Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (12 page)

Three servants bow and leave the room. Three more curtsy and gather up Madame Élisabeth’s drawing tools. Manon and I follow Madame Élisabeth and her ladies-in-waiting outside into the bright sunshine. Behind us, the servants totter with their arms full of easels, paper, paints, and brushes. Madame Élisabeth’s dogs scamper about. Daphné nudges me before running to join the others as they nose about the palace grounds.

As we make our way through the gardens of
Versailles
, courtiers and ladies walk the paths around us, each curtsying or bowing deeply to Madame Élisabeth and her ladies-in-waiting, and Manon and I curtsying to them. It makes our walk a very long and tedious process. But at last we reach what seems to be a small village, with a thatched cottage and several farm outbuildings. In a meadow further away, sheep and cows graze.

I am enchanted. I have never seen a farm so clean or peaceful looking. “
Is this where they collect milk and cheese for the palace?
”

Madame Élisabeth’s ladies-in-waiting giggle.

Madame Élisabeth smiles. “
Non,
ma petite
. This farm was designed especially for the queen. She likes to come here and pretend she is a commoner.”

“The queen thinks
this
is what a French farm looks like?” I say, laughing along with the others at the joke. “If she really wants to live like a commoner, she should add missing thatch to the roof, or have the doors hanging half open because no French farmer can afford the nails to fix them, and ….”

I stop when I see the dismay in Madame Élisabeth’s eyes and the anger in Manon’s, and I realize that I’ve let my mouth run on.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

The door to the cottage suddenly opens, and five women in white muslin dresses spill out. They run to the distant meadow and begin picking wildflowers. When they have gathered armfuls, they sit upon the ground and begin weaving them in their hair, laughing. One of the women looks toward us and waves merrily.

“Ah,” Madame Élisabeth says. “I did not know the queen would be here.”

I stare at the woman dressed as the others. This is the queen? Marie Antoinette? This woman who is prancing about and clapping her hands above her head, like a gypsy dancer?

“Élisabeth!” the queen calls. “We are to picnic today. Come eat with us.”

“Shall we join them,
madame
?” one of the ladies-in-waiting asks, her face lit up with anticipation.

Madame Élisabeth shakes her head. “I think not. Let us go to the grotto instead. I would prefer to do some drawing there. I am sorry, Celie. I will bring you to the
Petit Hameau
another time, so that you may see the sheep and cows.”

I am disappointed not to see Marie Antoinette up close, but I am not sorry we have come. I am already thinking about drawing the scene for Mirabeau—a queen dancing about and pretending to be a commoner, while her subjects—true commoners—go hungry. Surely a drawing such as that will encourage the people to stand up to their king, and force him to pay attention to their plight.

Now the question is—how do I get my hands on some drawing paper without Manon noticing? And even more importantly, how do I get my drawings to Algernon?

• • •

My dilemma is solved for me one morning several weeks later, when a servant comes to find me. “Mademoiselle Manon wishes to see you,” she tells me.

I go and find Manon sitting with the man who reads her letters to her. Manon looks up as I enter, and holds out a small piece of paper. “It seems your accomplice in crime would like to communicate with you.”

I look down at the scrap of paper. On it is nothing but a question mark, and though the mark is crude, I know Algernon’s hand has drawn it. I can almost see him as he bends over the paper, his brown hair falling into his eyes. My breath catches as I gaze at it, and I am suddenly homesick for him and for Paris.

While it is nice at
Versailles
, I have let my commitment to change languish. Algernon must be wondering by now if I have given up our fight and succumbed to the pleasures of an easy life. Thinking that maybe he was right to wish me to focus on the cause makes me feel guilty. I cannot let him down—nor my own family.

“L’Oncle says Algernon wished you to receive this,” Manon says. “Tell me, Celie, you are not plotting anything while you are here, are you? And do not lie to me. There is talk all over France of rebellion, and I refuse to be a part of it. Nor will I have my apprentices involved, either.”

I shake my head, but my mind is racing. If I am smart, I can work this to my advantage. “I promised Algernon I would write to him.”

I see Manon’s eyes narrow and curse my own stupidity. I can’t write to Algernon, for Algernon can’t read, and I can’t write.

“I mean that I promised to send him some drawings, so that he might see where I was and how things are here,” I stammer out.

Again, Manon’s head lifts as if she senses some untruth. I know I am walking on shaky ground. If Manon suspects that I am planning on sending pictures so that Algernon and Mirabeau can use them in their pamphlets for their crusade to force the king to be more reasonable in his spending and lavishness, I will be trundled back to Paris and be out on the streets faster than Algernon can lift a few coins from a woman’s
porte-monnaie
. I steady myself.

“Algernon worries about me and about the care I receive,” I say. “I would like to draw him a picture or two so that I may ease his mind.”

Manon scowls. “It seems to me he has always been more interested in your abilities than your welfare.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from responding,
As are you
. Too much is riding on Manon’s answer. If Manon says
non
, I will have to resort to stealing paper and still will have no way to send my drawings to Algernon.

“Fine,” Manon finally says, “but it will be on your own time, and I will give you only one piece of my parchment paper. It is expensive. If you ruin it, it will be your problem, not mine.”

I try to keep the glow of satisfaction I feel from spreading to my face. I have convinced Manon. And that is not an easy task.

• • •

The next day, Madame Élisabeth decides that once more, we will do our drawing out of doors. The day is warm for May, and a steady breeze blows our dresses about. We walk the short path toward the large canal that leads to the great palace of
Versailles
. There, near the water, we find servants scurrying back and forth, and crowds of brilliantly dressed courtiers gathering.

“What is happening here?” Madame Élisabeth calls to one of the servants.

The woman curtsies low to Madame Élisabeth. “There is to be a naval battle on the water today. Lunch is to be served outside for everyone.”

“A naval battle?” I ask, my heart racing. “Are we at war?”

I have heard no rumors of an attack. And how would an enemy’s ships sail to
Versailles
, which is landlocked? It makes no sense.

Madame Élisabeth laughs. “
Non,
ma petite
. Occasionally my brother re-enacts a famous naval battle out on these waters for the court’s viewing pleasure. Perhaps we could watch. Would you like that?”

“Oh,
oui
,” I say at once, for Madame Élisabeth does not often vary her schedule.

“Then come,” Madame Élisabeth says. “Let us find a spot from which we may view the proceedings.”

I feel a thrill of anticipation. I am about to see some court entertainment.

We come upon a gathering of gilt chairs surrounding two larger throne-like seats. A tent has been erected above the furniture to provide shade from the late spring sun. Madame Élisabeth motions for Manon and me to stand behind her. Then she moves forward and seats herself gracefully on one of the smaller gilt chairs.

I strain to look around the gathering crowds. Already I can see that two naval ships have been launched out onto the water. They are certainly not as large as the military ships I have seen in Paris, but still, they look exactly like them in all their detail. Actors, dressed as sailors, clamber about the vessels.

There is a commotion in the crowd, and Manon touches my hand, indicating that we should curtsy. I follow her lead and watch through lowered lashes as the rest of the crowd drops into bows and curtsies, like a wave sweeping the shore.

And then the king and queen are passing by, and my thoughts tumble about as I try to memorize every detail of our sovereigns. The king is surprisingly ugly—short and rotund, with an unremarkable chin and squinty eyes. His waistcoat strains against his belly, but it is made of fine cloth. His shoes are polished, and fitted with diamond buckles. The king peers about, looking rather bored, as if this is the last place in the world he wants to be.

The queen, on the other hand, is beautifully and regally dressed in pale yellow silk, trimmed with buttons of pearls in the shape of daisies, and a white satin stomacher. Her light hair is piled high. At the very top of her elaborate tresses, rests a model naval ship, identical in every detail to the ships that are lying in the waters of the canal. Her young face is beaming with pleasure as she says
bonjour
to person after person, whispering a quick confidence to one and laughing slightly with another.

When the king and queen have passed, I start to rise, but Manon stays me with a hand, for behind the king and queen come their children. I look at them with curiosity, for the princess is only a few years younger than I am. She is clothed much like the queen, her dress a light pink, a necklace of rubies and diamonds around her neck. Holding her hand is her youngest brother, age eight, skipping along as if he has not a care in the world. Ringlets of gold circle his head, and his eyes dance with excitement. Behind his brother and sister comes the heir to the throne, Louis-Joseph, looking tired but excited. He has been sick of late, battling tuberculosis. He walks slowly, but still I feel some sense of awe to get a glimpse of the boy who will be king.

Again I go to rise when the royal children have passed, and again Manon stays me as the companions to the children follow behind.

“My legs are shaking,” I say. “Can’t I stand up just for a second?”

“
Non
,” Manon says. “Not until the entire royal family has gone by.”

At that moment there is a parting of the crowd, and the Comte d’Artois strolls past. He pauses for a moment when he sees me, and then walks on without acknowledging us. I have to resist the urge to stick out a foot and trip him.

At last, we rise, my legs wobbly from the effort of maintaining a curtsy for so long. The royal family are all seated near the canal: the king and queen, their children, Madame Élisabeth, and the Comte d’Artois.

“The royal family sitting together would make a wonderful exhibit at the museum,” I say to Manon. “Would you like me to draw it, to send to l’Oncle?”

Manon smiles. “Spoken like a good apprentice.”

From her drawing bag, Manon hands me a piece of parchment paper, a board, and a pencil as the battle out on the water begins. The ships sail into position. The roar of guns and cannons echoes out across the water. The crowds press closer to the banks of the canal, straining to watch the battle. My hand flies across the paper.

The crowd claps as the French ship’s cannon rips into its enemy counterpart. I move from Manon to get a better view, ducking under one man’s arm, stepping on another lady’s long dress, apologizing as I go.

But I stop abruptly when I spot Jean-Louis standing just behind the crowd. His face is tear-stained. What can he be crying about?

“Are you not enjoying the entertainment?” I ask him when I reach him.

“I am in trouble, Celie,” he wails. “Papa has been ill with fever this past week, and he asked me to do his job so that no one will notice. I was to deliver the marquis de Lafayette’s luggage to his room, but it is locked. And I cannot get in. We could be let go if I cannot find a way to deliver the marquis’s suitcase to him, and my
papa
and I will go hungry again, just like we did before Papa got this job.”

I hesitate. I know Manon will not approve. But I know what it means to be hungry and without a home.

“Come, Jean-Louis, show me to the door,” I say, making up my mind, and hoping I will not come to regret it.

I follow Jean-Louis up the stairs inside the
Petit Trianon
until we stand in front of a large, elaborately decorated door painted in gold leaf. Beside the door sits the marquis’s luggage.

“Do you really think you can unlock it?” Jean-Louis asks.

I set down my pencil and drawing board and examine the lock closely. It is more complicated than other locks I have seen. I take one of the pins from my hair, and a large piece comes tumbling down, showering us both with powder.

“Sorry,” I mutter as I bend down to look once more at the lock. The mechanism inside is fairly complicated. I insert my hairpin, carefully twisting it the way Algernon has taught me. I listen as the tumblers inside make a slight clicking sound. Then I rise and twist the handle of the door. Still locked.

“Are you sure this is the right room, Jean-Louis?” I ask.

He nods, tears coming to his eyes again.

“Stop crying,” I tell him. “Crying never helps anything.”

I bend back over the lock. “I don’t know why someone would lock up an empty guest room so tightly.”

“The king does it,” Jean-Louis says, sniffling and wiping his nose. “He loves locks. He is always installing locks he makes himself on the doors to empty rooms around the palaces.”

“Then why don’t you just go ask him for the key?” I ask in exasperation, as once more the door will not open.

Jean-Louis’s eyes widen. “I cannot just go up and ask the king for a key.”

“Why not?” I snap, as my third attempt does not unlock the door, either. I am getting anxious. It won’t be long before Manon notices my absence. “Especially if he is the one who put the lock on here in the first place.”

“It is for us to figure out,” Jean-Louis says. “The king wishes to become a master locksmith, and so, he practices on his servants. It is a game to him.”