Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution Page 13

  “But he might let his friends in at a discount,” I warn. “Or worse, for free.”

  Curtius laughs. “You see what I have to deal with?”

  But Henri’s look is endearing. “Marie is a hard businesswoman is all. You are extremely fortunate to have her.”

  He smiles at me, and for the first time, I am at a loss for words. They are both waiting for me to say something. “Thom-Thomas Jefferson,” I say swiftly. “You said once that he’s the most interesting man in America. Why?”

  My uncle stares at me. He wants me to address Henri’s compliment. But what did it mean? He can’t be interested in me. Neither of us has ever pursued any courtship. We are married to our work. Though, when I look at him, my pulse quickens. And when I see the smile lines around his eyes, I know that his words are sincere.

  “Jefferson is a great intellect,” Henri replies, and I am thankful that the awkward moment has passed. “The man can speak six languages, and it’s said he learned Gaelic simply so that he could read The Poems of Ossian in their original. He’s a naturalist, and an accomplished architect as well. He designed his own estate and named it Monticello.”

  I laugh nervously. “Is there anything he doesn’t do?”

  “Fight. He’s a thinker, not a soldier.”

  I almost say, “Like you.” But instead I reply, “How funny that they should become fast friends. Lafayette, who went to war in the Americas when he was just nineteen, and Thomas Jefferson.”

  “They share a love of liberty,” Curtius tells me. “And they’ve known each other for more than a decade.” The carriage comes to a stop before a two-storied house that towers above its neighbors. Few homes in Paris are as tall or elegant as this. An expansive English garden in front is lush and bright, as if dampness and rain have never touched this corner of the Champs-Élysées. Topiary figures are dotted among the flowering plants, and the pretty pink heads of peonies bob and bow to us in the gentle breeze.

  “Magnificent,” Curtius says.

  As we descend from the carriage, Henri holds out his hand to me. When I take it, his fingers close intimately over mine. I look into his face, but his eyes are fixed on Thomas Jefferson’s home. A pretty girl with long hair comes out to meet us. Though her skin is porcelain, her eyes are dark and her cheekbones high. She is an octoroon, I think. Seven-eighths white and one-eighth African. The angles of her face are sharp. She has a symmetry, I realize, almost as perfect as that of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe. She would be beautiful to sketch, and I wonder what she’s doing here. She cannot possibly be a maid. Her clothes are too fine. “Welcome to the Hôtel de Langeac,” she says in greeting. “Are you the wax modelers?”

  Curtius lifts up the leather carrying case with my tools as evidence.

  “Very good,” she replies. Now that we are close, I see she is older than I first thought. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen. “The marquis and the ambassador are eager to see you.”

  When we have paid the coachman, we are shown inside the imposing home with its oval rooms and commanding views. “Did Jefferson design this himself?” Henri asks.

  “Yes and no,” the young woman says. “This house was designed by the architect Chalgrin, but the ambassador has made many changes.”

  We pass beneath a ceiling painted with an image of Apollo in his chariot. When the young woman sees the direction of my gaze, she says, “Jean-Simon Berthélemy.”

  “We have a painting of his in our exhibition,” Curtius says. “Not this size, of course. This … this is tremendous.”

  “The ambassador likes his home to make an impression.”

  “How many rooms are in here?” I ask.

  “Twenty-four,” she says with pride. She takes us upstairs, and we stop at a pair of open doors leading into a salon. The oval room has been transformed into a library, with wooden bookshelves and a mahogany desk. A large bay window looks out over the manicured garden, where men in simple trousers are planting seeds. “Monsieur Lafayette,” the young woman announces. “Your guests have arrived.”

  The men working at the desk both rise. I recognize the marquis at once, but I have never seen a portrait of Thomas Jefferson. He is very tall and slenderly built, with thick auburn hair and blue eyes. Though Lafayette is thirty-two and the ambassador is forty-six, the two men could be brothers. Their coloring, their height, their way of standing … Even before Jefferson moves, I can see that he carries himself well. And like Lafayette’s, his clothing is immaculate. French culottes with an embroidered waistcoat and a white cravat.

  “Ah, thank you, Sally,” Jefferson says, then turns to the marquis, who makes the introductions. Curtius and Henri are presented to the ambassador as scientists and showmen, while I am introduced as a sculptress of rare talent.

  “Curtius and Marie have been making wax models on the Boulevard du Temple for more than twenty years,” Lafayette explains. “We are going to be a part of their exhibit on liberty.”

  Jefferson asks how the models will be created, and Curtius tells him that we have come prepared for every possibility. There are plaster bandages to make a live mask—which would take an hour—or paper and ink to sketch the men at their leisure. Jefferson looks at Lafayette, as if to say that it is up to him.

  Lafayette hesitates, and Curtius says swiftly, “My niece, Marie, will sketch you. All we need are a few measurements.”

  “Shall we stand or sit?” Jefferson asks.

  “If it would please the ambassador,” Curtius replies, “we would like you to sit.”

  They return to their chairs at the mahogany desk, and Jefferson turns to Henri. “Lafayette tells me that you are the man behind the hydrogen balloon.”

  “He gives me too much credit,” Henri replies humbly, while Curtius and I take out the caliper. “My brother and I worked with the Roberts brothers. It was a joint effort.”

  “But a spectacular one,” Jefferson says. He recounts how Benjamin Franklin returned to America with the story of a flying balloon. “And no one would believe it when he told them it flew with hydrogen, not air.”

  “It took years of experimentation,” Henri admits, as Curtius and I begin the measurements. “My brother and I have a laboratory on the Boulevard du Temple. Benjamin Franklin inspired him to study physics.”

  “They knew each other?” Jefferson asks.

  “They did. Now Jacques has hopes of becoming a professor of physics at the Conservatoire des Arts et Métiers.”

  “And you?” Jefferson sits back and crosses his legs while I take the measurements of his jaw. He is an elegant man. I imagine that as a widower he must be very popular in Paris.

  Henri smiles ruefully. “I simply hope to have enough time to finish my experiments with nitrogen. We are not independently wealthy. Our money must come from other work.”

  Lafayette frowns. “Not patronage from the king?”

  “The king supported my brother’s experiments. Then the Montgolfier brothers launched their balloon filled with air two months before ours.” He shrugs. “We weren’t the first.”

  “But it’s hydrogen they’re using now,” Jefferson protests. “It’s how Blanchard and Jeffries crossed the English Channel!”

  “The king is only interested in novelty. My brother’s grants stopped the moment the king heard the Montgolfiers would beat us to launch.”

  I have not heard this story. I look at Curtius, who seems equally surprised.

  Henri continues, “Not all science can be for show. And if the king wishes to reward only the fastest performers, then that’s not a show I wish to be a part of.”

  I had thought that pride kept Henri from asking the king for patronage. I didn’t realize it was his commitment to science. Experiments, like art, cannot be rushed, even for a king who wishes to plan a great fête around the launching of the first balloon. I put down my caliper and turn to Curtius, who has finished Lafayette’s measurements. Now all we have to do is make the sketches. “This won’t take long,” I tell the ambassador. “Half an hour,” I say.


  But Jefferson passes his hand through the air. “Take as long as you wish. I am quite enjoying this visit.”

  Curtius and I take out several sheets of paper and ink. We are sitting across from two of the finest thinkers in France, enjoying coffee and cakes. This is far more pleasant than the last time I drew a subject from life. I recall the pudgy eyes of the Marquis de Sade and shiver.

  “I hope we aren’t distracting you from your work.” Curtius indicates a long roll of paper on Jefferson’s desk.

  “The Declaration is finished,” Lafayette admits. “But it lacks …” He gestures with his hands. Unlike Jefferson, he is constantly in motion. Never still, never content. It will be difficult to draw him. “Something firm. Something about the future of this monarchy.”

  “It is an argument between us,” Jefferson admits. “This document cannot be a declaration of independence.”

  “I don’t see why,” Lafayette disagrees. “We must assert our freedoms as men! And we must make it clear that the will of the people is more important than the will of a king. Why do we need a monarch?” he demands. “The Americans have never needed one.”

  “Because we were separated from our king by an entire ocean for more than two hundred years,” Jefferson replies, echoing what Henri said when Lafayette was a guest at our salon. “France is not America. You must give a starving man scraps first. An entire feast will kill him.”

  Lafayette turns to Henri and Curtius. “We discussed this several weeks ago, but perhaps recent events have changed your mind. Are the people of France ready to govern themselves?”

  Curtius considers carefully before answering. “What would happen to the king?”

  “Imagine he is gone. Away. On vacation.”

  “If it was a choice between following the Americans and following the English, I think a constitutional monarchy would be more prudent,” my uncle replies.

  “I would have to agree,” says Henri. “How do we know the American experiment will succeed? It cost twenty thousand lives, and four years from now, what if their President Washington refuses to relinquish his robes of office and declares himself king?”

  “You can’t believe that!” Lafayette is aghast. “America has ignited the torch of freedom. And that torch is now lighting up the world!”

  “A republic is undoubtedly the way forth for mankind,” Jefferson agrees. “But will men be willing to govern themselves, or is it more convenient to hand the reins of power to someone who promises free bread and wine?” He tilts his head, and I try to capture his elegant persuasiveness on my paper. Now I understand why the Americans chose him to be their ambassador: they wish him to persuade us to grasp at liberty just as he persuaded the colonists to sever their ties with England.

  When the clock chimes three, I put away my ink. Jefferson looks at me, surprised. “Done?” he asks.

  “Yes. I have made three drawings each.”

  “May we see?”

  I hand him my papers.

  “The eyes,” he says. It is always the eyes. “And the mouth. It’s like looking into a mirror.” He passes the drawings to Lafayette, who is equally impressed.

  “Wait until you see the actual figure,” Henri promises. “It will be like looking at your double. There is no one like Marie in all of France.”

  “To be fair, I had a very good instructor.” I smile at Curtius. “We should not keep these men any longer than we have.”

  But Jefferson won’t hear of it. “Nonsense. You must stay and dine with us.”

  Curtius and I look at each other. What will my mother think when we don’t come home? “My mother—” I begin, but the ambassador cuts me off.

  “I will send my carriage for her and we shall all dine together.”

  It is the merriest time I have had in many months. The table Jefferson keeps is astounding. Soups, roasted meats, omelets, cheese, a salad of beets, and cherries in brandy for dessert. I don’t know where he has come by all of these delicacies, but we are offered every kind of drink with our food as well. Jefferson is a connoisseur of wine and advises us on which vintage goes best with cheese and which should be reserved for salad and canapés.

  We talk of the Estates-General and what will happen in two days’ time. Will the Declaration be ready? Will the king accept it? Will he agree to have a parliament that shares his power, and if not, how will the deputies of the Third Estate react? When we return to the Boulevard du Temple and climb the stairs to our rooms, we are more nervous than tired. Tomorrow, I will go back to Versailles, but I don’t see how I can pretend that everything is the same as it was last week.

  Curtius stops me on the threshold of my chamber and says, “You did well tonight. Both the ambassador and the marquis were impressed.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  He grins. “Henri appeared quite impressed as well.”

  I am thankful it’s dark and my uncle can’t see the flush on my cheeks. “Yes, he is very kind.”

  “Perhaps he is interested in you,” Curtius offers.

  “Henri?” I laugh. “Of course he’s interested in me. I live next door to him.”

  “You are twenty-eight,” he reminds me gently.

  Yes, twenty-eight, and what do I have to show for it? Thirty models, twenty-five busts, and a place as the princesse’s tutor at a time when people are more interested in Rousseau than in the king. Until the Salon de Cire is bringing in two hundred people a day, I will never be satisfied. There are more than six hundred thousand people in Paris, and only one and a half percent of them have visited our exhibition. But this new tableau of Jefferson and Lafayette will be a magnificent draw, especially with the Estates-General so close. There is so much to do, and already I am twenty-eight.

  “It’s a good age for marriage,” Curtius continues.

  “So are you trying to get rid of me?” I ask, half-joking.

  “Of course not,” my uncle replies, offended. “You will always remain with the Salon.”

  “And how will I do that if I am taking care of a husband and children?”

  “It is an option,” is all he says.

  But it is not an option for women like myself and Rose Bertin. Men want wives who are sweet and good with children, not women who plan and watch the accounts. What is it that Queen Elizabeth once said? “Better a beggar woman and single than married and queen.” Yes, I think so. Six years ago, the queen’s artist, Vigée-Lebrun, was made a member of the Académie Royale. If it can happen for her, it can happen for me.

  Chapter 14

  APRIL 30, 1789

  My crimson vest will be superb; I still need the trimming for the garment and for the coat. But the hat is expensive.

  —MARQUIS DE FERRIÈRES,

  LETTER TO HIS WIFE REGARDING THE ESTATES-GENERAL

  CURTIUS READS PRINCESSE ÉLISABETH’S LETTER ALOUD, ONCE for my benefit, then a second time when my mother appears.

  If you should like to stay until the ninth of May, I would be an incredibly grateful host. It is only five extra days, and your presence would be a most welcome distraction.

  He puts down the letter to see my mother’s face. Of course, she is thrilled. She wants to know when it came, by whom, how he was dressed, and why no one thought to get her from her bath.

  “He looked exactly like the man who came in February,” I promise. “In fact, he might have been the same messenger.”

  There is no discussion of whether or not I shall stay the extra five days with Madame Élisabeth. Of course I will. It is the greatest chance I have ever been given: all of France’s most important people gathered in one place! Thousands of faces, and each a possibility for the Salon.

  As soon as breakfast is done, my mother is carefully folding my gowns while Curtius and I are collecting paper and ink. “Everything you see,” he is telling me, “sketch. Perhaps you will be there tomorrow while the king officially greets the three estates!”

  “I’ve been invited as a distraction,” I say. “I doubt the princesse will want to hold
court with her brother.”

  “She may have to. Be prepared.” He’s been reading about this daily in the Journal de Paris. “On Monday, there will be a procession through Versailles beginning at the Church of Notre-Dame and ending at the Church of Saint-Louis. Everyone will be there. The princesse, the queen, Lafayette, Robespierre …”

  “I can’t bring paper and ink for that!”

  “Why not? You won’t be part of the procession. Find a place to sit and draw. On Tuesday,” Curtius continues, “is the official opening of the Estates-General. The next day, the king will address the assembly. The princesse will certainly be there for his speech. Find a place in the public galleries. By the time you return, everyone will want to know what’s happening in Versailles. And where will they be going for their news?”

  “To us.” I am so excited my hands are shaking. We draft a list of the people I must try to find, beginning with Necker, whom I’ve yet to see. When the carriage arrives, we are still writing names.

  “I will write to you if I think of any others,” Curtius promises.

  I lean out of the carriage window to wave good-bye, and my mother shouts, “The pink gown is for Tuesday! Wear the blue tomorrow.” Pink is my mother’s favorite color, and she wants me to look good in the public galleries. I blow them both a kiss as the carriage pulls away.

  I open the leather bag I have with me and take out several sheets of paper. I must send Curtius a list of all the things that need to be done while I am gone. First, and most important, are the bodies of Jefferson and Lafayette. I am desperate to begin their models, but they will have to wait until the ninth, when I return. And then who knows what important drawings I’ll have brought home with me? Still, Jefferson and Lafayette must take precedence. A new tableau must be built. Jefferson’s Desk, I think. Or even better, Jefferson’s Study.

  The road to Versailles is choked with carriages, and all of the drivers are impatient, some using the grassy verges to cut off other riders. I close my windows against the stink of horses and excrement, and try not to imagine what it is like in the Palace of Versailles, where the heat of the day will only intensify the scent of urine and sweat in the halls. Thousands of people will want a glimpse of the palace when they arrive.