Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (31 page)

We walk back in silence, but the sound of the crowd seems to be following us. As we reach the Boulevard du Temple, the cries grow louder, and as I open the door to the Salon Camille cries, “The mob! My God, they’re following us.”

“Inside!” Henri shouts. “Get inside!” But before anyone can make it through the door, we are surrounded. Henri grips my hand and positions himself in front of me. There must be a thousand, no, two thousand of them. What are they doing here? What do they want?

A man steps forward and identifies himself as Pierre-Augustin Hulin, Vanquisher of the Bastille. “Citizeness Grosholtz. The patriots of France have come to your doorstep to make a request. We carry the heads of two tyrants, and it is our wish to preserve these heads for eternity, not only as examples of what happens to the enemies of the people but as reminders to the
ancien régime
that their time has come!”

The crowd cheers, raising their weapons in the air. Most of them are men in long trousers and tricolor cockades. But there are women as well, in muslin caps and linen skirts. Their faces look fierce. They are watching, waiting for me to make a mistake. I am about to refuse when another man separates himself from the crowd.

“Curtius!” I gasp.

“Marie.” He takes me by the shoulders, and while the crowd waits, he says to me in German, “Tell them yes.”

“What do you mean?” I back away from him. “You—you want me to touch a severed head?” I want to scream, to vomit, to run away, but there is something in his gaze that steadies me.

“These men are the future leaders of France.”

I stare at the sea of grubby faces. These are our leaders? This murderous mob?

“If you can’t, I will. But one of us has to.”

“Well?” Hulin demands.

I look at the bayonets, their metal tips glinting in the sun. If we refuse, it will be the end of the Salon de Cire. It may also be the end of us. “I will do it,” I say.

A deafening cheer goes up in the crowd.

“Go inside and find plaster,” Curtius says.

I turn to Henri, who takes my hand. “You can do this,” he whispers and kisses my neck. I feel the strength of his conviction in his voice. I can do this. I
will
do this. For us.

My mother, who has been listening at the window, helps me collect the materials. Plaster, water, a basket of cloths. I will not bring corpses into the workshop. I will sit on the steps, and the mob can watch me at their gruesome handiwork. I fetch a white apron and try not to think how it will look in an hour. The men on my father’s side, generation upon generation, were executioners. It is my Grosholtz heritage. My mother and I don’t speak. We take the materials onto the porch, where the mob is waiting.

Everyone stays, even Camille. Hulin passes the first head to me, and I fight against the urge to vomit. It is de Launay without his wig. Twenty minutes ago, this head was attached to a forty-nine-year-old body. The skin, the hair—it was all taken care of by a man who woke up this morning and could never have imagined that I would be holding his head in my hands. His eyes are shut, but even so, I feel certain that he is looking at me.

I cradle the back of his head so I don’t have to touch the bloody stump of his neck. As I place it between my knees, it stains my apron.
God, give me strength
. My mother passes me the plaster. I work without looking up. I don’t want to see the faces of these murderers. I don’t want to remember any more of this than I have to. I expect the crowd to be silent, but they chat among themselves as if this were an open-air show.

“Look at her hands,” someone says.

“She works so quickly!”

Without the need to sculpt a clay head first, the entire process is swift. Unlike with living models, who refuse to have anything applied to their skin, it takes only a few minutes for the plaster to set against de Launay’s face and for a mold to be made. Then my mother disappears and returns with a pot of melted beeswax. While we wait for the wax to set, Hulin passes me the second head. This man is older, and his eyes are open.

“Jacques de Flesselles. A traitor,” Hulin spits.

God forgive me
, I think as I position the head between my knees and feel the steady presence of Henri and Curtius at my side. I don’t ask why this man was killed or what he did. I just repeat to myself,
One more mold, and all of this is done
. I close the old man’s eyes, then press the plaster bandages to de Flesselles’s face. He is—was—a man in his sixties. Was he a father? A grandfather? Certainly he had some family that’s missing him right now. What would they say if they knew what I was doing? I remove the plaster and pour beeswax into the hardened mold.

There is talking and laughing as the molds dry and I paint the faces. Someone suggests I give de Launay a woman’s wig, since he enjoyed his foppery. I use the cheapest men’s wig in my mother’s basket and skip the glass eyes. When I am finished, I pass Hulin his wax models. With a theatrical flourish, he impales the heads on the ends of separate bayonets and lifts them above the crowd. Once again, there are wild cheers. A man hands him a leather purse, and he holds it out to me. It looks heavy. “For your service to the people.”

A hundred livres, maybe more? But though we have used at least fifty livres’ worth of materials, I shall not be paid to decorate death. “No.”

Hulin is surprised. He turns back to the crowds. “She has refused payment for her work!” he shouts, and the mobs cheer again. He takes the severed heads and gives them to another man. He bows to me, and the throng begins to clear.

“I have to go with them,” Curtius says quietly.

As soon as they are gone, I untie my apron and let it fall to the ground. My hands smell of death. My mother and Henri follow me inside, where I stand motionless. “I will draw you a bath,” my mother says quickly. She kisses my brow and says to me in German, “Your grandfather was the executioner of Strasbourg. He saw death every day and then had to go home and greet his children. It is in your blood to be strong. You didn’t kill those men. You simply made them immortal.”

She goes upstairs, and I remain standing. Henri takes me in his arms, and it’s only when I’m there, safe against his chest, that I let myself weep. “Shh.” He strokes my hair, but the tears won’t stop coming. “Shh …”

“To hold their heads. Men who were alive …” I choke on my tears, and Henri tightens his embrace. “What will their families think? What will they say …”

“No one will blame you. There was no other choice.” He brushes away my hair with the back of his hand, then says softly, “Marry me. We’ll go away. We’ll sail to England, and we’ll combine our two exhibitions as one.”

I look into his eyes. They are dark and earnest. Full of expectation. What sort of fool would turn down marriage to this man? “And what would my family do?” I ask him, taking his hand. “How would they live?”

“They could come with us.”

“That … that isn’t practical. Curtius would never leave, and neither would Maman. France is their home. We’ve made a name for ourselves here.”

“Which is why the mob came to you, Marie. What happens when they arrive with the next demand? And the next? A corpse lasts for a few days. But they can parade a wax model for as long as they please.”

I put my hand to my head. Why can’t I think?

“Marie, they are going to come again. Marry me, and we can stay in England until all of this is
over.”

It’s the sensible thing to do. Philip Astley is leaving, and there’s talk on the Boulevard that Rose Bertin may be going as well. “When Curtius is no longer a guardsman,” I say. “As soon as he’s able to run the Salon, we’ll marry. And if things aren’t better for France, we’ll take our exhibitions to England.”

Chapter 27

J
ULY
15, 1789

Nobility, wealth, rank, office—all that makes you very proud! What have you done to deserve these blessings?

—L
ORENZO DA
P
ONTE
,
T
HE
M
ARRIAGE OF
F
IGARO

“S
O WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO
?”
MY MOTHER ASKS
.

I look down at the plaster molds of de Launay and de Flesselles. Last night at our salon, Jefferson came with Lafayette, congratulating me for “serving the people’s cause” and completing a tremendously gruesome task “to frighten the
ancien régime
into compliance.” That’s what they’re calling the king and his nobles now. The
ancien régime
, the Old Order. A way of life that’s no longer acceptable. “If the Americans can cast it off,” Lafayette said, “then so can we!” He lifted the heavy key to the Bastille and promised to send it across the ocean to George Washington. Everyone cheered, and it was like old times, with the Duc, Camille, Lucile, even Marat. Only Robespierre was missing, though a letter came saying that he’d be visiting the Bastille today. Everyone wants a piece of it. They’re selling large stones for seven sous, and you can pay fifteen to tour the dungeons. “It was a symbol of tyranny,” Jefferson said.

I thought it had been a symbol of transgression.

I lift the plaster mold of de Launay and hold it up to the light. It’s a very good likeness. However repulsive these times may be, if the Salon is to survive, our tableaux must change. This morning the
Journal de Paris
described yesterday’s events in gruesome detail. Parisians will find their news in their papers or in our halls. It’s up to us.

“So what are you going to do?” my mother repeats.

“We’re going to remove one of our exhibits,” I decide, “and replace it with
The Conquest of the Bastille.”

My mother nods encouragingly. This is what she likes to see. Movement. Progress.

“I’ll need to make our own busts of de Launay and de Flesselles. Also the men I saw yesterday: Elie, Hulin, the mayor, Bailly. We’ll need clothes for them. Trousers and cockades …”

“What about the shop?”

“For the Curiosity Shop we’ll go with miniature Bastilles. Do you think Curtius will have time for that? The entire model can be made from wax except the white handkerchief they used to surrender. That can be cotton. Or linen. Whatever’s cheapest.”

“And we can reopen the Salon on Saturday,” my mother says eagerly.

“Perhaps Yachin can help Curtius with the miniature Bastilles. If it’s calm, I’ll visit Rose. She’ll know what our models should be wearing.” Then we will find a tailor who can make them cheaper.

It’s a short walk to Le Grand Mogol, but I take the longer route so I can see the city. There’s a strange euphoria in the air, as if everyone believes that the destruction of the Bastille has set the country free. Houses have opened their shutters to the world, and those who can afford it have decorated their homes in blue, white, and red. Even the poor are wearing tricolor cockades, and they greet each other in the streets with “Good morning, Citizeness,” and “Welcome, Citizen.” Men are sporting trousers instead of
culottes
, even the wealthy who can afford knee breeches and stockings. And powdered wigs have almost completely vanished, as if every shop in Paris has suddenly stopped selling them.

I reach Rose Bertin’s shop and stand in front of the window. She’s showing a long chemise gown with a black and white cockade pinned to the white ribbon at its waist. My God, does she want to be driven out of business? Black is the queen’s color, the color of the Hapsburgs, and white is the color of the Bourbons! I open the door and step inside. A group of well-dressed women are at the counter purchasing similar black and white cockades. None of them are wearing powder in their hair. But their gowns are fine, and their gloves are of good leather. So this is how the nobility will show its discontent.

I wait until the crowd has cleared before saying, “An interesting window display.”

“That’s what my customers want,” Rose replies. She’s wearing a yellow gown with a black cockade on her breast. The queen would be proud.

“So does this mean you’re on the side of the nobility?”

“It means I’m on the side that pays the bills. And right now, aristocrats are the only ones with any money. But I’m not a fool.” She leads me into her workshop, where two dozen women are sitting at separate desks. Their heads bob up and down in greeting, but they don’t stop sewing. “Show Citizeness Grosholtz what you’re doing, Annette.”

A young woman holds up a white muslin cap edged with a beautiful tricolor ribbon. “A bonnet
à la Nation,”
she says.

We go on to the next desk, and Rose gestures for the second woman to show us what she’s doing.

“A necklace.” The girl holds up a long golden chain. From the end of it dangles a smooth gray stone with the word
Liberté
written in diamonds.

“That’s a rock from the Bastille,” Rose explains. “So you see? I am ready for anything.”

We return to the shop, where the summery scents of sandalwood and jasmine fill the light space and she is still selling gloves
à la mode de Provence
. I pick up a pair and inhale. The leather has been perfumed with orange blossom. Three hundred sous. I place them back in the basket. “So what should our models be wearing?”