Madame Tussaud Read online

  “These kinds of lies are all over the city,” I say.

  The queen’s question comes as a whisper. “So how do we stop them?”

  I don’t know. I am paid to spread news, not stop it. How do you convince people that what they wish to believe is a lie? “I don’t see any way of stopping it,” I say quietly, “except through action.”

  “We have done all we can,” Madame Élisabeth replies. “We give charity. You’ve seen how we give.”

  Yes, but I am not the one you must convince, I want to say. I feel sorry for them. They do not know what to do, and I am not smart enough to give them good political advice. “You are incredibly generous,” I agree. “The monarchy is the backbone of this nation.”

  “Of course it is,” the king replies. “We can’t let a handful of angry men tear down nine hundred years of tradition.” The queen rests her hand lovingly on his knee, encouraging him, goading him onward. “Sending troops into Paris was the right thing to do, and anyone who disagrees with this policy—”

  “Shall be dismissed,” the queen finishes for him.

  The dauphin holds up his clay ball and asks, “Have I done it right?”

  Just like his father, worried about what other people will think. “It’s absolutely perfect.” I smile.

  Chapter 23

  JULY 11, 1789

  Fortune does not change men, it unmasks them.

  —SUZANNE NECKER,

  WIFE OF JACQUES NECKER, MINISTER OF FINANCE

  THE MINISTER OF FINANCE HAS BEEN SENT AWAY! NECKER, who is beloved by the Third Estate despite his long-winded speeches, has been taken with his wife to Switzerland. A carriage arrived at his home, and the coachman was given instructions to ride nonstop to the city of Lausanne. A man named Joseph-François Foulon, who agrees with the king’s policies and wishes to abolish the National Assembly, has been named the Finance Minister in his place.

  “When this gets out,” Wolfgang says, “there’s going to be chaos.”

  We withdraw into an alcove of the Grand Commune. “How do you know this?” I ask him.

  “I was at the door when the king told his brother Artois. Word won’t reach the city for another day. But tonight, lock the doors. There are thousands of troops encamped all across Paris.”

  “I saw soldiers yesterday at Saint-Denis.”

  “They’re also at the Invalides on the Champ-de-Mars. The city is surrounded, and every rabble-rouser is going to take to the streets when they hear this news. And best stay away from the Palais-Royal for the next few nights.”

  It’s unbelievable, the idea that Paris should succumb to violence. I don’t wish to think about it. I won’t. “How is Edmund?”

  “He hasn’t spoken to me since we visited Maman six weeks ago. Or to Johann.”

  “And Abrielle?”

  “She wants to give it a little more time.” He sounds uncertain. “She loves her father. Her mother died in childbirth … it’s only her and him.”

  I take a deep breath. Now is the time to tell Wolfgang. He should know. “Henri asked me to marry him.”

  My brother steps back to study my face, and I’m sure I am blushing deeply. “Marie, that’s wonderful news! Have you told Maman?”

  “I can’t tell her. Not until I’m ready to accept, and marriage would ruin my chances at the Académie Royale.”

  My brother is surprised. It’s the first he’s heard of this.

  “I can’t think of anything worse than raising a family on a few hundred sous a week,” I tell him. “You remember how it was for us. The rags we used to wear and the food we would eat. It was meat once a month. If I am accepted into the Académie—or even if it’s Curtius—our futures will be certain.”

  “But we all turned out well enough,” Wolfgang protests. “Things got better. Curtius’s business picked up, and now the Salon is doing well.”

  “Even so, the bakers and chandlers are dry. We have to buy our candles on the black market. It’s not a time for starting a family.”

  “Well, don’t tell that to Abrielle.” He sighs. “It will only give her more incentive to wait.”

  Chapter 24

  JULY 12, 1789

  We must take up arms and adopt cockades by which we may know each other.

  —CAMILLE DESMOULINS

  LAFAYETTE HAS PRESENTED HIS DECLARATION OF THE RIGHTS of Man and Citizen to the National Assembly, and just as word of this revolutionary document began to spread this morning, the news arrived of Necker’s dismissal. To say that Parisians are angry is to underestimate what’s happening entirely. They’re enraged, just as Wolfgang predicted, and though there should be a line of people stretching down the Boulevard for the Salon de Cire, we have locked our doors and Henri has come over to keep us company. He seats himself next to me at the empty caissier’s desk, and we watch the crowds fill the streets outside.

  “I hope Curtius hasn’t done anything foolish,” my mother whispers. “He went this morning to the Palais-Royal.”

  Over five thousand people were said to be there, and we can hear the newsboys shouting updates in the streets. At midday it was ten thousand. Now it’s twenty. By tonight, who knows? I wish I could relax into Henri’s embrace and feel the strong comfort of his arms. But I know my mother would be immediately suspicious, and I am not prepared to answer any questions our closeness could bring. So instead, I watch my mother’s hands working her needles. She’s knitting something for Johann’s son. It is a way to keep herself busy.

  “If I were the queen,” she says suddenly, “I would tell my husband to banish the Duc and take over the Palais-Royal!”

  “I would banish the Duc as well,” Henri admits. This morning, he was at the Palais. “It would certainly make it harder for libellistes to gather.”

  Was this what I should have told the queen? Would it have made any difference? “And the National Assembly?” I ask.

  “It’s already gone too far,” Henri replies. “The faster the king consents to a constitutional monarchy, the less bloodshed there will be.”

  “Mein Gott, there’s Curtius!” my mother exclaims. “And he’s running!”

  All three of us rush to the door, and when my mother opens it, my uncle shouts, “They’re coming! Get inside.”

  “Who’s coming?” my mother cries.

  “The mob. They want our bust of Necker!”

  “Absolutely not!” I exclaim.

  “Marie.” Curtius is out of breath. His cheeks are flushed and his waistcoat is askew. “There are a thousand people coming this way.”

  Henri touches my arm. “I think you and your mother should go upstairs.”

  “No,” I say firmly. “We cannot show them fear.”

  My mother goes to fetch Curtius some water from the kitchen, and I pass him my handkerchief. He is sweating profusely. This sort of exertion can’t be good for his health.

  “What is happening?” I ask calmly.

  “There were thousands of people. More than there were two weeks ago. And Camille—” He holds his chest and tries to catch his breath. He must have run most of the way here. “Camille was in the Café de Foy.”

  “He was there this morning,” Henri replies, “writing frantically in a corner.”

  “Well, this time he was standing on a table and shouting. He was impassioned.” Curtius wipes his neck. “Like I’ve never seen him before. He took out his pistol and encouraged every citizen in Paris to rise up. He said, ‘The citizens of France requested Necker, and what does the king do? Banish Necker!’ Then he compared himself to Othryades.”

  My mother has returned with a carafe of water. “Who is Othryades?”

  “A warrior,” Curtius explains, “who captured an enemy flag and wrote ‘Sparta Is Free’ across it in his blood.”

  “Camille thinks he’s a Spartan warrior?” my mother exclaims.

  “It’s a metaphor,” I say in German.

  “He added that he would be willing to write ‘France Is Free’ in his own blood if the people would rise
up and make it happen. That Necker’s dismissal has sounded the tocsin for war, and if the people don’t take to arms, it will be another St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre.”

  “He’s developed a gift for rhetoric?” Henri asks.

  “Yes. And drama. He pinned a leaf to his shirt, then told everyone they could recognize their fellow revolutionaries by their green cockades. The trees were stripped bare.”

  To think of calling a tree leaf a cockade, a circular ribbon used to symbolize a cause … It is brilliant. Nothing could be more humble than a small green leaf. “And his stutter?”

  “Completely gone when he’s speaking to a crowd. When he shouted ‘Untimely death or eternal liberty,’ I thought I was listening to Mirabeau. And now he’s leading the people here.”

  We can hear them coming. As with the Roman army, the dust heralds their approach. They are chanting something, and as they make their way down the Boulevard du Temple, doors swing shut and women peek out from behind their shutters. As the mob comes closer, I can hear what they are shouting. “Necker! Necker!”

  Curtius opens the door, and a sea of faces peer back at us. Everyone in the crowd is wearing green. Camille steps forward, and I see that Lucile is behind him.

  “Citizen Curtius,” Camille greets him formally. “We have come for the head of Necker.” A shout goes up, and the mob begins to cheer. “Knowing how fervently you support this Revolution, would you be willing to part with your exhibition’s most honored bust?”

  “The Salon de Cire,” my uncle replies, “is honored to serve the people’s cause.”

  The mob cheers again, and someone shouts, “Give us the bust of Orléans.”

  “Yes, give us the Duc d’Orléans!” a woman cries.

  “Would you be willing to part with Orléans as well? He has been threatened with b-b-banishment.” Camille gestures dramatically. “But we shall show the king that the people support those who believe in liberty!”

  My uncle hesitates. “If that is what the people wish …” He bows. “Come inside.”

  Camille takes Lucile’s hand, and they separate themselves from the crowd. The mob looks more excited than angry, eager to see what Camille will produce. I go with my mother and Curtius into the Room of Notables. For the many times Camille has been to our Salon, I don’t believe he’s ever seen these figures. “My God,” he says, like every observer. “They’re so realistic.” He reaches out to touch the Duc’s face while Lucile caresses the head of Necker. In her muslin cap and long white dress, she is the picture of gallant youth. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of taking the king …”

  “That’s an entire figure,” Curtius says. “If you carry it, the model will break.”

  “And we would appreciate them all coming back in one piece,” I reply. “Each figure takes weeks of work.” Not to mention money. Fifteen livres for a wig, forty sous for real hair, and eighty sous for a full set of teeth.

  “Nothing will happen to them,” Camille promises.

  “And you? What if something should happen to you?” I ask.

  “The time of sacrifice is upon us,” Lucile says. “We are willing to take that risk.”

  When they emerge from the Salon, the cheer that goes up must be heard in Versailles. The members of the crowd have taken off their hats, and someone has found black crêpe to drape around the busts.

  “Where are you going?” Curtius shouts.

  Camille takes off his hat. It’s a solemn procession he plans to lead. A funeral march for the exile of Necker and the threat of exile to the Duc d’Orléans. “To the Place Vendôme!”

  BECAUSE IT’S TOO dangerous for Yachin to go home, a bed is made for him in the workshop. I open the windows to let in a breeze, and our barker says nervously, “Perhaps we should close them.”

  I hesitate. All evening, friends have been coming in to give us news. Philip Astley, who runs the circus, said the theaters have been shut down all across Paris. A mob of three thousand stormed the Opéra, demanding that Grétry’s Aspasie be canceled out of respect for Necker. They are treating his dismissal as though the king has ordered his execution. In the Place Vendôme, the tocsins were sounded, and when the mob spilled into the adjacent Tuileries Gardens, the king’s troops were ordered to clear the space. But Camille’s mob refused to move, and shots were fired. The man carrying the wax bust of the Duc d’Orléans was killed. According to Astley, the soldiers tied his body behind a horse and dragged it through the Tuileries as a warning to others. “And the bust?” I exclaimed.

  My mother gasped. “A man was killed!”

  “But they didn’t murder the bust. So where is it?”

  No one knows. The last we’ve heard is that the Gardes Françaises are fighting alongside the people. They are supposed to be one of the king’s fighting regiments, but they have turned against their brothers, and because they far outnumber the royal troops, the king’s soldiers are actually in retreat! It’s an unbelievable turn of events. It means the Third Estate has its own army, and they are defeating the Royal German Regiment. But does the fighting mean we’re prisoners inside our own homes? I look outside. The streets are dark. I shut the windows, just in case.

  Yachin looks pitiful. “Do you think I will see my family tomorrow?” he asks. His knees are tucked up under his chin, and his small arms are wrapped around his legs.

  “The fighting can’t last forever,” I tell him.

  “But I thought the Revolution was over. There were fireworks at the Palais-Royal.”

  “Yes, but now these men want more. Some think they can establish a republic, like they have in America.”

  “If there’s no more monarchy, my father can print whatever comes into his shop.”

  “I should think there will always be censorship,” I tell him, “of one kind or another.”

  “Are they allowed to print whatever they wish in America?”

  I don’t know. “Perhaps we should ask Curtius,” I say. “I see you’re not going to get any sleep.”

  We join the others at the caissier’s desk. It will be a long night, and only God knows if the Salon will be able to reopen tomorrow. Henri’s brother, Jacques, has just come from the Place Vendôme. I take a seat on an empty stool and listen while he recounts what’s happening.

  “It’s chaos. The mob has grown to at least twenty thousand. It could double, even triple by tomorrow. The man carrying your bust of Necker was killed by a bayonet to the stomach.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Astley told us the man carrying the Duc’s model was killed as well,” my uncle says.

  “They are breaking into the armories now. It’s anarchy in the Palais-Royal. Every shop selling swords and guns has been ransacked. They’ll need gunpowder next.”

  There’s a knock on our door, and Curtius rises. “It must be Astley,” he says, and he lets in our neighbor, who searches the gloom for any sign of danger. I have never seen Astley nervous. He’s tall and broad with limber hands, but when he approaches our table, he’s shaking. My mother fetches a stool, and Curtius presses a glass of wine into his hand.

  “They’ve burned the barriers to the city, and thousands of peasants are flooding in from the provinces. It’s absolute lawlessness,” Astley tells us. “They’ve attacked more than forty customs posts and burned the tax records. Now they’re searching for food. The monastery of Saint-Lazare has been overcome. Everything inside was taken.”

  My mother crosses herself.

  “Grain,” Henri says. “It was a storehouse for grain.”

  “I am finished with Paris,” Astley says. “I’m returning to London. They’ve already had their civil war.”

  “Which ended with a Constitution,” Jacques reminds him. “Perhaps this is the time for new birth.”

  Astley takes a long sip of his wine. “The king has been a loyal patron to me. I don’t wish to see him disgraced.” He looks from Jacques to Henri. “I have no desire to see the Duc d’Orléans on the throne. Or any other man in the
National Assembly.”

  “Lafayette was elected its vice president—he might make a good leader,” Curtius says.

  “Can you imagine the bloody coup that will come before installing him as king? He will have to fight every other man who wants it: Orléans, Mirabeau, Camille—”

  “Not Camille!” I exclaim.

  “Did you hear his speech in the Café de Foy? He’s a man with intentions. Just wait,” Astley promises. “If the king doesn’t crush this rebellion and send Camille to prison, you will see him in the National Assembly.”

  There is another knock on the door, and the seven of us freeze. Whoever it is, they will have heard us talking. There’s no point in pretending we aren’t here. “Who is it?” Curtius calls through the door.

  “Citizen Armand,” the man identifies himself. “I have come with your wax head.”

  Curtius opens the door, and a young man holds out the head of Orléans. “For you, Monsieur.”

  I spring from my chair and rush to the door. “What about the bust of Necker?” I demand.

  Armand shakes his head. He is a sans-culotte, dressed in trousers and a loose-fitting shirt. His long hair has been tied back with twine, and the bones in his face are prominent. I doubt he’s eaten much in several weeks. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle. It was lost among the crowds. It may still appear—”

  “That bust means a great deal to us,” I say sharply.

  Armand steps back. He is seventeen, or eighteen, perhaps.

  “Yes,” Curtius cuts in. “For there is no greater patriot than Necker.”

  The young man smiles. “Of course. I will see what I can do.” He looks over our shoulders and can see the meats on our table.

  “Would you like to come in?” Curtius offers. “There is food. And perhaps you can give us some news.”

  Armand accepts, and I lock the door behind him. Yachin has already found a stool from the workshop where I laid his bed. He offers it to our guest, and the seven of us watch him eat. He is starving, chewing with his mouth open because he has stuffed too much inside. When he finally swallows, he sees that we are waiting. “What is the last you’ve heard?” he asks.