Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (27 page)

The Revolution is far from finished, and you should not be deceived by the fireworks at the Palais-Royal. Though the events of this week have proved far more powerful and productive than any in the history of mankind, there is more to be accomplished. The great leaders of this new world shall be men of strong principles like Georges Danton and Mirabeau, true patriots who gather around the fire of liberty and fan the flames with their brave actions and words. If you can, include them in the Salon de Cire. Then the people of France shall know that you are great patriots as well
.

“Men of strong principles like Danton and Mirabeau?”
I look up at Curtius. “A lawyer and a rapist? We should take down both their models,” I say heatedly. The audacity, to suggest to us which models we should display! And the delusion. There is no man or woman alive in France who believes that Mirabeau is a man of principles.

Curtius puts his hand on my shoulder. “A letter came from Wolfgang as well. Earlier this morning. I gave it to your mother. He says thirty thousand soldiers are making their way toward Paris. Most of them mercenaries.”

We look at each other in the red light of dawn. It will be warm today. The women brave enough to visit the Palais-Royal will be wearing muslin dresses and wide straw hats, the same clothing the queen once loved and was criticized for wearing.

“The king is surrounding the city,” Curtius says. “See what you can discover from Madame Élisabeth. It may be that by tomorrow we’ll be hiding our models of Robespierre and Mirabeau. And ask the coachman to take you by the Bastille. I heard from the butcher that the Marquis de Sade’s making some kind of scene. If you can find out what’s he doing …”

W
HEN
I
TELL
the coachman to take me by the Bastille, he smirks. “So you want to hear the rantings of a madman as well?”

“Why? What is he doing?”

The old man raises his brows. “Shouting down that they are killing the prisoners.”

“What?”

“No need to be worried, Mademoiselle. My son is a guard there. The marquis is just angry that they won’t give him his daily coffee anymore. But if it pleases you to hear him …”

“Yes,” I say. “It will only be a minute.”

He takes me to the Bastille, where a crowd is growing beneath a window. I descend from the coach and stand among the onlookers. Above us is the massive figure of the Marquis de Sade. He has taken the funnel from his urinal and is using it as a speaking trumpet. “Political prisoners who’ve disobeyed the king are being slaughtered like lambs!” he’s shouting. “Somebody help us!”

“Liar!” I exclaim. “Those guards aren’t killing anyone.”

People turn to face me. “How do you know?” a young woman demands.

“I’ve met with the marquis. He’s sick in the mind.”

“That’s what will happen,” an old woman says, “after years of imprisonment and beatings.”

When I return to the carriage, the coachman asks, “Well?”

“I told them they weren’t killing prisoners, and no one would believe me.”

“Of course not. They want to believe in the king’s cruelty. It’s better than believing that God and Nature are starving them to death.”

I think about those words on the way to Versailles. Death is confined to the poorhouses and hospitals, both funded by the Church. But certainly people are starving. We don’t talk about it at night, but I see the account books. I know what my mother is spending on food. Fourteen sous for one dinner’s worth of milk and cream. Ten sous for salad. Six sous for vegetables that will feed only three. A daily worker’s wage is twenty-five sous.

When I arrive at Montreuil, I’m greeted by a servant who tells me in hushed tones that the princesse will not see me for another hour. “She is in prayer, Mademoiselle.”

“At ten in the morning?”

The courtier nods as we go inside. He’s impeccably dressed in a long powdered wig and an embroidered coat. “It has been this way since the death of the dauphin. The princesse prays now three times a day.”

I follow him into the workshop. It has been a month since I’ve been in here, and nothing has changed. The figure of Christ still hangs above the door, and the aprons look dazzlingly white in the sun. It could be the end of May if not for the heat and the blossoms outside.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Mademoiselle?”

“No. Thank you.”

“The princesse wishes to make a sculpture of the new dauphin today. She asked me to relay this to you.”

“I’ll prepare while I wait.”

The courtier shows himself out, and I take a seat on a wooden stool. The quiet is unnerving. Where is everyone? Hundreds of people must work in Montreuil, but there is no one in the halls and none of them can be seen outside. I look over the tools on the countertop. Everything is here. But we will need a recent bust or another likeness of Louis-Charles, the new dauphin, if we are to sculpt him.

I put on my apron and begin to knead three pieces of clay. When an hour has passed, a series of footsteps echo in the hall. But it’s far too many to be only two people. I wash my hands and rush to smooth my apron. When the doors swing open, I drop into my lowest curtsy. Madame Élisabeth has brought not only the queen but the king and the four-year-old dauphin! “Your Majesties.”

“Welcome back.” Madame Élisabeth smiles kindly.

I’m shocked by the changes a month has wrought. Both she and the queen are thin. The queen’s delicate collarbone protrudes above her lace fichu, and the angles in Madame Élisabeth’s face are entirely different. The king, however, has grown fatter. Is that possible? Only the Marquise de Bombelles looks the same.

“I thought we could model the dauphin from life,” Madame Élisabeth says. “And my brother wishes to see how a wax model is done.”

Chairs with padded arms are brought and space is made in front of the countertop for the royal family. I wonder where Madame Royale might be, but I don’t ask. Her absence is a blessing. The princesse puts on her apron, then helps the marquise into hers. “We begin by wetting and kneading the clay,” she explains. “But since Marie has been waiting, she has done it for us.”

“Can I touch?” the dauphin asks.

I look to the queen, who smiles and nods. I tear off a small piece of clay and hand it to him. Like his brother, he’s a small, curious child.

“Can you roll it into a ball?” the king asks. The dauphin shapes the clay, and his father claps. “Excellent! Only four years old and he can already make shapes.” The king looks at me. “It has been some time since you’ve been to Montreuil.”

“Yes. June was not a month for light entertainments.”

“It was a month to forget for many reasons,” he admits. “I suppose the Boulevard is rife with political discontent. Filled with young people and entertainers. The restless sort.”

“The restlessness is all over Paris,” I confess.

“So tell us,” the queen says lightly. But her face cannot lie. There are tension lines around her eyes and mouth. “What do the Parisians think of our troops?”

I look at the pair of Swiss Guards who stand stiffly by the door. Whatever I say will make its way back to Edmund. The queen sees the direction of my gaze and snaps her fingers. “Privacy please.”

When the men remove themselves to the hall, everyone looks to me.

“The Parisians …” What should I say? The truth? A half-truth? If I tell them that there were fireworks over the Palais-Royal, will the Duc be arrested? And if the Duc discovers what I’ve said and the people make him king?

“Your words won’t go beyond these walls,” the queen swears.

I can’t believe there is no one else to give our monarchs this news, no one else who will tell them how it is in Paris. Or perhaps I am one of many people they are questioning. “This morning there was a disturbance at the Bastille,” I tell them. “The Marquis de Sade was shouting from his tower that they were killing prisoners on the orders of Your Majesty.”

“That’s preposterous!” the king exclaims. “There are only seven prisoners in the Bastille. I have wanted to tear it down for years.” He turns to Marie Antoinette.
“You
asked me to tear it down.”

“These kinds of lies are all over the city,” I say.

The queen’s question comes as a whisper. “So how do we stop them?”

I don’t know. I am paid to spread news, not stop it. How do you convince people that what they wish to believe is a lie? “I don’t see any way of stopping it,” I say quietly, “except through action.”

“We have done all we can,” Madame Élisabeth replies. “We give charity. You’ve seen how we give.”

Yes, but I am not the one you must convince
, I want to say. I feel sorry for them. They do not know what to do, and I am not smart enough to give them good political advice. “You are incredibly generous,” I agree. “The monarchy is the backbone of this nation.”

“Of course it is,” the king replies. “We can’t let a handful of angry men tear down nine hundred years of tradition.” The queen rests her hand lovingly on his knee, encouraging him, goading him onward. “Sending troops into Paris was the right thing to do, and anyone who disagrees with this policy—”

“Shall be dismissed,” the queen finishes for him.

The dauphin holds up his clay ball and asks, “Have I done it right?”

Just like his father, worried about what other people will think. “It’s absolutely perfect.” I smile.

Chapter 23

J
ULY
11, 1789

Fortune does not change men, it unmasks them
.

—S
UZANNE
N
ECKER
,
WIFE OF
J
ACQUES
N
ECKER
, M
INISTER OF
F
INANCE

T
HE
M
INISTER OF
F
INANCE HAS BEEN SENT AWAY
! N
ECKER
, who is beloved by the Third Estate despite his long-winded speeches, has been taken with his wife to Switzerland. A carriage arrived at his home, and the coachman was given instructions to ride nonstop to the city of Lausanne. A man named Joseph-François Foulon, who agrees with the king’s policies and wishes to abolish the National Assembly, has been named the Finance Minister in his place.

“When this gets out,” Wolfgang says, “there’s going to be chaos.”

We withdraw into an alcove of the Grand Commune. “How do you know this?” I ask him.

“I was at the door when the king told his brother Artois. Word won’t reach the city for another day. But tonight, lock the doors. There are thousands of troops encamped all across Paris.”

“I saw soldiers yesterday at Saint-Denis.”

“They’re also at the Invalides on the Champ-de-Mars. The city is surrounded, and every rabble-rouser is going to take to the streets when they hear this news. And best stay away from the Palais-Royal for the next few nights.”

It’s unbelievable, the idea that Paris should succumb to violence. I don’t wish to think about it. I won’t. “How is Edmund?”

“He hasn’t spoken to me since we visited Maman six weeks ago. Or to Johann.”

“And Abrielle?”

“She wants to give it a little more time.” He sounds uncertain. “She loves her father. Her mother died in childbirth … it’s only her and him.”

I take a deep breath. Now is the time to tell Wolfgang. He should know. “Henri asked me to marry him.”

My brother steps back to study my face, and I’m sure I am blushing deeply. “Marie, that’s wonderful news! Have you told Maman?”

“I can’t tell her. Not until I’m ready to accept, and marriage would ruin my chances at the Académie Royale.”

My brother is surprised. It’s the first he’s heard of this.

“I can’t think of anything worse than raising a family on a few hundred sous a week,” I tell him. “You remember how it was for us. The rags we used to wear and the food we would eat. It was meat once a month. If I am accepted into the Académie—or even if it’s Curtius—our futures will be certain.”

“But we all turned out well enough,” Wolfgang protests. “Things got better. Curtius’s business picked up, and now the Salon is doing well.”