Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (9 page)

“As do you, Madame.… You are still next to Madame du Barry,” Curtius flatters her. “My two sleeping beauties.”

“I thought you would have found a younger woman,” Madame Sainte-Amaranthe replies, dangling her fish on the line. “I am surprised you keep it.”

My uncle takes the bait. “Madame, I could search the faces of a thousand women and never find one who is your equal.”

It is a credit to my mother that she is still wearing her most welcoming smile. She understands that wealthy women of a particular age, after a lifetime of bartering their beauty, do not know any other way of interacting with men. Now that Madame has assuaged her ego, she turns to her children. “Émilie, Louis, I would like you to meet Dr. Curtius.” My uncle bows again. “Madame Grosholtz.” My mother continues to smile. “And her daughter, Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

“Please, call me Marie,” I say.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Louis replies. He is as delicately framed and beautiful as his older sister. “Will it be possible for my mother and me to watch while you make Émilie’s sculpture?” he asks graciously. She has brought them up well.

“Of course,” my uncle says. “These chairs are for you.” My mother has taken our best seats from upstairs and arranged them at the far end of the workshop, near the fire. “Madame Grosholtz will fetch us some drinks while Marie begins. When the head is finished, I will work on the rest of the model.”

Curtius rarely sculpts faces anymore, mostly because there is too much to do entertaining guests and fashioning miniatures for our Curiosity Shop.

“Have you brought clothes?” I ask Émilie, directing her to a stool across from my worktable.

“My mother has them. Will you be putting the model in the Salon?”

“If you approve of it,” I tell her and fetch my caliper.

“Oh, there is nothing I’d like more!” she says while I measure her face. “But what I
really
want is for François Elleviou to see it.”

“The singer?” I ask.

“You have heard of him?” she exclaims.

Like all young people, she cannot believe that someone as old as I am might have heard of François Elleviou. “He is something of a sensation,” I say wryly. “I’m certain most of Paris has heard his name.”

“My mother hadn’t. Not until I begged her to invite him to our salon.”

I want to say that it is my job to be well informed, that people don’t come to an exhibition to see figures that are of no interest. Instead, I reply, “Then she knows who he is now.”

Émilie smiles, and I notice that both of her cheeks are dimpled. They are too charming not to include in the sculpture. “She certainly does. He is courting me.” Before I can reply she says, “There is a man in the doorway!”

I turn, and there is Robespierre. Yachin must have sent him back. I cannot fathom what he might want. As I cross the room, I wipe my hands on my apron. “Monsieur Robespierre. What a delightful surprise.”

“I do not mean to interrupt,” he says quickly. “I happened to be passing and thought to deliver a message to your uncle in person.”

I point to the back of the workshop, where Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is in danger of exposing her bosom. She is showing my uncle something on her feet, perhaps a new gold buckle. Robespierre makes a great performance of disapproving. “You have guests,” he says with distaste.

“Allow me to introduce Madame Sainte-Amaranthe and her daughter, Émilie.”

He looks at Émilie, perched on her stool like a Grecian goddess. There are few women who can live up to such hyperbole. I have seen only two: the queen’s dearest friend, the Princesse de Lamballe, who was as pale and flawless as a diamond when I saw her over ten years ago at Versailles, and now Émilie.

“She is fourteen,” I tell him, “and this is her first sitting.”

Robespierre makes the briefest of bows, then hurries across the workshop to greet my uncle. I feel sorry for him. It’s not his arrogance that keeps him from engaging with women, but a lack of self-confidence.

I return to the clay model and take up my caliper to be sure that I have the nose just right.

“Who is that?” Émilie whispers.

“Robespierre. A lawyer from Arras.”

“Does he always wear green spectacles?”

“Yes. He does not see well.”

“Like the king. I’ve heard that the corners of all his furniture are rounded in case he should run into them.”

But I am stopped from replying by something else extraordinary. A courtier in the king’s livery has been shown in by Yachin. The workshop falls silent as the man holds out a letter for me. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz?”

“Yes.” I study the man’s powdered wig, his silk stockings, his blue livery. Even the nail on his smallest left finger, grown long so that he may scratch on King Louis’s doors—no one is allowed to knock but the queen—indicates his status.

“A request from Madame Élisabeth, sister to His Majesty King Louis the Sixteenth.”

I gasp, and Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is already on her feet. I break the seal and begin to read. “An invitation. An invitation to instruct Madame Élisabeth in the art of wax modeling for twenty livres a day!” That is more than the Salon takes in.

Immediately, Curtius is at my side. “When?” he asks.

“Beginning the second of April!” I can hardly believe my luck. An invitation from the royal family
and
witnesses to spread the news that I shall be going to Versailles! I could not have planned it better if I had paid Yachin to shout the news in the streets. Think of all the figures I’ll be able to make! A new model of the Princesse de Lamballe. And certainly one of the king’s sister, who has never been done. I pass around the letter.

“We will send our answer shortly,” Curtius says and tips the man handsomely, as well he should. I may see that man again in the halls of Versailles.

My mother has returned with a tray of warm drinks. When she hears the news, she lowers it onto my worktable and sinks into a chair. “Such a tremendous honor,” she says in German. “But … what of the scandals?”

Only my uncle and I can understand, but we both look instinctively toward Robespierre.

“It is something to consider,” Curtius replies, then asks Robespierre in French, “What would you do?”

“What does it matter what
he
would do?” Madame Sainte-Amaranthe exclaims. “It is an invitation from Madame Élisabeth herself, signed by the king.”

Robespierre stiffens at the rebuke. “I would turn it down,” he says at once.

“An offer from Versailles?” Émilie asks. “That is insane.”

A flush creeps up Robespierre’s neck.

“I would not be going for the queen,” I say quickly. “It is the king’s
sister.”

“And Marie can tell us the mood of the palace,” Curtius placates Robespierre. “When you and Camille are made deputies, you will be glad to have someone who knows Versailles.”

“You are to be a deputy?” Émilie asks.

“Only if I am elected,” Robespierre replies, “by a fair and undisputed vote.”

“Why shouldn’t it be fair?” Émilie inquires.

“Because very little is fair in this country of ours. Which is what the Third Estate has every intention of changing come the fifth of May!” He raises his hat. “I came to tell you that I am giving a speech at the Palais-Royal at noon. But I can see that you are busy. Enjoy the rest of your morning.”

When Robespierre is well gone, Émilie wrinkles her nose. “An unpleasant man.”

T
HAT EVENING, WHEN
the wax mold is cooling and I am sweeping the steps of the Salon, I see Henri leaning against a lamppost. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his dark hair has been pulled back with a leather band. He looks as though he has been waiting for me, and immediately my pulse quickens, despite the fact that I see him daily. “How long have you been standing there?” I ask.

He smiles. “Since you first began humming Gluck.”

“Was it in tune?”

“Not particularly.”

“I took singing lessons, you know.”

“From whom? Astley and Sons?” Philip Astley runs a circus of prancing horses and performing bears. “I hear an invitation has arrived.”

“This will be the making of us.”

“Versailles is not …” Henri looks troubled. “They are ruthless there. The ladies will never permit you to get close to the queen. There are rules for everything. Sitting, standing, eating, sleeping. You are used to freedom. You are used to coming and going as you please. The women of the court won’t abide this.”

“Then I will adapt. But everyone in Paris will know of our exhibition. Everyone in France.”

Chapter 7

M
ARCH
28, 1789

It was a masterpiece of etiquette. Everything was regulated
.

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

M
Y BROTHERS HAVE COME FROM
V
ERSAILLES TO HELP ME
prepare. Since the news arrived nearly two months ago, it seems that all I have done is get ready. There have been fittings in a dozen different shops to be sure that I am properly attired, and lessons with a master of dance who has taught me the curtsies for court. I will be joining a palace of ten thousand people, nine hundred of them nobles, and my presence must be a good reflection on my brothers, who all guard the king.

This is the first time in nearly three months that Edmund, Johann, and Wolfgang have come home, and they are dressed in the splendid uniform of the Swiss Guard: red pantaloons, white stockings, and a hat in the style of Henry IV, with three magnificent feathers. Edmund, who never smiles, is thirty-five. Johann, who wishes to be at home with his wife and son, is thirty-three. And Wolfgang, who would sneak off with my allowance as a child to go gambling, is twenty-nine. Because we are the closest in age, I have the most affection for him. We have gathered around the table in the salon, and while my mother rushes back and forth from the kitchen, Johann, my most generous brother, is complimenting my figure of the dauphin.

“There couldn’t be a better likeness,” he says with an easy smile. He has the round cheeks of a painted cherub. “Did you see it, Edmund?”

My eldest brother glares across the table. “It was next to the vulgar display of the queen dressed for her boudoir.”

“Then you approve,” I say. I can never keep from needling him.

“The queen saw the tableau,” Wolfgang reminds him. “She didn’t
disapprove.”

“Was she wearing the same shift?” Edmund demands. He knows how exhibitions work, that as soon as the queen was gone, we changed her modest gown to something with more appeal to the commoners. “This is how rumors start,” he accuses.

“We’ve done nothing but change her shift,” I argue, though I know that if we were being fair to the queen, we would not portray her so. But we have shown nothing that isn’t already in a hundred different
libelles
, obscene pamphlets available in every café along the Palais-Royal. They charge her with every kind of indecency, from having an affair with the Comte d’Artois, the king’s handsome brother, to lesbian orgies with the Princesse de Lamballe.

Edmund shakes his head. His face is leaner than I remember, and his arms are corded with muscle. “Every image of the queen makes a political statement, and nothing speaks as loudly as her dress. Your models are the only access commoners have to the queen. And what about those who can’t read or write? This Salon is their only news. And this news is telling them that the queen prepares for her bed like some woman at the Palais-Royal. It is immodest and in poor taste. Better your exhibition take in fewer sous—”

“And shut down?” Wolfgang exclaims. “This is not the time to be taking in
less
money—there was a line outside the bakery this morning.”

“There is a line every morning,” I amend.

All three of my brothers look shocked.

“It has been this way for several months,” Curtius tells them. “The lines begin at two in the morning, and when the baker opens the doors, only the first fifty people come away with bread. And it has doubled in price. Haven’t you heard about this in Versailles?”