Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (51 page)

I look at the dishes she has prepared for me and cannot imagine ever having an appetite again. “Henri left just in time,” I realize. “Another day and it might have been too late.”

“If God wills it, then you will join him in London.”

“But I’ve missed my chance.” I can hear in my own voice that I am growing hysterical. “He is in a different country and may never return!”

Isabel pours a cup of coffee and hands it to me. “Try not to think like that,” she suggests.

I look into her face, so steady and earnest. “Why can’t I be like you?”

“A widow with a son who will never know his father?”

My God, I am selfish. She has lost her husband, the father of her child, and she is waiting on me while I mourn the loss of a man I refused to follow. I put down the coffee and take her hands. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Isabel.”

“Sometimes I can hear his laughter,” she whispers, sitting on the edge of my bed. “In my sleep mostly. But also if Paschal is overjoyed. So that is my duty now. To keep Johann laughing through Paschal.”

I am humbled by her goodness, and I will do my duty as she has done hers. I have stayed in Paris for my family and the Salon. I must honor them both. Although my appetite is gone, I do my best with the salad. “I don’t hear any noise downstairs,” I worry.

“That’s because the Salon is closed. Every man in Paris has gone to the Palais to volunteer. Robespierre came this morning to ask if Curtius would help Danton recruit.”

“Danton?”
The same man who called for the massacre of the Swiss Guards? “And he went?”

“What could he do?” she asks. “He has set up a Revolutionary Tribunal to find royalists and arrest them. Last night, they arrested eight hundred citizens. He told us they have taken all the priests who refused to swear an oath to the Constitution and locked them in the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. There will be more arrests today. They are searching for anyone who ever served in the king’s household.”

My hands go cold. “Then they will come for me.”

“No,” she says firmly. “Robespierre believes your uncle is a patriot. He would never have asked for his help if he thought otherwise. And if your uncle is a patriot, then so are you.”

“So it’s guilt or innocence by association.”

She can see the absurdity in this, just as I can. “It’s like they’re hunting witches,” she says. “Anyone wearing a black-and-white cockade or using an honorary title is suspect. This evening, they are transferring the guillotine to the Place du Carrousel next to the Tuileries Palace.”

“Are they going to kill everyone who has ever worked in Versailles?”

“They killed your barker’s family for less.” What is she saying?

“They killed him because he was fleeing.”

Her eyes go wide as she realizes that I have not been told. “Oh, Marie—”

I put down my cup. “What? I will hear it anyway,” I swear. “Why did they kill him?”

“You should ask your uncle.”

“He is with Danton.”

“Then your mother—”

“Perhaps she has not been told either,” I say angrily.

“No. She was there when Robespierre …”

I wait for her to say it.

“When Robespierre told us that they searched Yachin’s bags and found a handkerchief with the queen’s initials on it.”

I cover my mouth with my hands.

“They accused his family of being royalists,” she says quickly. “I’m sorry, Marie. Your mother told me it was a gift. You couldn’t have known …”

My heart is breaking. A handkerchief! The death of an entire family for a scrap of silk. My throat is burning and my eyes blur.

Isabel wraps her arms around me. “I know,” she says.

T
HAT EVENING, THE
Revolutionary Tribunal sends soldiers to our door at eleven. There are no men in the house, so I am the one who must meet them.

“Is this the residence of Captain Philippe Curtius?” a soldier asks. He has the wrinkled face and thinning hair of a man who is a grandfather many times over. “We are here on a domiciliary visit.”

Is that what they are calling them? Not organized looting or raids? My mother and Isabel stand behind me. There are fifteen of them and three of us. “Of course,” I say politely. “Would you like to come in?”

They fill the Salon de Cire with their boots and exclamations of surprise. These men who were once cabinetmakers and grocers now have the right to open private cupboards and sift through chests of clothes. “What is this place?” a young soldier asks.

His friend slaps his arm. “This is the Salon de Cire. Robespierre comes here.”

“Oh.” Now there is a new tone of respect. They will not be taking whatever they want.

“We have come here for weapons,” the older soldier explains.

“We have two muskets and my uncle’s pistol,” I tell them honestly.

“And is it true that Robespierre visits this place?”

“He has been many times. I should like to think he considers us good friends.”

“Then there is nothing we need from you,” the old soldier says. He takes a last look around, and I know if he had more time he would want to stay. But there are houses to raid and women to defile. “A good night to you, Citizeness.”

As soon as they are gone, I lock the door. My hands are shaking.

W
E DO NOT
reopen the Salon. The mood in the city is too tense, and with every knock on our door I expect to see soldiers from the Revolutionary Tribunal coming to arrest us. Neighbors ask if we have had any news. But we’ve heard nothing except what Curtius told us when he returned. The men volunteering in the Palais-Royal are worried that if they are sent to war, there will be no one to guard the many thousands of prisoners, and the criminals will break free to do with Paris’s women and children as they please.

“That is the concern?” Jacques Charles asks.

It is painful for me to see him, but we do not discuss Henri and he does not mention my decision to stay behind. After all, he has chosen to remain here, too, taking his chances with war rather than abandon everything he has built over a lifetime. I find him a chair, and he joins us at our empty
caissier
’s desk. “Yes. They are more afraid of their own people than of the invading army,” I reply.

“I blame that on Marat and his good friend Fabre d’Églantine.” Jacques pushes a copy of the
Compte Rendu au Peuple Souverain
across the desk at me, then wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. The afternoon heat is unbearable. Every day this summer it has been worse.

“Translate please,” my mother says, and I read d’Églantine’s words for her in German:

Once more, citizens, to arms! May all France bristle with pikes, bayonets, cannon, and daggers so that everyone shall be a soldier; let us clear the ranks of these vile slaves of tyranny. In the towns let the blood of traitors be the first to be spilled … so that in advancing to meet the common enemy, we leave nothing behind to disquiet us.

Jacques hands me a placard. “Marat has stopped publishing his
L’Ami du Peuple
and has begun posting these.” It is a single paper designed to look like an official proclamation. Now, he can post his hateful words on every lamppost in the city.

I read it and look up in horror. “He is encouraging citizens to go to the Abbey of Saint-Germain and run a sword through the priests.” My mother crosses herself, and I do not tell her what else it says. Marat is asking citizens to kill not only men of God but the hundred and fifty Swiss officers who survived the tenth of August as well.

My mother turns over Marat’s placard. On the back, he has published the names of fifty prisoners considered dangerous enemies of the
patrie
. “A death list,” she whispers.

For the first time in many days, I think of Madame Élisabeth and the rest of the royal family in the Temple. What will Marat scream for the mobs to do if the Imperial army makes its way to Paris?

That evening, I wait up in the salon for Curtius to come home. I can hear his boots on the stairs, his breathing as he makes his way to the landing, then his exclamation of surprise as he sees the glow of a candle burning. “Marie?” he calls. He peers around the door, and I can see how tired he is. There are circles beneath his eyes, and his lids are heavy. He is fifty-five, an age when most men are retired and enjoying their grandchildren. He takes a seat across from me at the table, and I pour him a cup of tea. “I thought you might need this.”

He takes a long sip and sighs. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I was wondering what’s going to happen with the royal family,” I admit.

He puts down his cup. “I know you have grown attached to Madame Élisabeth. But if the Austrians arrive, the Tribunal doesn’t plan to hold them as hostages.”

“So is that who is controlling this country now? The Tribunal?”

“Or the Jacobins. Or the Assembly. Or possibly Danton and the Minister of the Interior. No one knows. Antoine Santerre certainly doesn’t, and he has been made the new Commander in Chief of the National Guard.” Curtius makes a face. “Apparently, he’s a brewer.”

This is a world turned upside down. They have given the keys of the palace to its servants, and now we all look to them to make things right. “And the king? Will he have power again?”

“Not if the Assembly can help it. And certainly not if they should see what the Empress of Russia has written in response to these events.” He begins to quote Catherine the Great, “Kings ought to go their own way without worrying about the cries of the people, as the moon goes on its course without being stopped by the cries of dogs.”

“That’s the kind of talk that began this Revolution!”

Curtius finishes his tea. “Exactly. And this dog is tired, Marie. You should find some sleep as well. Perhaps we’ll reopen the Salon tomorrow.”

Chapter 49

S
EPTEMBER
2, 1792

Terror is the order of the day
.

—A
NONYMOUS

B
UT THERE IS NO REOPENING THE
S
ALON
. T
HERE ARE RIOTS
in the Palais-Royal demanding that more soldiers be sent to guard the prisons, and when Robespierre arrives, fidgeting with his glasses and in search of my uncle, I tell him, “He is recruiting volunteers.”

“But I need him here!” Robespierre exclaims. He looks past me to the
caissier
’s desk, where Isabel is teaching Paschal how to write tickets.

“Would you like to come inside?” I ask. “My mother is making lunch.”

“There’s no chance I can eat,” he replies. But he comes inside and begins to pace.

Isabel exchanges a look with me, and I shake my head. Robespierre is to be humored. If he wishes to pace, we must let him. “Is there something I can help you with instead?” I ask.

“It’s going to be a massacre! Curtius—”

My uncle bursts through the door as if summoned by the heavens. “They are killing the priests in the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés!” He looks at Robespierre. “What are you going to do? The mobs are moving from prison to prison!”

“What are
you
going to do?” Robespierre cries. “You are the National Guard.” He looks as though he may faint. “We must stop this.” Now he is tearing at his cravat. “What can the National Guard do?”