacques Charles agrees.

“They say his voice carries across the entire hall and he holds the Third Estate in a sort of trance. Do you think that’s what they’re in?” the butcher asks.

“They are simply tired of shouldering the financial burden for the entire nation,” I say.

The men begin to debate: Will the votes be counted by order or by head? Will the privileges of the first two estates be abolished? My mother brings out fresh rolls and pâté. It is a sign of our neighborly goodwill that we are willing to share our bread. I notice that Yachin eats enough for two. “Yachin,” his father, Abraham, scolds when he notices I am watching. He explains shamefacedly, “I think he is growing.”

“Let him eat.” I smile. “He works hard enough.”

Abraham nods, and Yachin reaches for another roll. “It was very kind of you to give him such a special token from the queen. My wife was tremendously proud. She took it to all of our neighbors in Saint-Martin.” This is the quartier where most of the city’s Jews are living. It is terribly poor. “My wife and I are loyal to the king, but we have great hopes for the Estates-General.” He strokes his long beard. It is a habit with him. “We want citizenship. As it is, we must register in Paris and renew our
passeport
every three months. The fees for this … Well, most Jews cannot afford them. But where else can we go?” He shakes his head. “At least in this country, we have the freedom to pray. There is a synagogue on the Rue Brisemiche. And there are shops that follow the dietary laws of Kashrut. We have built a community,” he tells me. “There is a
hebra
for the poor and the
heder
where my son can learn Hebrew. Eventually, the king must see reason. Look at what the Estates-General has accomplished: in one week, he has learned that the people have a voice. And if the deputies can speak out, then so can the Jews.”

“Is that what Zalkind Hourwitz is doing?” Henri asks. I had not known he was listening to our discussion.

Abraham looks across the table in surprise. “You read the
Courrier
?”

“And the
Chronique
. I try to read as many literary journals as I can.”

“Hourwitz has been sending his petitions for many months,” Abraham explains. “And he’s making some progress. Perhaps by this time next year …”

This is the kind of hope that is all over Paris. In the salons, in the streets, in the cafés that have overrun the Palais-Royal. Everyone is hoping for great things from the Estates-General.

At noon, Yachin returns to his place outside and our guests begin to leave. Only Henri stays, since he and Curtius are waiting to show me the new exhibit. We go downstairs, and when Curtius throws open the doors to the room, I gasp. It is an exact replica of Jefferson’s study, from the paintings on the wall to the mahogany desk. I touch the wooden shelves, where leather-bound books have been fitted between marble busts and potted plants. “How … how did you do this?”

“We had Jefferson’s help,” Henri admits. “He allowed us to return and sketch his study.”

I feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes. I don’t know why I should be so affected by this. But it’s the most beautiful room we have ever exhibited. The chairs, the wallpaper, the long leather couch with its clawed brass feet—it is all so
exact
. “Thank you, Henri,” I say. We shall continue to repay him by sending our customers to see his Invisible Girl, but I think of the experiments he might have had time for if not for this, and I am deeply moved. He must have spent hours here, possibly nights. I imagine his hair tied back from his face and the two lines between his brows deepening as they always do when he is hard at work. Truly, there has never been a better man than him. “You are far too kind to us.”

He makes a little bow. “It was my pleasure.”

“Now there is simply the matter of a few models to make,” my uncle says.

“Only Jefferson and Lafayette,” I reply.

“Didn’t you bring drawings of anyone else? What about Mirabeau?”

I fetch my bag and take out my sketches. There are half a dozen men. The hideous Mirabeau is among them, as well as the Duc d’Orléans.

“We should do all of these,” my uncle says. “Especially the Duc.”

I think of the way they shouted his name in the streets, and the worry on Madame Élisabeth’s pale face when I saw her. “What if we’re encouraging rebellion?” I ask. “What if by making a model of him we’re reinforcing the idea that he should be king? Edmund would say—”

“Forget what Edmund says,” Curtius exclaims, and he walks me to the Salon’s largest window. The entire Boulevard is spread before us.
“People
. And all of them are going about their business. If the Salon de Cire disappeared tomorrow, do you think that man would change his mind about polishing his boots? Or that woman would have chosen a different parasol? The events of this month are bigger than us. We are simply reporting them in the flesh.”

“Or wax,” Henri offers wryly.

“We aren’t changing minds,” Curtius says. “Think of the artist who paints a brewing storm. Is he responsible for the rain? You might say he has created a thing of beauty out of something filled with misery and danger.”

He is right. The Salon de Cire exists to report events as they are happening. Mistresses, murderers, newly made queens …