Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (39 page)

The carriages roll up the Avenue de Paris, and when they pass through the main gate, with its golden coat of arms depicting the crown and the horn of plenty, both Léonard and Rose inhale.

“Only princes of the blood pass through this gate,” Léonard whispers. “Even the nobility are forbidden.”

But the carriages stop in the royal courtyard. The three of us sit motionless; then our coach door is opened and we are instructed to get out. I am conscious of the feeling that, with every step, we are trampling on tradition. Only those with the Honors of the Louvre have walked across these stones. From the time of Louis XIV, everyone else has driven into the court of the ministers, where you can hire a sedan chair to take you to the palace if you’re unfit to walk.

“This isn’t right,” Rose says quietly.

We wait while a guardsman unlocks the door to the palace. I have never seen such a massive building abandoned. Hundreds of men are working on boarding up the windows. Tomorrow, the Palace of Versailles will be cast into darkness.

“After you,” Lafayette says when the doors have been opened. Men with empty chests stand ready behind us. We step inside, and I am struck at once by the silence. A hundred years of courtiers hurrying down these halls, and all that’s left are the scuffs on the marble floors where they ran to escape. For all of its laws and august traditions, it took only a mob to demolish nine hundred years of kingship.

“What we need is in the queen’s apartments,” Rose announces, her voice unsteady. We follow behind her and regard the damage done by the rampaging crowds. There are mirrors broken on every wall, tapestries torn as if their heavy threads were made of paper and not wool, and vases shattered into a thousand pieces, their fragments showered across the floors. Who will clean this? And what will become of all these possessions? Surely the National Assembly will want them, but they belong to the king. These are his lamps, his chairs, his commodes, all bought with the money he inherited from his grandfather, who inherited it from his father, Louis XIV.

We pass the grand staircase, and Lafayette stops to run his fingers over the pockmarked walls. I realize with shock that bullet holes have chipped the marble and scarred the paneling. Lafayette exhales angrily, and the guardsmen behind him shift uneasily on their feet. “I want this cleaned,” Lafayette says.
“All
of it, before the palace is boarded up.”

When we reach the queen’s apartments, even Lafayette hesitates before the door. No one has ever entered without permission. But there is no one to give us permission. No ushers, or guards, or even ladies-in-waiting. He pushes open the heavy wooden doors, and Léonard goes first.

“My God! Look at what they’ve done,” he exclaims.

The gilded walls have been torn apart, as if someone dragged a pitchfork across the paneling. The silk hangings, the mirrors, the chandeliers—everything is damaged or destroyed.

Léonard bends down to collect the broken pieces of a box and wipes a tear from his eye. “Why would they do this to her?”

Yet the bed is exactly as she left it. Rose draws back the curtains to reveal the queen’s robe and her forgotten slippers. She must have run barefoot to the king’s apartments in nothing but her nightgown.

“How did she escape?” I ask.

Rose walks to the corner of the room and reveals a hidden door to the left of the alcove. “If it weren’t for this,” she says somberly, “we’d be arranging her funeral.”

We are all silent. If I hold my breath, I am sure I can catch the faint laughter of women and the sharp wit of the courtiers who filled this chamber. I see Rose square her shoulders and set her jaw. “Find her jewelry box,” she commands. “Take anything that looks irreplaceable.”

But it all looks irreplaceable to me. The bust of soft paste porcelain, the commode veneered with tortoiseshell and horn, the pair of brass firedogs with elaborate designs. What do you choose when everything has its own history?

I gaze up at the paintings by Boucher and wonder if he could have ever imagined a time when his
Four Virtues
would be looking down on commoners rummaging through Her Majesty’s chamber.

T
HE GUARDSMEN HAVE
left the chests of Madame Élisabeth’s things in the corner of our workshop, and since their arrival, half the neighborhood has been to see what’s inside. The tailor is fond of the princesse’s shoes, which I packed for their beauty, despite the fact that they were not on the list. Letters, journals, a leather box for paintbrushes—everything is here when Lafayette comes for the second time in three days. The royal family has settled into the Tuileries, and Rose and I have been summoned to deliver the possessions we’ve salvaged. He waits at the door of the Salon while I give Curtius my last-minute instructions.

“I think we turn the first room into a tableau of Great Patriots. The second room, perhaps something with the Jacobin Club.” That’s all they’re talking about in the Palais-Royal. Robespierre has joined, as well as Louis-Philippe, the teenage son of the Duc d’Orléans, who is now living abroad. “I don’t have any ideas for the third.”

“Something with the National Guard,” Curtius says.

I kiss my mother good-bye, and she makes me promise to return with details about everything—the king, the queen, and the condition of the Tuileries, which hasn’t been used since Louis XIV built his Palace of Versailles. Lafayette helps me into a carriage where Rose is already waiting. When he shuts the door and the horses take off, she exhales deeply. “They are barbarians. All of them!” She flicks opens her fan and begins to wave it compulsively.

For an October morning, it’s oppressively hot.

“She’s done her best! At all times, she’s only given her best.” Sweat has broken out on her upper lip, and she fans it away with sharp flicks. “She ruled the world of fashion. And there will never be anyone like her. Remember when fire burned through the Opéra? We named her red dress
incendie de l’Opéra
, and every woman from Paris to London had to have it. Even the Duchess of Devonshire! That will never happen again.”

I’m not sure whom Rose feels sorriest for. Herself, because her creations will never be showcased on the world’s stage again, or the queen, who has lost the power to do so.

“There has always been power in fashion,” she continues. “Even
this
”—she indicates the cockade on her breast—“is power.” She passes me a cockade from Le Grand Mogol. “Take it,” she says. “You will need it to get into the palace. No one’s allowed inside without the tricolor.”

I pin it to my fichu. “Thank you,” I say, and Rose looks out the window. We’re approaching the Tuileries on the right bank of the Seine, and it’s difficult to imagine the royal family living in this abandoned place. It was built more than two hundred years ago by Catherine de’ Medici when her husband, King Henry II, died. “So what will you do now?” I ask.

“Cater to other women with fashion sense. And if they all leave Paris, then I shall close Le Grand Mogol and follow them to London. The queen has been the making of me, and I will never forget that. But if she’s too foolish to plan her escape, I am not.”

I think of Henri’s plea that we leave. Philip Astley is already gone, and many of the actors on the Boulevard du Temple have packed their chests and sailed across the Channel.

“Madame Élisabeth tells me it’s not her but the king.”

“Then she should have left without him,” Rose declares pitilessly. “She’s too loyal, and that’s what has brought us here.”

The carriages stop before the Tuileries Palace. Lafayette brings us to the entrance, and after a few words with the guards, we are taken inside. I had expected cobwebs and stone, yet fresh morning light falls through the windows and illuminates an exquisite scene. “Look at the floors and the paintings,” I say.

Rose makes a face. “It’s not Versailles.”

We are taken to the second floor, where there are courtiers hurrying about their business and workers moving heavy pieces of furniture. Somewhere in these halls my brothers are on patrol with the National Guard. “How many people are here?” Rose asks.

“About five hundred,” Lafayette replies.

It’s a drastic reduction in courtiers and staff, but perhaps now the people will see that the royal family is not spending their money dressing up their servants and attending soirees.

We reach Madame Élisabeth’s new salon, and a pair of ushers open the doors for me. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz,” one of the men announces, and it’s astounding to see how the customs of Versailles have been adapted for this place. The doors swing shut behind me, and Madame Élisabeth exclaims, “Marie!”

“Madame.” I sink into my lowest curtsy, but she takes my arms and pulls me up.

“You’ve come,” she says, and when I search her eyes, they are full of surprise. “I can’t believe you’ve come.” Six groomed greyhounds dance about her feet.

“Of course, Madame. And all of the items on your list were packed.”

“Thank you, Marie. You have no … you have no idea what it means.” She looks down at my basket, and her eyes fill with tears.

“Plus a few things that weren’t on the list,” I say.

She pulls back the silk covering and sees it is everything she’ll need to continue her modeling—wax, clay, plaster, glass eyes, a bag full of hair, and all the tools of the trade. When the guards at the entrance saw this, their brows shot up on their foreheads, but Lafayette explained who I was and what purpose this would serve. Yet it’s not the wax tools that she reaches for. It’s the mask I kept as a memento from her birthday, when she guessed who I was in my red gown and simple ribbon. She holds it up to the light—a reminder of better, happier times—and now the tears come fresh.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry, Madame. It’s supposed to be a reminder,” I say. “Things may change. You may see me in a tricolor cockade, or you may have had to leave Montreuil for Paris, but that doesn’t alter who we are. This”—I look around the room, which may not be Montreuil but is still very beautiful—“it’s only a mask.”

She puts down the basket and takes my hand. “God has blessed me with your friendship,” she whispers. She tells me how the queen has been forced to wear tricolor dresses made by Madame Éloffe. “If we go outside in the gardens, the people shout insults. So we stay inside and entertain ourselves with music and needlework. But God works in mysterious ways. I have never seen Marie-Thérèse so happy. It’s only been two days, but there’s already a change.”

It’s hard for me to imagine Madame Royale wearing anything but a scowl, but perhaps now that her mother is a prisoner, there is nothing else for the queen to do but lavish attention on her children. Perhaps this is what an eleven-year-old child needs. “And the court?” I ask.

“Some friends have abandoned us.” Madame Élisabeth twists the ends of her fichu in her hands. “I suppose that’s to be expected. But the Princesse de Lamballe will remain as Superintendent of the Household. And my brother, the Comte de Provence, has been dining with us every night.”

“The one who suggested you remain in Versailles?”

Madame Élisabeth hears the criticism in my voice. “He could never have imagined this …”

“And you will stay in the Tuileries?”

“Until my brother decides otherwise.” She lowers her voice. “He still calls the French his
good little people,”
she confides, and I can see how this distresses her. “He doesn’t see that we’re at the beck and call of the National Assembly. These rooms, these furnishings, they could be taken away tomorrow. The queen’s dear friend Axel von Fersen has been very good to us. He’s sold his house in order to buy something closer to the Tuileries, and if anyone can, it will be Fersen who convinces the king to plan our escape.”

“His Majesty trusts him that much?”

“The three of them are very close,” she replies. “But my brother … he has a difficult time making decisions.… I know it’s a great deal to ask, Marie, but perhaps we can work together on Fridays? There isn’t a workshop yet. But I can have one set up. And I can still pay you. They haven’t taken away our inheritance.” She adds in a whisper, “Yet.”

Chapter 35

O
CTOBER
20, 1789