Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (58 page)

A
UGUST
–O
CTOBER
1793

Courage! I have shown it for years; think you I shall lose it at the moment when my sufferings are to end?

—M
ARIE
A
NTOINETTE

I
T IS UNTHINKABLE
. A
QUEEN, OUR QUEEN, THE
Q
UEEN OF
France, has been separated from her family and moved to the Conciergerie prison to await a trial on the charge of treason. When the criers begin to shout the news, I turn to my mother in the doorway of our Salon. “Curtius warned me that this would happen,” I whisper.

“This is the Committee of Public Safety’s doing,” she accuses. “They are the ones who have voted for this.” Her lower lip begins to tremble. “I think of the monsters we have sheltered in here …”

“None of us could have known it would come to this.”

“But Robespierre! He was so polite, so well-spoken. Curtius trusted him.”

We are both silent. In a little more than a month, it will be Michaelmas. But every week, a letter comes to us from the front. There is another general they would like Curtius to investigate. Then another, and another. Each report he sends to the Committee is positive. Every man is a patriot, no man is an enemy. But how long before the Committee grows tired of innocence and begins to suspect him as well?

Throughout August and September, I hear news from the soldiers in the Madeleine Cemetery of what life is like for the queen. They have imprisoned her in the darkest, dampest cell, without any changes of clothes or a bath to keep herself clean. They say that she walks barefoot for want of shoes, and that the black gown she wears is so tattered that, as summer turns to fall, she will feel the change on her skin. “While she was strolling across Versailles in her fancy silk shoes,” the guard outside the charnel house says with a laugh, “my wife was wearing rags. Let’s see how she enjoys it.”

But the silks and taffeta were expected of her. When she went barefoot in the tall grasses of her Hameau, every paper in France mocked her as a peasant. So what did they want? When she tried to economize, her own courtiers turned against her. Whom is a queen supposed to please? Her people? Her court?

On the twelfth of October the queen’s trial begins. My mother does not come, but Isabel and I find seats the night before in the Salle de Spectacle, where the Convention now meets. We sit in the public galleries until morning, watching the gloomy space fill with spectators, lawyers, and eventually the members of the National Convention itself. Of course, it is all a grand farce. They will find her guilty, and nothing she can say or do will change that. The only surprise will be where they send her. Either back to Austria or to some convent in the Alps.

When the trial begins, a man announces, “Madame Capet,” and the doors are thrown open for the woman who once held Europe in her thrall. Every spectator in the Salle de Spectacle gasps. An old woman appears in a simple white gown; her shoes are worn and her white hair is cropped carelessly at the neck. Yet for all her misfortune, she moves with the dignity and grace of a queen.

She sits and listens to their accusations in silence, even when they charge her with molesting the dauphin. “Still no reaction?” the prosecutor thunders from his podium. “Even when you are charged with corrupting your own son?”

There is a murmur in the galleries. Then, for the first time, she speaks.

“Because Nature refuses to answer such a charge brought against a mother. I appeal to all the mothers in here! Do you truly believe this?”

There are many in the crowds who are openly weeping, despite the danger of being seen to do so. Now that the prosecutor has had his wish and the queen has spoken, he hurries through the rest of his accusations without stopping to ask if she wants to reply.

The next day, the verdict is read. Guilty, on every charge.

There is a stunned silence in the Salle de Spectacle as the punishment is announced. In three days, on the Place de la Révolution, the queen shall meet her death as a traitor to the
patrie
. Isabel grips my hand, and there are women in the galleries who collapse in a faint.

When we return to the Boulevard du Temple, my mother and Paschal come running. They have already heard the verdict and want to know if it is true. “Have they really sentenced Madame Capet to death?” my mother asks.

“Yes,” Isabel replies.

The three of them look to me, and I say, “I won’t do it.”

“You must,” my mother cries. “If you refuse, they will know—”

“What?” I shout. “What will they pretend to know?”

But Isabel’s voice is steady. “If you refuse, they will accuse you of treason. They have sent women to the guillotine for less.”

“It is one head,” my mother says.

“The
queen’s
head!” I cry. I am trembling.

“What would Curtius want you to do?” Isabel asks.

He would want me to choose life over death, whatever the cost.

But I do not go to witness the miserable spectacle of the queen’s last moments. When the time comes for Isabel to walk with me to the cemetery, I stop in the Salon and pull a hidden rosary from beneath the shirt of Robespierre. “The last place anyone would ever look,” I tell her.

We pray together in the darkness of the Salon. Although it’s possible that God has abandoned France, we ask forgiveness for what we are about to do, and for His protection in whatever lies ahead. Last, we pray for the queen’s soul.

Chapter 59

N
OVEMBER
6–8, 1793

She screamed, she begged mercy of the horrible crowd that stood around the scaffold
.

—É
LISABETH
V
IGÉE-
L
EBRUN, ROYAL PORTRAIT ARTIST

I
LOOK AT THE SLIP OF PAPER THE SOLDIER HAS BROUGHT TO ME
, and my hands begin to tremble. “This cannot be right.” But the young man is firm. “Those are the names. The cafés are printing them on their menus. Go early if you want a good view.”

I wait for the young soldier to leave before I show Isabel the names of those who will be executed tomorrow. “Anyone who has ever been a royal or associated with one,” I whisper. “The Duc d’Orléans, Madame du Barry, the Princesse of Monaco!”

“And anyone who has ever spoken out against Robespierre,
The Incorruptible.”
She points to the bottom: Brissot, Vergniaud, Lasource, Madame Roland … “I thought Madame du Barry escaped to England?”

“She returned to retrieve her jewels,” I say. Death, for a handful of gold.

I go to the kitchen to show my mother the list. “So for all his posturing,” she says, “calling himself Philippe Égalité, they have turned on the Duc d’Orléans as well.”

Robespierre preached against despots, and now he has become one himself.

“We must go and show our support of this,” my mother says quietly. “If they are willing to send their greatest supporter to the guillotine, they will send anyone.” She has not seen anyone die on the scaffold since the terrible device was first unveiled. “We will go early,” she adds, surprising me, “so that the members of the Convention see us.” She looks into the hallway toward Isabel’s room. Many of the spectators bring children, carrying them on their shoulders. “We will leave Paschal here and lock the doors.”

The next morning, we are awake at dawn. A fine mist hangs over the streets, and carriages are navigating the slick cobblestones with care. My mother whistles for a cabriolet, and the driver guesses, “The Place de la Révolution?” We are no different from the thousands who will wait in the cold to see illustrious lives come to an end. I wonder how the Duc must be feeling, knowing this Revolution he helped to create will take his own life. There must be rich irony in this for some, but I find I can take no pleasure in it.

We are among the first to arrive in the square, so just as my mother had hoped, we find places next to the area reserved for the members of the National Convention. Robespierre, of course, will not be here. He never attends an execution. But Danton may come, and certainly Camille, who knew the Duc well. By eight o’clock we are already surrounded by people, and by the time the tumbrels arrive it is impossible to see the end of the masses. Unlike the king, common criminals are forced to ride in open carts, regardless of the weather or the abuse of the crowds. But today, no one is hurling stones. This is a different kind of execution. “Philippe Égalité” was a man of the people, and few seem sure of the charges against him. There was talk of treason. But isn’t there always talk of that? And what of Madame du Barry, who must be fifty now, and far removed from her days as Louis XV’s mistress?

The tumbrels roll with jerky movements over the cobblestones, and the prisoners are pitched forward each time the horses are forced to stop. Even from a distance I can recognize the Duc. He is the largest man in any of the carts. Like the others, he has been dressed in red. Is he thinking about his cousin, whose execution he voted for almost a year ago? Now, he will die by the same blade.

It is the prerogative of the Revolutionary Tribunal to decide on the order of deaths, and the prisoner they wish to punish most always goes last. Men must watch their wives and children die. Particularly hated traitors are forced to wait until the razor has lost its edge after so much work. It is Madame du Barry they are asking to go first. They call her name, and she stands in the tumbrel. Despite her age, she is still alluring, with piercing eyes and jutting cheekbones. They have chopped her hair carelessly at the chin, yet the cut only serves to emphasize the smallness of her neck and the delicacy of her features. A soldier reaches to grab her hand, and she pulls away.

“Not yet!” she screams. But the executioner is waiting. Two men step forward to take her arms, and she struggles against them. “Why are you doing this?” she cries. “What have I done? Tell me, what have I done?”

They escort her to the scaffold, but she is too weak to make it up the steps.

“Get up!” one of the soldiers commands, but her legs have given out.

“Don’t hurt me,” she begs. “Please,” she screams to the crowd, “don’t let them hurt me!”

They drag her to her feet, and my mother buries her face in her hands.

“Please!” du Barry is screaming. It is heart-wrenching to see. “Just one more moment!” But the executioner forces her down on the plank. “Just one moment more. Just one last view of the sky!” The plank slides forward, and her head is trapped in the wooden lunette. “Don’t let him do this to me!” she is screaming. “Somebody save me from this!”

But there is no one to save her. France’s heroes are dead.

Sanson pulls the rope, and the blade comes down swiftly. He holds her head up for the crowd to see, but there is no clapping. Just a long, mortified silence. She is the first of the guillotine’s victims to struggle. While the others have gone like sheep, she wanted life, and she fought for it.

Someone shouts, “The Committee of Public Safety has gone too far!”

The cry is echoed across the square, and suddenly, there is hope for the Duc d’Orléans, who will certainly be last. But the next victim is brought to the scaffold, and no one moves. It is one thing to speak, another to act. The rope is pulled, and the young man dies. Then the next victim mounts the scaffold, and the next. When it is time for the Duc to die, he doesn’t fight. Perhaps he is too afraid. He makes a feeble attempt to speak, but Sanson orders the drumroll and his words are drowned out. When he is gone, there are no cheers from the crowd. I can feel resentment building through the square. Where are the riches this government assured us? Nothing these men have promised has come to pass. There is anger and frustration as the people disperse.

“T
HEY HAVE SPOKEN
out! Someone has finally spoken out!” The next morning, Isabel thrusts a newspaper at me. “They’re calling for an end to this Reign of Terror.”