Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (11 page)

“You are here,” Manon says. “I am right across the hall.”

“Should I go back down and get our things?” I ask, though I am dreading climbing up all those stairs again.

“
Non
,” Manon says. “Someone will bring our bags along shortly. I will go to Madame Élisabeth first, and then come back for you if she gives me permission to present you to her today.”

I walk into my new bedroom. It isn’t half as nice as the room I have at Manon’s. There is a looking glass and a wardrobe for my dresses, but the bed is narrow and the blankets thin. And there is only a very small fireplace, and a tiny window. Still, it is far better than the alley at the Palais-Royal.

I wonder what Algernon is doing now. Is he moving exhibits in the museum? Is he running errands for l’Oncle? Is he thinking of me now as I am thinking of him? Does he regret kissing me the way he did? Does he regret kissing me at all? I take a deep breath and firmly put thoughts of Algernon aside. I have work to do here, places and people to memorize and recall. I cannot let thoughts of Algernon distract me.

There is a knock on my slightly open door. A little boy dressed in the blue livery of the king stands there, my valise by his side. For a moment, I believe he is my brother Jacques brought back to life, and my breath leaves me.

Then the little boy bows to me, and reality hits me, hard. Of course he is not my brother. My brother is dead.

I sit down stiffly on the bed. I think of Jacques’s wide smile and his dancing brown eyes, the way he was always tripping over the water pail in our house when he ran in from the fields, or breaking the crockery when he dug in to eat supper. And I am confronted once more with the fact that I will never see my brother alive again.

“
Mademoiselle
,” the boy says, “are you all right?”

I almost laugh. This little boy is so formal—not at all like Jacques was.

“How old are you?” I ask, my voice cracking with suppressed emotion.

The boy frowns. “Eight, not that it’s any of your business.”

He
is
Jacques’s age, though—or Jacques’s age, should my brother have lived. Once again, his loss scrapes unmercifully at my heart.

“What is your name?” I ask.

If I am to be alone here, I would like to make a friend who reminds me of my brother. Though the memories might hurt, keeping them alive is important. I never want to forget my brother, or my mother and father.

“Jean-Louis,” he replies. He tries to brush past me with my suitcase. But the valise is heavy, and he stumbles.

“Here,” I say, standing. “Let me help you.”

“
Non
,” Jean-Louis cries, his face whitening. “My
papa
is one of the porters, and he will be angry if I do not carry the luggage myself. It is what I am paid for.”

“All right,” I say, “if you wish. Though no one can see you in my room if I close the door.”

Jean-Louis looks at me uncertainly. I grab his momentary hesitation to shut the door firmly. Then I bend down and take one end of the suitcase. Together, we lift the valise across the room, nearer to the bed.

“
Merci
,” Jean-Louis says as we set the bag down.

He looks up at me. “That was heavy. What have you got in there?”

I laugh. “Drawing paper, pencils, brushes, paints, some underthings, and my one other dress.”

“That’s all?” Jean-Louis asks, and he looks completely crestfallen.

“The paints are heavy,” I lie.

Jean-Louis nods solemnly. “It took all my strength to get them up the stairs.”

“You did a fine job,” I assure him.

There is a heavy knocking on the door.

Jean-Louis turns frightened eyes on me.

“Come in,” I say.

Another porter is standing there. “What is taking you so long, Jean-Louis?” he demands.

Jean-Louis pales.

“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping in. “He was helping me with my suitcase.”

“
Oui
, and that is all he is to do,” the porter sniffs angrily. “There are other more important people he must see to. Hurry now, Jean-Louis.
Vite
.
Vite
. Or I will see you replaced.”

He claps his hands, and Jean-Louis goes running from the room, terrified.

I stare at this man, appalled. I expected unkind behavior from the royals, but from one of their staff?

“Was that necessary?” I ask. “To frighten him like that?”

The porter gives me a contemptuous look. “I am the man in charge of the porters. It is my job on the line if he is not quick enough. If the boy cannot perform, there are others waiting to take his job. I cannot afford to coddle him.”

Manon comes in then. “Ah, your bags are here. Good. Freshen up now. Madame Élisabeth will see you straightaway.”

The porter bows slightly to Manon, who nods at him. Then he goes to the door, looking back once at me.

I catch his look, and see in his eyes a bit of shame. But I know that he is right. In this world we live in, we all must fight for a chance to live and eat.

“Celie?” Manon says, bringing me out of my thoughts. “Come along.”

And now I, too, must hurry to respond to a royal desire. So I restore the wisps of hair that have come undone, pat down the wrinkles in my dress, and follow Manon toward the innermost part of the palace.

• • •

We descend two flights of stairs. Manon scratches lightly upon the door, using only her fingertips as the etiquette book demands.

I am about to walk into one of the rooms belonging to the sister of the king of France. My hands shake, and my mouth is suddenly dry. I have only felt frightened like this once before—in the weeks I spent stumbling my way toward Paris after Maman’s and Jacques’s deaths. It is a feeling I do not like. And why, after all, should I be scared of royals? They are just people.

Still, this rationalization does not eliminate the feeling, and I tremble like leaves in the wind as an usher swings the door open. Immediately, I am blinded with sparks of light and gold. When at last my eyes adjust to the brilliance of the room, I see a young woman sitting at a writing desk, surrounded by seven thin, gray dogs.

In contrast to the women and men I have seen walking the gardens of
Versailles
, this woman is dressed plainly, only a small bit of lace at her sleeves and no jewelry around her neck. Her light hair is twisted into a bun and pulled back from a clear face. She turns, and her blue eyes light up on seeing me,

“Ah, you have brought her,” she cries. “Come in, child. Come in.”

I walk slowly toward her, remembering to keep my back straight, my chin high. But my senses are so overwhelmed that I feel I might faint. Gold glitters from the woodwork. Life-size paintings adorn the walls. Rich brocades decorate the windows and chairs. Mirrors reflect the sunshine from tall windows. Wallpaper, rich in floral decoration, runs from floor to ceiling. The colors, the light, the grandeur of the furnishings all swirl about me, filling my senses to the point of explosion. Yet when I reach the lady, I somehow manage to drop into a curtsy so perfect, I know Manon will be proud of me.

“Rise, child,” Madame Élisabeth commands.

I stand and find Madame Élisabeth regarding me frankly as she strokes the head of one of her dogs. “I hear you have some very special talents.”

I don’t know what to say. If I respond
oui
, it will sound like bragging. I stand there, frozen.

Madame Élisabeth lets out a light laugh. “Have I scared her, Manon?”

Manon glides up to me. “I am sure she is just a bit overwhelmed,
madame
.”

I feel something cold and wet on my hand, and I jump. Then I realize that one of Madame Élisabeth’s dogs has nuzzled up against me. Without thinking, I bend over and stroke the animal. The dog licks my hand, and I laugh merrily, reminded of Algernon and his strays.

“Ah, you are a dog lover,
n’est-çe pas
?” Madame Élisabeth asks. “Then, Celie, you and I shall be good friends, for I adore them.”

With Madame Élisabeth’s kind words, my earlier fear seems to fly right out one of the large windows of the room, and I am relieved to have it gone.

“What is his name?” I ask her.

“
Her
name is Daphné,” Madame Élisabeth corrects. “And she likes you.”

I smile at this woman. “I like her, too.”

“Come, Celie,” Manon says. “Let us not waste Madame Élisabeth’s valuable time. We must show her what you can do. Take a moment to look at the room.”

I straighten and glance about me. How am I to remember all these details?

“Celie,” Manon says. She points to a table near Madame Élisabeth. “Please sit when you are ready. You will draw without looking up. Do you understand?”

She gives me a look that lets me know that she is well aware of the nervousness I feel. The look steadies me. I have been brought to do this, and so I must do it right—for Manon’s sake, and for Algernon’s.

I take a deep breath and begin to look about the room. It will not be hard to do if I only take in one thing at a time, if I can just forget where I actually am. How is this so different from drawing at the Palais-Royal, or sketching in the dirt after scouting out a wealthy family’s parlor? More elaborate? Maybe. More detailed? Definitely. But I am good. I know I can handle this.

Confidence fills me. I continue to gaze about the room, turning slowly in a circle, looking at table, chair, mirror, curtains, fireplace, wallpaper, paintings. At last, I am satisfied; I can sense it imprinted on my mind. So I take my place at the table, and begin to draw.

As time goes by, I am dimly aware of people coming and going, and of someone looking over my shoulder several times. I hear the clinking of china and smell the sweet scent of warm bread. But I do not look up, nor stop what I am doing. My fingers fly across the paper. My mind dances with the images I have seen down to the very last detail—a tiny rose on the tenth chair in the room, the thin thread running through the curtains that move gently in the spring breeze, the scratch marks at the bottom of the legs of the table at which Madame Élisabeth sits.

Hours later, I am finally finished. I sit back and rub my eyes, shrugging my shoulders to relieve the tension in them. The brightness has faded from the room, leaving much of it in shadows.

“You are done?”

I look up.

Madame Élisabeth is standing next to me. “May I see?”

I nod.

Madame Élisabeth picks up the drawing and slowly looks around the room, her eye moving from drawing to room and back again.

“Amazing,” she finally whispers. “Such talent you have, child.”

I grow warm from Madame Élisabeth’s praise.

“She will teach you all she knows,” Manon says.

Madame Élisabeth laughs lightly. “She may show me all she knows, but I highly doubt I will learn it, Manon. Memorizing such as this is rare, not a thing to be taught. Still, I will value having her as a drawing tutor, and I can see why she is such a valuable asset to your museum. She will draw many scenes here for you to display in Paris.”

She turns to me, her eyes warm. “But now, child, it is way past teatime, and you did not move from your spot. Come have a pastry and some hot chocolate.”

I look over at Manon, who inclines her head. I follow Madame Élisabeth to a small table on which lie the remnants of food and drink.

“Please clear this, and lay a new place,” Madame Élisabeth orders.

Three servants in the room scurry about, picking up the dirty plates and used cups. Another servant puts down a clean plate for me, and a fourth delivers a tray of fresh, hot pastries. Another brings a pot of hot liquid, and a sixth pours it. After each has finished their task, they curtsy to Madame Élisabeth. My head swims as the servants swirl about us. There are so many of them!

“Hot chocolate is the queen’s favorite,” Madame Élisabeth tells me. “She has it for breakfast every day. Do you like it?”

I take a sip of the dark brown drink. I have never had hot chocolate, and the sweet, smooth, unusual flavor of it swims about my mouth.

“I like it very much,
madame
,” I say, enchanted by the taste. “I would have it for breakfast every day, too, if I could.”

“A pastry?” Madame Élisabeth smiles, holding out a plate of croissants.

The roll melts in my mouth. I have never tasted a croissant so full of butter. I take my time, taking a bite of the pastry and then drinking a sip of the chocolate.

But even though I wish to make the moment continue forever, at last all the chocolate is gone, and there isn’t a flake of croissant remaining on the plate.

Madame Élisabeth stands up. “I shall see you tomorrow afternoon, then.”

Manon signals to me to get up from my seat. Together, we drop into a curtsy as Madame Élisabeth leaves the room.

When Manon rises, she smiles at me. “You did well, Celie. I am pleased.”

Glad of this, I follow Manon back up the stairs to our rooms. But when she opens my door and I see the plainness and the cramped space of it, I am appalled at how easily I have been swept up by Madame Élisabeth’s charm and the ease of her world. And I remind myself never to forget that the lifestyle of Madame Élisabeth is for Madame Élisabeth and her family alone, and that the rest of France lives like this—or worse.

The following morning, when we arrive at Madame Élisabeth’s apartments, we find the king’s sister on her knees, praying. I am surprised to see this, as Algernon has told me the whole court is ungodly and decadent.

“
Bonjour
,” Madame Élisabeth says. Her ladies-in-waiting hurry to help her rise.

Manon and I curtsy.

“I thought today we would go outside and do some drawing,” Madame Élisabeth suggests. “The walk might give Celie some ideas for a new royal scene in your museum.”

Manon smiles. “That is very kind, Madame Élisabeth. Did you have anywhere in mind?”

“I thought the grotto might be cool and pleasant,” Madame Élisabeth says. “But we could stop at the
Petit Hameau
first, as Celie is an animal lover.”

She smiles at me, then turns to her servants. “Have food brought to us at the grotto in two hours’ time. And bring my drawing items with me now.”