Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (36 page)

“That gown suits you well,” he compliments me.

I look down at my white dress and pearl necklace. “Gifts from Curtius,” I say.

“Well, your uncle has very fine taste.” He smiles at my mother, who blushes.

“So when do you become part of our family?” my mother asks.

Everyone looks to me. She’s done this on purpose, I think, because there’s no escaping from a moving carriage and I will have to answer. “We would like to wait for Curtius to leave the National Guard,” I reply.

“You are twenty-eight,” my mother says archly. “And who knows when he may leave the Guard?”

“It won’t be long,” Curtius promises. He pats my mother’s knee. “This is the price you pay for having a talented daughter.”

She wants grandchildren, I know. It’s not enough that Johann has Paschal. They are too many hours away. But still, I feel irritation at her intrusion.

We arrive behind a small delegation of women carrying chests weighted with gold and purses filled with jewels. A buzz of excitement fills the hall of the National Assembly. As directed, the women are dressed entirely in white, and the men have come with shoe buckles that read,
LONG LIVE THE NATION
and
LIBERTY
. Because we’ve painted this hall inside the Salon, it has become as familiar to me as the Palais-Royal. The president’s podium, the bright chandeliers, the heavy tapestries. But in truth, it’s been four months since I was here with Rose.

I search among the women for her distinctive figure, but she hasn’t come. Not surprising, really. While she’s made concessions to the Third Estate and its Revolution, she is betting that the queen will triumph. My uncle, however, has brought a purse filled with five hundred livres. Even Henri has come with a bribe. Of course, none of us are calling it that. Instead, we are to call it a charitable donation. We are taken to the front of the hall, where the families of other artists are seated on long benches. Curtius recognizes Jacques-Louis David and makes a point of sitting with him.

“Old friends?” Henri asks.

“David was made a member of the Académie Royale eight years ago,” I whisper. “He has a great deal of influence.”

“I thought the Académie would be made up of royalists,” Henri says, surprised.

“Even the world of art is changing.”

“Is this bench available, Citizeness?”

It is Lafayette. He is dressed as Commander in Chief of the National Guard, with white gloves and a dark blue coat. He has brought his wife and children with him. “Adrienne, I would like you to meet the sculptress Marie Grosholtz, and the scientist Henri Charles. On the other side of Henri are Marie’s mother and the artist Philippe Curtius.”

“The wax modeler?” Adrienne is clearly impressed.

“Yes. But it was Marie who sculpted my model.”

“I would like to see your Salon someday,” she says to me.

“You are welcome at any time.”

“This is my son, George Washington,” Lafayette continues, “and my daughters, Anastasie and Virginie.”

All three children have the same red hair as their father. They greet us politely, even the youngest, who cannot be more than six or seven. What a beautiful family. And two of them have been named for Lafayette’s time in America. I remember the story of Lafayette’s youth, how he left his wife while she was pregnant with their second child to help the Americans fight against the British. And now he’s Commander in Chief of the National Guard, with the dual responsibility of keeping the peace in France and keeping the royal family safe.

Lafayette takes his seat next to me, and we listen as the Assembly’s president calls forth the eleven women who have come with their jewels. It is a carefully orchestrated masque and will be reported in every paper tomorrow as reminiscent of Rome’s glorious republic, a time when women eschewed fashion for simplicity and jewels for honor.

Madame David leads the way to the wooden podium, then tells the Assembly that she has come to offer the trappings of her previous life to a country in desperate need. “We no longer wish to own adornments,” she proclaims, “that are reminders of a time when citizens were slaves to the monarchy and to fashion. Let virtue be our crowning jewel,” she declares, “and liberty our most glorious ornament.”

The hall erupts into cheers. Each woman in turn presents her jewels. Then deputies from all across the hall are rushing toward the podium to offer their diamond buckles and silver walking sticks. Curtius and Henri make a great show of handing over their purses, and with each person who approaches the podium, there is a new surge of cheering and applause. Women who have come simply to watch the proceedings find themselves caught up in the moment and are offering their rings, bracelets, lockets.

I turn to Lafayette. “You must be very proud.”

“The path to a constitutional monarchy is never easy, but we are fortunate to be on this journey with many courageous citizens.”

“I didn’t realize you were in favor of a constitutional monarchy,” I say. When I sketched him in Jefferson’s study, Lafayette had wanted to be rid of the king altogether.

“I have come to see things differently,” he admits. “There is tradition here. A court that goes back to the Treaty of Verdun. Are we going to throw it all away and risk anarchy?” He is thinking of Foulon. He couldn’t stop his own men from committing murder. “The Americans never had a king on their soil. They’d been ruling themselves for several hundred years. Jefferson is right. Our nation is different.”

For the first time in months, I am filled with optimism. Like Lafayette, I have never seen the purpose of trampling on so many hundreds of years of tradition. But perhaps there
can
be a compromise. Something that could benefit both Madame Élisabeth
and
Camille, the Second Estate
and
the Third.

Chapter 32

O
CTOBER
10, 1789

The people of Paris, always criticizing, but always imitating the customs of the court
.

—M
ADAME
C
AMPAN
,
FIRST LADY-IN-WAITING TO
M
ARIE
A
NTOINETTE

O
N
T
HURSDAY, WHEN
I
RETURN TO
M
ONTREUIL
, I
FEEL
guilty for my joy. Madame Élisabeth makes no mention of my presence before the National Assembly, but I see what she has gathered on her workshop table and I am sorry. The Assembly has passed a law granting the freedom of the press, and since then, the papers have been filled with the vilest things. Images of the queen lifting her chemise before the Princesse de Lamballe, cartoons mocking her as a ferocious beast with a human face ready to devour its prey, and descriptions of her love affairs with men whom prostitutes would be ashamed to sleep with. In a pamphlet called
The Royal Dildo
, the queen is shown with the Princesse de Lamballe engaging in the most humiliating acts, and other papers show her engaging in orgies, masturbation, even bestiality. I hope it isn’t a
libelle
that Madame Élisabeth has managed to procure.

She passes me one of the papers. There is an image of the eleven women from Monday night presenting their jewels before the National Assembly. They are dressed in the flowing white chemise gowns for which the queen is criticized so bitterly, yet the caption beneath the image reads, “The virtuous maidens of France.”

“When the queen wears such a gown, she’s a wicked adulteress. When any other woman wears it, she’s an honorable maiden. Why do they do this? Why do they hate her so much?”

I take a steadying breath. “Because they are focusing all of their resentments and frustrations on her.”

“Look at the other articles,” Madame Élisabeth whispers. She can barely bring herself to say, “The one they’ve titled
L’Autruche Chienne.”

It means “The Ostrich Bitch” and is close enough to
L’Autrichienne
, or
The Austrian
, for people to believe it’s clever and amusing. Even the Duc likes to use this offensive pun. Whoever wrote this wants to see the queen disgraced. Like those who attributed lies to Foulon, they credit her with telling the people of France to eat cake if they can’t find any bread, and the accompanying pictures are equally offensive. “I wouldn’t look at these, Madame. No good can come of it.”

“The king has called up the Flanders Regiment for extra protection. When they arrive next month, there’s to be a great banquet. Of course, none of my family shall be attending. Any common soldier can go, but imagine the scandal if we should attend a feast in our own palace? We’re prisoners here. No one believes it, Marie, but that’s what we are.”

O
F THE MANY
buildings in Versailles, the Château Opéra must be the most beautiful. Tonight, the halls echo with the sharp clicks of women’s shoes and the polished heels of smartly dressed soldiers. It’s the king’s desire that the men in the Royal Flanders Regiment be properly introduced to the Swiss Guard. While welcome banquets like this are usual, there has never been one in the Château Opéra. There’s to be food and drinks, even an orchestra playing Grétry’s
Richard Coeur-de-lion
, but no appearance by the royal family. I am here because Madame Élisabeth gave me permission to celebrate with my brothers. It is an honor a better person would have refused.

“I find it hard to believe there can be a celebration like this without the king. These are his soldiers. They’re here on his behalf,” I say to Wolfgang.

My brother takes my arm and guides me to the stairs. “Perhaps there will be a little surprise, then.”

I gasp. “They’re coming?”

Wolfgang winks. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Tell me,” I beg him. We climb the stairs, and I’m thankful to have chosen a gown with a bustle that is trimmed and pleated at the back. Anyone climbing stairs should be wearing a
polonaise
gown.

“It’s supposed to be a surprise. The king and the queen will be here with their children,” he reveals. “But not the entire time.”

I look down at the handsome men as they arrive, and at the women in their glittering array of dresses, and think,
The queen will be happy to see this
. “So where is Abrielle?”

“Down there.” He points to the stage, where long wooden tables have been set up for the soldiers. The china sparkles in the candlelight, and the men are taking their seats. Each of the king’s bodyguards has been seated next to a soldier from the Royal Flanders Regiment. Sitting beside the commander of the Swiss Guards is a milk-and-honey beauty like Madame du Barry, with thick blond hair and porcelain skin. But she is smaller than du Barry. So petite, in fact, that she might be mistaken for a little girl.

Something her father said has made her laugh, and I catch the sound all the way up here. She is dressed in a russet gown trimmed with pearls, and there are pearls around her neck at least three strands thick.
Her father’s little girl
, I think.
He will not give her away so easily
.

“She’s very beautiful,” I say. “Exactly the kind of girl I imagined you with.”

“Really?” My brother searches my face.

“Yes.”

“I laugh more with her than I have with anyone,” he admits.

“Have you spoken with the baron?”

“What is there to say? I have no money. No means of getting any money. The Swiss Guard is my life, and what advancement is there in this?”

I look down at the Baron de Besenval. Edmund is sitting next to him, serious and sober. Although everyone at the table is laughing, his eyes are searching the hall, as if he’s preparing himself for trouble. The glass in front of him is clear, which means he’s drinking water. But the baron is intent on enjoying himself, and he raises a glass of wine for a toast. He has a cheerful face and an easy smile. “He might take pity,” I say. “What sort of man is he?”

“The sort that will want the best for his daughter. If we’re honest, we both know there’s no way I can provide it.”