Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (24 page)

I spend the next three days in my workshop. When it’s time for me to return to Versailles, Curtius writes a letter filled with regret, stating that I will not be able to assist Madame Élisabeth again until June. I sign my name, and though I feel guilty, we are not like the princesse. We must maintain a business for a living. Madame’s twenty livres a day are all well and good, but how long will the position last? The Salon must come first. There are molds and sculptures and bodies to be made. There are teeth to be found and eyes to be painted.

There must be seven new models for the Salon de Cire by the time I return to Montreuil. Jefferson, Lafayette, Robespierre, Mirabeau, Necker, Danton, and the Duc d’Orléans. I try to imagine Robespierre’s face when he returns to find himself in wax.
He will be beside himself with glee
, I think. He will probably want to take the model home.

I begin by sculpting the Duc, thinking to do the unpleasant tasks first. Though in clay he’s not so offensive. His lips don’t sneer, and his eyes don’t narrow into derisive slits. In fact, when I’m finished, he’s rather pleasing to look at. Not a handsome man. But pleasant.

Mirabeau, however, is just as loathsome in clay as in the flesh. I include the pitted scars left by the smallpox, and the protrusions on his nose and lips from syphilis. The prostitutes call it the Italian disease, though I suspect it can be caught from anyone, really.

It is a far more joyous task when I begin to sculpt Jefferson. He and Lafayette have similar noses. Aquiline, strong. Though their jaws are different. One square, the other round. I close my eyes and think to myself,
I could sculpt Jefferson from memory
.

Of all the models, Georges Danton’s proves the most difficult, but he has become a popular assemblyman, and there is no choice but to use the extra wax and sculpt this giant of a man. I have laid eyes on him only once, but to see him at the podium in the Hôtel des Menus is to never forget him. He has the body of a mill worker rather than a lawyer. His hands, chest, even his shoulders, are larger than any man I’ve ever modeled. But it’s his heavy brow that distinguishes him the most, and it will probably be Danton whom our customers are most impressed with.

T
HREE WEEKS LATER
, when all seven models are finished, Curtius sends Yachin to help me dress the figures. He sorts through the chests of clothes we’ve collected, looking for something suitable for Robespierre.

“What about this?” he holds up a pair of tattered stockings.

“I said Robespierre, not Marat.” I brush Mirabeau’s hair away from his face and wonder if preparing a model of Marat could truly be any worse than this.

Yachin holds up an embroidered coat and silk cravat, and I nod. We used them for a model of the Comte d’Artois several years ago. “When do you think we will have the unveiling?” he asks.

“On Friday,” I tell him. That gives us three days to arrange the models and prepare the rooms. Plus, create a window display that features the Estates-General. “If you can find a pair of blue stockings in that chest, it might work.”

He brings his discoveries over to me and perches on a bench to watch while I sort through his pile.

“It was a pleasure to see your father again,” I say. “How is his business?”

“Well. Or better than before. Suddenly, everyone wants to use our printers. My father says most of his requests are for
libelles
attacking the monarchy. I have read what some of these papers say about the queen and her friends. They accuse her of …” His voice drops low. “Well, they aren’t kind.”

I put down the brush. The hair on Mirabeau’s model is as precise as it’s ever going to be. “Does your father print them?”

“He won’t have it. He tells them to find someone else. That he has a family to consider. Who will take care of us if my father is arrested? I haven’t even become a Bar Mitzvah. Mine will come next month, and there’s to be a fine meal in my honor.”

I can see that Yachin is already thinking of this meal, and I offer him some of the bread and sausage my mother left on the table.

“Don’t you want it for yourself?”

“I’m not a growing young man.”

“But the bread.” He hesitates. “It must have been expensive.”

Yes. And the newspapers are saying that the wheat we’ve been given from America is infested with insects. There is going to be starvation if something isn’t done. The king has resorted to begging the English for flour, but their House of Commons has flatly refused, saying that this is God’s justice for supporting the Americans in their war. “Don’t worry.” I smile. “Just eat.”

While Yachin is quiet for a moment, I go to the model of Jefferson. The clothing he’s chosen for the American looks exactly like something the ambassador would wear. Silk
culottes
with a waistcoat of striped velvet. I place my hand briefly on his chest. Unlike with the model of Madame du Barry, there’s no gentle rise and fall. But for a moment I imagine that this strong, sculpted man is Henri, waiting for me to tie his cravat.

Chapter 20

M
AY
29, 1789

This hardworking German [Philippe Curtius] produces colored wax heads of such quality that one could imagine that they are alive
.

—M
AYEUR DE
S
AINT
-P
AUL, EXCERPT FROM TOURIST BROCHURE

“M
EET THE DEPUTIES OF THE
E
STATES
-G
ENERAL
!” Y
ACHIN
cries. “Then come see the greatest thieves in France!”

“Will the queen be there?” I hear someone ask, and the people in line begin to laugh.

Commoners, noblemen, tourists from England—they are all crushed together: the rich want to walk through Jefferson’s study, while the poor wish to see Robespierre in the Estates-General. This is success even greater than when the royal family came to visit, and the customers can’t shove their twelve sous at us fast enough. The
Journal
can write of Robespierre, but we show him the flesh. The
Courrier
can paint a picture of the Salle des États with words, but we have brought it to life. And only the Salon de Cire can show Danton as he truly is in life—towering, immense, with a chest like a barrel and hands like heavy plates.

“We shall have to limit the time they’re inside,” Curtius says. “Otherwise, this line could go for days.” We sit at the
caissier
’s desk from ten in the morning till ten at night. When we close the doors, there are men and women returning from the theaters who want to know when we’ll be open tomorrow.

“Eight in the morning,” I reply.

“And how much for entry?”

“Fifteen sous.” My mother stares at me.

As they walk away, I hear one of them saying, “I’d rather see models than read the
Journal
. The papers are so tedious.”

“Fifteen sous?” my mother asks when they’re gone.

Forget fifteen sous. “We could charge twenty!”

My mother looks uncertain, but when eight o’clock arrives and the line stretches down the Boulevard du Temple, there is no doubt that this is a winning approach. Curtius and I decide to include posters in every room explaining the tableaux. Each day, as more news comes from Versailles, the posters will change. All of Saturday is a triumph. But as the last patrons are pushing through the door, a rider comes with the message that my brothers will be arriving tomorrow.

Curtius shakes his head. “It would be better if they didn’t. Think of it, Anna,” he says in German. “What will Edmund feel?”

She looks at the room that’s been transformed into the Salle des États, then at the figures in
Jefferson’s Study
. “He will understand that this is business,” she says firmly. “He will see how we have made a great success.”

“He doesn’t care about success, Maman. Tell them we’ll go to Versailles instead.”

But she won’t hear of it, and when the carriage arrives on Sunday evening, I pause on the doorstep to tell my uncle, “We’ve taken in three thousand sous since Friday.” That’s three times what we would normally make. “He will be enraged.”

Curtius gives me a look. “Then try not to provoke him.”

This time I won’t need to.

M
Y BROTHERS LEAP
from the carriage, Wolfgang first, and when he wraps me in his arms, I smell the scents of narcissus and sandalwood in his hair. He embraces my mother, and she smells the change, too. I have told her about Abrielle. But she will wait for him to say something first.

“Welcome home.” She kisses both of his cheeks, then does the same for Johann and Edmund. “Come inside. We have coffee waiting.”

“And something to eat?” Johann says hopefully.

“This is Maman,” I reply. “The table is full.” We set it this afternoon, leaving Yachin to help Curtius while my mother roasted meats and I prepared the desserts. There will be pastries and almond milk, plus Johann’s favorite cheeses, Gloucester and Gruyère.

“I see the streetlights are still out,” Edmund remarks. “The Estates-General hasn’t changed the world.”

We step into the Salon, and everyone falls silent. My mother closes the door behind us, and Wolfgang gives a low whistle. The tableau of Robespierre, Danton, and Mirabeau is the first room you see. “It looks just like the Salle des États,” Wolfgang says.

“Very impressive,” Johann adds. “Did Marie do this?”

Edmund’s eyes are accusing. “You are no better than the
libellistes
. We
spoke
of this!”

“And while I heard your concerns, I also heard the voice of the people—”

Edmund turns on our mother. “Aren’t you supposed to guide this family? Where are your principles?”

My mother inhales sharply.

“Perhaps you don’t have any. After all, you live with a man you’ve never married. No better than a common
cocotte
really.”

Curtius reaches out and grabs Edmund’s throat. He is going to kill him. I can see it in his eyes.

“Don’t!” Johann cries. He and Wolfgang pull them apart, and Johann shouts into his brother’s face, “What’s the matter with you?”

I rush to comfort my mother, who is weeping into her apron. “He didn’t mean it,” I say. “He isn’t rational.”

“I’m perfectly rational!” Edmund shouts. His face is red, and his neck is swelling. “But I’ll never stay in a house of harlots and traitors.” He is gone before Curtius can go after him.

We look to my mother, and for a moment there is only the sound of her weeping. Upstairs, the roasted meat and coffee are getting cold.

Wolfgang wraps his arm around her shoulders. “He says a lot of things,” Johann soothes her. “You don’t know him, Maman. We have to live with this. He has a temper. Everything offends him. Nothing is ever good enough.”

We lead her upstairs, and my brothers and I try to be cheerful. We talk about the king, and what the queen is wearing. Then Wolfgang tells us all about Abrielle, though he swears my mother and Curtius to silence.

“I’m in love,” he reveals, “and I wish to marry her.”

“A baron’s daughter?” Curtius is uncertain. “Wolfgang—”