Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution Read online

  “Then she goes thirsty.”

  Ludicrous! “And this happens every day?”

  My brothers exchange looks. “Less frequently now that Her Majesty spends her time at the Trianon,” Johann replies.

  The king gifted Marie Antoinette with the Petit Trianon as a private residence. It is a quarter league from Versailles, and though I have never seen it, I am told that it is the most charming château in Paris, surrounded by orange trees and an English garden. The queen has turned it into her private palace, with its own special livery of silver and scarlet. “Who can blame her?” I say. “Who wouldn’t want time for themselves?”

  “She has a responsibility to the court,” Edmund replies.

  “To live like a wax model?” my mother asks, surprising everyone. None of us saw her sit down. “To be dressed and redressed like a doll?”

  “She belongs to the people,” Edmund says stiffly. “The king rules by God’s will, and the queen reflects his glory. Whether or not she likes the rules, she must abide by them.”

  “But who made them?” Wolfgang challenges. “Not God. Man. Courtiers,” he adds, “who want to know that their place in the royal hierarchy is assured. What should it matter who hands the queen her underwear so long as she’s wearing some?”

  My mother smiles, but Edmund has gone red in the face.

  “Leave it for another time,” Curtius suggests, and Johann puts a restraining hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “He only says it to rile you up. Like Marie.”

  Wolfgang grins at me, and I suppress a laugh, since I know it will simply make Edmund more enraged and upset my mother. We see my brothers rarely enough. It would be foolish to spend what little time we have with them arguing over whether the queen deserves privacy.

  There is no more talk of Versailles as we eat. My mother has prepared sauerkraut and sausages, potatoes, and warm Viennese bread. For dessert, I help her serve Bavarian crème we purchased in the Palais-Royal. There are no fruits to accompany it, since there are none to be had for any amount of money, but it is delicious. By the time the sun has set, even Edmund has relaxed.

  “So when will you bring your son to see his grandmother?” my mother implores Johann.

  “Next month,” he promises.

  My mother sighs. “And how will he know me if I see him only for Christmas and Easter?”

  “I tell him stories all the time.”

  “Pffff.” She waves her hand through the air. “It is not the same.”

  “We will try to come in summer.”

  I see that my mother is already making plans in her head: where Isabel and Paschal will stay, what she will cook, and how she will entertain her four-year-old grandson.

  The church bell of Saint-Merri sounds, and Wolfgang looks out the window. “It’s a shame we can’t stay longer.”

  “But we’ll see each other soon, at Versailles,” I say.

  Wolfgang looks uncertain. “We eat in the Grand Commune with the courtiers. Madame Élisabeth may want to you to dine in Montreuil, the little house the king gave her. It’s at the entrance to Versailles. But—”

  “It might as well be in another country,” Johann finishes. “She is very religious, Marie. If she were not the king’s sister, she would have entered a convent years ago.”

  “But her aunt is a Carmelite nun,” I say. “Certainly she could enter a convent, if she wished.”

  “She does. But the king needs her,” Johann says bluntly.

  I look at Edmund, and when he doesn’t protest, I realize what Johann is saying. “So she’s given up her life for her brother.”

  “I wouldn’t phrase it like that,” Johann says, uncomfortably. “She is happy to devote her life to him. But she is very religious,” he repeats.

  “She dines at four and retires when the sun is set,” Wolfgang clarifies. “She almost never goes to the palace. So it’s unlikely we will see much of each other.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Marie,” Curtius says reassuringly. “Montreuil, Versailles, you are working for the king.”

  “The king’s nunlike sister,” I say with disappointment. I had imagined seeing the king riding out to the hunt and the queen in her latest coiffures. “How will this serve us?”

  “She is a good woman,” Edmund says sternly. “It may not serve the Salon de Cire. But you will be serving her, and that should be enough.”

  My brothers rise to leave, and when I embrace Wolfgang farewell he whispers in my ear, “If we don’t see each other, write to me. You can trust Madame Élisabeth’s lady-in-waiting, the Marquise de Bombelles, to deliver a message.”

  “I will,” I promise. There must be some advantage to this, I think. There has to be!

  I hug Johann fiercely, but I do not embrace Edmund. Instead, we stand across from each other as if oceans separate us. It has always been this way. “A safe journey,” I tell him.

  He nods formally. “And you.” As my mother and Curtius embrace the others, Edmund speaks quietly to me. “It would do the Salon great credit if you were to clothe the queen in something modest.”

  “It is business, Edmund! It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It means everything. I am not mistaken. I have told Curtius many times. He doesn’t care. I am hoping you have more sense.”

  As we watch the carriage roll away, bound for the Palace of Versailles, we hear Wolfgang’s and Johann’s cheerful voices carried on the night air. But I am silently arguing with my eldest brother. There are images of the queen in every corner of Paris. What separates ours from all other images is the illusion of flesh. The tantalizing curve of the queen’s neck, the softness of her hand, the painted toenails peeking out from beneath her lacy shift. The people want to see this. We are simply giving them what they want. Where is the harm in that?

  Chapter 8

  APRIL 2, 1789

  The court lost no time in going à la mode. Every woman became a lesbian and a whore.

  —ANONYMOUS LIBELLISTE

  EVERYONE HAS COME TO SEE ME OFF, FROM OUR TAILOR AND Yachin to the chandler down the street. As I make my farewells to all these people, I remember why this is so important. I may be spending four days of my week in Montreuil, but my absence will only reinforce to the public that our models are worthy of the royal family’s notice. A freshly painted sign in the window now reads, NEW MODELS COMING SOON FROM MADEMOISELLE GROSHOLTZ, PERSONAL TUTOR AT VERSAILLES. I read it again, simply because it doesn’t seem real.

  “Will you bring something back for me from the palace?” Yachin asks.

  I laugh. “Like what?”

  “How about playing cards?”

  “What? Shall I steal a deck from the queen?”

  “Okay, a pair of dice.”

  “And how am I supposed to come across dice?” When his eagerness flags, I promise him, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  My mother is looking increasingly worried. She thinks I won’t feed myself in Versailles. While everyone is chatting pleasantly, she takes me to one side. “Please, just remember to eat. No model is so important that you should skip dinner.”

  “I will eat like a princesse,” I swear. “Or at least, the tutor of one.” But she doesn’t believe me. “Look at Johann,” I tell her. “Going to Versailles hasn’t done him any harm.”

  “He is not you,” she says in German. “He does not become so busy that he forgets to eat.”

  This is true. I doubt Johann has ever forgotten a meal. Whereas being a guard has kept Edmund fit, Johann has clearly indulged in the rich foods provided in the Grand Commune. He has the round, fat face of a German now, which pleases my mother.

  “I will promise to eat,” I tell her, “if you promise to watch Curtius. Don’t let him give away tickets for free. If it’s the Empress of Russia herself, she pays.”

  My mother heaves an exasperated sigh. “I will do what I can.”

  “Forbid him from giving anything away.” I take her hands. “This is a business.”

  She kisses my cheek. “Viel Glück,” she s
ays warmly. “Give your brothers my love.”

  I make the rest of my personal good-byes. I hug Curtius, then tell Henri that I will miss his rational talk of politics and science. And to Yachin I say, “I want to know if drunken theatergoers are still pissing in the urns.” Our new plants have become favorite places for uncouth men to relieve themselves.

  “I’ll send a message,” he swears. He has been given a good education at his temple. Unlike many children, he can read and write. Then he adds, “If you find perfume, I would be happy to have that as well.”

  “Have some manners,” Henri chastens, but the boy only grins.

  I make my way through the crowd to the waiting berline. The luggage has been tied to the roof by the driver, and Curtius helps me into the coach. Already I feel different. Like a woman of some consequence. Curtius presses his lips to my hand, and I can see in his eyes that he is proud, which is important to me. I want him to know that I shall never disappoint him.

  “Remember the honors,” he says, recalling the lessons I’ve had these two months. What he is truly saying is to mind myself at court.

  “I will. If you finish the model of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe, and make a second one for the Salon. You will, won’t you?”

  “There is nothing to worry about, Marie.” As the carriage rolls away, he calls, “Auf Wiedersehen!”

  I look through the window and study the faces—most happy, some resentful—crowding the steps of the Salon de Cire. Then I sit back against the cushions of the expensive berline and wonder how much it cost my uncle to hire. It is a coach for four, and I am the only one inside. But it is for the greater good of the Salon, I remind myself. I am like a farmer who feeds his cow the best hay for the time when it will make his own dinner. I will not disgrace my brothers at Montreuil. And however secluded Madame Élisabeth may be, I will find a way of using this position to our advantage.

  I stare out the window at the lines outside every bakery. Countless shops, which once teemed with women in lace-trimmed bonnets, have gone out of business. Dirty sans-culottes—men who cannot afford knee-length trousers with stockings—sit on the steps of these empty shops and roll dice. Their long pants hang around their ankles, unhemmed and trailing in the dirt. My mother believes this is God’s work. That last summer’s driving rain and hailstones destroyed France’s crops because of God’s sharp disapproval. But of what? Our Austrian queen? What has she done that a dozen mistresses have not? Our king? He pursues his hobbies of lock making and building the way previous kings bought horses and bedded women. No, I cannot agree with my mother’s reasoning. Nature has done this, and Nature will repair it. Already there are leaves on the trees.

  By the time we reach the golden gates of Montreuil in the southeast of Versailles, I have put the hardships of Paris out of mind. I am here! It is real, and before me stretch the vast, manicured lawns of Princesse Élisabeth’s château. The king’s liveried guards stand at the gates. They are dressed in blue, with white silk stockings and silver lace at their cuffs. Their hair is powdered and worn in tails tied back with silver buckles. The carriage rolls abruptly to a stop.

  “She is to be driven up to the porch,” I hear the guard say.

  As the gates are thrown open and the berline passes through, I smooth the material of my blue gown with my palms. When the château comes into view, I am surprised. It is more rustic than majestic: a two-storied home nestled in the trees and painted a becoming hue of pink. The shutters have all been thrown open, and flowers spill from boxes on every window. I expected to be greeted by one of the dames du palais, but it is Madame Élisabeth herself who is standing beneath the colonnaded porch. She is dressed in a chestnut-colored gown of rich satin, and her thick blond hair is heavily powdered. She is twenty-five to the queen’s thirty-three, and in the fresh spring light, this difference is significant. I had not noticed it at the Salon, but as I descend from the carriage and approach the steps, I am surprised by how young Madame Élisabeth looks. The plumpness in her cheeks is rather becoming, and they are red without the aid of any rouge. Immediately, I descend into the curtsy I have practiced and wait for Madame to speak.

  “Welcome to Versailles, Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Was it a pleasant ride?”

  “Very pleasant, Madame.” Behind me, half a dozen servants are taking my baskets from the top of the berline and whisking them inside. “The wildflowers are bursting with color,” I tell her. “The countryside looks like an artist’s palette.”

  “Do you paint then, Mademoiselle Grosholtz?”

  “Please, just Marie,” I say humbly. “Yes. It is a necessary skill for wax modeling.”

  “Then we have something in common already.” She turns and motions to a woman who has appeared in the doorway. “Marie, please meet the Marquise de Bombelles.”

  The marquise is extraordinarily tall, and it is unfortunate that she has chosen to wear one of the queen’s fashionable poufs. On such a long face, it would have been better if she had simply powdered her own hair. I cannot determine how old she is. I could believe any number of ages, since she has not taken care to stay out of the sun, and wrinkles line her forehead and mouth. “A pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

  “Please, it is just Marie,” I repeat and make a small curtsy.

  She smiles thinly, and I wonder if I have done right. “I hear you have come to tutor our Élisabeth in wax modeling. She tells me you have an extraordinary gift.”

  “Then Madame Élisabeth gives me too much credit,” I say. “I’ve simply come to teach her what little I know.”

  “Such humility! I have seen Marie’s wax exhibition,” Madame Élisabeth replies, “and I promise you, I do not give her too much credit.” She links arms with the marquise; they make an odd pair: one blond and short, the other dark and tall. “Shall we show her Montreuil?”

  I am given a tour of the grounds, beginning with the cheerful orangerie, painted white and gold as if to remind people of its purpose. The workers bow to us as we pass, and a gardener hurries to open the heavy white doors. “Madame,” he says reverently.

  Madame Élisabeth smiles. “Thank you, Antoine.”

  She knows his name, and I wonder if she is as familiar with everyone in Montreuil.

  “Ah.” There is the warm, spring scent of orange blossoms in the air, and Madame Élisabeth inhales deeply. “It will be a good harvest this year,” she tells Antoine.

  “Without doubt. Madame has a way with plants.”

  As we step inside, I can see that the orangerie is for more than growing citrus. Besides the orange trees, whose shiny leaves and white blossoms catch the light of the sun, there are roses in every color. Jasmine and wisteria climb from ceramic pots to cover the ground. It is a riot of color and fragrances.

  “This is de Bombelles’s favorite tree,” Madame Élisabeth says. “She planted it last year, and look how it’s grown.”

  It is tall and thin, like its owner. I am guessing from its leaves that it will produce limes. “These must take a great deal of time and care,” I say.

  The Marquise de Bombelles nods seriously. “We come here every morning to check on our fruits. This is a working farm.” We exit the orangerie and enter the dairy. “Madame Élisabeth helps to milk the cows and plants the crops herself.”

  I turn to the king’s sister to see if this is true. I cannot imagine a princesse of France wishing to dirty her hands with such things.

  “We do it for the villagers,” Madame Élisabeth explains. “They are in great want. The milk from this dairy can feed two hundred families every month. And the fruit keeps the local children healthy.”

  I am surprised. “And they know this generosity comes from you?”

  She looks puzzled. “Yes. I distribute the food myself.”

  Yet the vicious libellistes would have the world believe that the king’s family shuts itself away in velvet rooms. During all of his time in our salon, I have never once heard the Duc mention the princesse’s generosity. I think of his self-satisfied grin
when Robespierre and Camille rage against the monarchy, and how he sits back and swirls his brandy when Marat asks him what should be done about our king.

  We step inside the sprawling château of Montreuil. Everywhere, there is religious art. Images of Christ and his virgin mother, and of the saints in their suffering. If not for the cheerful colors on the wall and the large bouquets at every table, it might be the interior of a convent.

  “This is to be your room,” Madame Élisabeth says, showing me a first-floor chamber that is many times the size of mine at home. It is apple green with rich furnishings, and the windows face the handsome orangerie. I am entranced, listening to the birdsong and smelling the earthy fragrance.

  “It’s enchanting, isn’t it?” Madame Élisabeth asks. She crosses the room and opens a pair of doors on the far side. “And this shall be our workshop,” she says.

  We step inside, and the Marquise de Bombelles watches my expression. Windows stretch from ceiling to floor, letting in an abundance of natural light. A dozen cabinets have been arranged along the far wall, and each has been carefully labeled: paints, canvases, wax, plaster, tools, brushes. A specially designed counter in the middle of the room stands prepared for whatever takes Madame’s fancy. Immediately, I am imagining ways in which we can improve our workshop at home.

  “What do you think?” Madame Élisabeth asks with sincerity. “Will it do?”

  It is any artist’s dream. If it were Henri asking, or Curtius, I’d laugh. Instead, I school my features into an expression of great earnestness. “Yes, Madame, I think it will do nicely.”

  She claps her hands. “Then we will begin tomorrow. Ten o’clock.” She looks at the Marquise de Bombelles. “Shall we give her the tour of Versailles?”

  I am holding my breath, practically willing yes into the Marquise de Bombelles’s head. “It is already noon,” she says hesitantly, studying the clock. “If we take our dinner later than four, we will not be on time for vespers.”

  I feel my heart sink.

  “What if it’s just a quick drive?” Madame Élisabeth asks, though of course she needs no one’s approval.