Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (33 page)

The people begin to clap, and one man says, “Rousseau.”

Robespierre nods. “Every man and woman here today would do well to read the philosopher’s works.”

“Which do you think is more important?” someone asks. “Rousseau’s novel
Émile
or
The Social Contract
?”

“That’s like asking to choose between the daffodil and the rose. Both are beautiful creations.”

The people around us begin to laugh. There is nothing Robespierre can say that would disappoint them. “And what do you think should happen to the Bastille?”

“I believe that a monument to tyranny, such as this,” he exclaims, “must be utterly destroyed!”

Chapter 28

J
ULY
16, 1789

My brother, the Comte, is the most enlightened of advisers. His judgment on men and things is seldom mistaken
.

—M
EMOIRS OF
M
ADAME
É
LISABETH

A
S THE CARRIAGE PULLS UP TO
M
ADAME
É
LISABETH’S CHÂTEAU
, I look at the brightly painted shutters, the rolling hills, and the sculpted trees in their pale marble urns. The air has a light, wild smell that belongs only to Montreuil and Versailles. The hills don’t care that there is no bread in Paris. The flowers still bloom whether the Bastille stands or falls. I can see now why the queen built her expensive Hameau. There, nothing else exists. The cows will welcome her whether or not she’s beloved in France. The water mill will keep churning even if the people have forgotten about their dauphin. All of the world’s troubles cease to exist in Nature. The bees, the flowers, the trickling stream, they simply carry on.

I step from the carriage, and the Marquise de Bombelles comes out to greet me. I search behind her for the pack of greyhounds and the golden figure of Madame Élisabeth.

“The princesse is at Versailles,” she tells me. She is even thinner, gaunt. These weeks have changed her. “She would like us to begin in the workshop without her.” As we enter the workshop and put on our aprons, she confides in me, “It is a disaster. Two nights ago the king asked the Duc de Liancourt if Paris was in revolt. Liancourt told him it is no revolt. It is a Revolution.” She studies me from across the worktable. “We listen to the servants whispering in the halls and beg the guards for information. Is it really a Revolution?” she asks me.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “The National Assembly is pushing for a constitutional monarchy.” I think of Lafayette and Robespierre. “Some would like to do away with the monarchy altogether and replace it with a Constitution, like they have in America.”

Her hands begin to tremble. “All he’s ever wanted is the best for his people. And Madame Élisabeth …” She shakes her head. “She will be beside herself.”

The door to the workshop opens, and Madame Élisabeth appears in a long muslin
gaulle
belted with a sash of rose-colored gauze. Immediately, I curtsy. She takes a seat on the nearest stool, and tears roll down her cheeks. The marquise hurries to her friend and wraps the princesse in a tight embrace.

“They are leaving,” she says. “My brother and his wife, the Comtesse d’Artois, are leaving for Turin. They are to stay with our uncle, the King of Sardinia. And the Polignacs are leaving for Switzerland tonight.” She looks up at me. “The queen is to lose her dearest friend. Gabrielle de Polignac has been at Versailles for fourteen years. She is Governess to the Royal Children. What if we never see them again?”

The marquise looks nervously at me. “Why should that be? The king is here. You are here. What about the Comte de Provence?”

“He is staying.”

“You see? You have two brothers in France, and one of them still wears the crown. Your family will overcome this. And when they do, Artois and the Polignacs will return.”

Madame Élisabeth is wearing a black and white cockade, one of Rose Bertin’s creations. Her eyes are full of pain, and I wonder if she knows that we are all fair-weather friends. That we smile and bow and then return to Paris to sketch tricolor bonnets and finish exhibits called
The Conquest of the Bastille
. “Will my family overcome this?” she asks me.

Suddenly, everything feels close and hot. The truthful answer is,
It all depends on your brother’s resolve. Is he willing to tell what troops remain with him to fire on the rebels? Can he call up favors from other nations and ask for soldiers and weaponry? And when those troops arrive, can he turn away when they spill French blood? If so, he may keep his crown. If not, he is at the mercy of the National Assembly
. “It seems that much will depend on His Majesty’s actions.”

“Yes.” She blinks away her tears. “That is what I told him. The queen and I, we’re in favor of fleeing. The minister Breteuil has suggested Metz in eastern France,” she reveals.

“Madame,”
the marquise says warningly.

But the princesse waves away her concern. “Marie is a
royalist.”

I wonder if my cheeks are burning with shame. I lower my head, in case they are.

“We could wait on the border of Germany and the Netherlands for troops there, in the strongest fortress in Europe. But my brother, the Comte de Provence, thinks we should all remain here. He has told the king that to leave Versailles is to leave the crown, and that if he plans to do that, he cannot blame anyone who might come along and reach for it themselves.”

The marquise’s eyes go wide. “Such as whom?”

“The Duc d’Orléans. Or the Comte de Provence himself. My brothers”—she addresses me—“are not as close as they might be.”

She should not be telling me this. I am a tutor. A wax modeler.

“The queen was packing her belongings this morning, and this afternoon, the king told her that he was staying. She believes her duty is to remain at my brother’s side. And of course that is where my duty lies as well.”

The three of us are silent. So the royal family will remain in Versailles. Has the king considered what should happen if the National Assembly decides against a constitutional monarchy and adopts a Constitution? Then he would be a rallying point for men who wished to see a return of the monarchy—making him popular with rebels and dangerous to the Assembly. “Given these precarious times,” I say, “I understand if you wish to discontinue wax modeling.”

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,”
Madame Élisabeth quotes. “Not only do I wish to continue,” she replies, “but I wish to model the patron saint of every cathedral in France. When each model is finished, it will be my gift to that cathedral.”

I look to the marquise, whose face tells me that she has already heard of this plan. “Do you know how many cathedrals there are in France, Madame?”

“Nearly a hundred.” She rises from her stool and gathers her apron, tying it neatly around her waist. “Shall we begin?”

W
OLFGANG CAN’T MEET
me outside the Grand Commune until eleven at night. When he appears, I see that he has brought Johann with him, and before we speak I follow my brothers inside to the back of the crowded hall.
How many men have eaten well here at the expense of the king?
Wolfgang picks out a table in the farthest corner of the room, a place where we can watch instead of being watched.

“Tell us about the fourteenth,” Johann says. He looks tired, as if there hasn’t been much sleep to be had in Versailles in the past two weeks. Even Wolfgang looks drawn in his white silk shirt and velvet doublet.

I tell them everything, from Lafayette and the National Guard to the mobs who stormed the Boulevard du Temple. When I come to the part about de Launay and de Flesselles, my brothers are silent. Johann reaches across the table to take my hand. “I wish we had been there,” he says.

“It’s better you weren’t. They were desperate for a confrontation.”

“These are going to be tense weeks,” Wolfgang says. “Until the king decides whether to stay or flee—”

“He has already decided. He is staying.” I tell them what the princesse said, and how she wept to think she might never see the Polignacs again. Suddenly, Wolfgang and Johann are fully awake.

“He’s a fool,” Wolfgang replies. “After what he saw today, there shouldn’t be any question. The king went to the Hôtel de Ville.”

“Again?”

“He wanted to greet the people and tell them that he’s recalled Necker from Switzerland. He made his will before he left. There was much wailing from the women—they thought the Parisian crowds would kill him. He promised to broker peace with ‘his good people.’ ”

“And what happened?”

“He went and riled the crowds. They shouted
‘Vive le roi,
’ and everyone loved him. When he returned here a few hours ago, he was wearing a tricolor cockade in his hat. The
king!
And do you know what the queen told him? She said, ‘I thought I married the King of France, not a commoner.’ ”

My God
. What did the king think? That he could return to Versailles with a tricolor cockade floating from his hat and his guards would love him for it?

“I think Curtius was wise to join the National Guard,” Johann says.

“We’re foreigners to this country, whether or not we think of it as our own. And with the three of us in the Swiss Guard, not to mention your position with Madame Élisabeth, it may become dangerous …”

“That’s what Curtius says. He’s gone every day. And some nights, too.”

“And the Salon?” Wolfgang asks.

The Salon has never been better, I think. Chaos is good for those who sell news. “I am working all the time. New tableaux. New signs. We reopen tomorrow.”

Chapter 29

J
ULY
18, 1789

Curtius does not miss an opportunity to add something new to his show
.

—M
AYEUR DE
S
AINT
-P
AUL, EXCERPT FROM TOURIST BROCHURE

I
DON’T KNOW HOW
C
URTIUS HAS MANAGED IT IN TWO NIGHTS
, but
The Conquest of the Bastille
is one of our best exhibits. I walk through the Salon with paper and ink, ready to write down whatever needs to be fixed, but there is almost nothing: a minor adjustment to de Launay’s wig and a quick dusting of Jefferson’s desk.

“Take these notes to Dr. Curtius,” I tell Yachin. “And be ready for a ten o’clock opening. I’ll be next door.”

Yachin grins. “Are you going to see Henri?” he asks. “He likes you, doesn’t he?”

“I certainly hope so.” I pause in front of the mirror. “He’s my neighbor, after all.”

“But he likes you more than that,” Yachin persists. “He wants you for his wife.”

I adjust my fichu and turn around. “Now why would you say that?”

“Because he’s over here so much.” He notices everything, Yachin. He would make a fine wax modeler, although his future will certainly be in printing. “And at night,” he continues, “before the Salon is closed, you sit on his steps.”