by Suzanne Weyn
“If what you tell me is so, I want to see for myself,” I say with conviction.
Ernestine shakes her curls at me. “You’re mad!”
I lay my head on Ernestine’s shoulder as I always do when trying to coax her into something. “Oh, please! You will help me do this, won’t you? I am so bored here, and it would be such an adventure.”
“Mad,” she repeats. “But if you must go, you can get a ride from Jacques, who goes into Paris for supplies each week. If he thinks you’re me, he won’t object to giving you a ride there.”
* * *
The guards open the gates of the courtyard so our horse-drawn cart can leave the palace. Sitting beside the rugged, earthy Jacques, a man of middle age, I suppress my intense excitement as the gates close behind us. It’s really happening! I’m outside! On my own!
It’s a full twelve miles from Versailles to Paris. In a plain dress borrowed from Ernestine, from a shabby cart, I will see so much of the countryside!
“So, Ernestine, how is the royal brat these days?” Jacques asks with a sort of snarl.
His words land like a slap. Why would he say such a thing? He doesn’t even know me. “Don’t call her that. She’s nice,” I manage to say.
“So you always insist,” he scoffs. “Even though they have sent you to Paris on an errand like a common servant, you still defend them? I’m sure the princess is just as nice as that witch, her mother.”
What? “Do you mean the queen?” I blurt too quickly to mask the indignation in my voice.
Jacques laughs coldly as he snaps his reins to drive the two horses forward into the town of Versailles.
“Yes, the Austrian spy,” Jacques answers. His voice has dropped to a growl. “Madame Deficit who bankrupts the people to afford jewels and gowns and her lavish country house right on the grounds of the royal pig’s palace.”
My mouth opens to protest, but I am shocked beyond words. The royal pig’s palace? Madame Deficit? Austrian spy!
I start to demand that he stop driving and let me off — but catch the words at the tip of my tongue. When will I have a chance like this again — a trip to and from Paris? So I sit silently, trying not to think of what I have heard.
Putting his words from my mind, I look all around, breathless with eagerness to see Paris at last.
Paris teems with people! Men, women, and children overflow from the crowded doorways. They pour — laughing and shouting, fighting and loving — from the windows. I’m knocked and jostled as I climb from the cart into the street.
“Be here by eight tonight, or I’ll leave without you,” the horrible Jacques informs me. I answer with a quick nod, averting my gaze. I can’t even stand to look at him.
In the next instant I am off, darting and weaving through the crowd on the Place de la Concorde. I walk for hours and hours poking my head into flower shops and dress shops, bakeries and bookstores. In a wine store I am fascinated by the bottles of wavy blown glass with their handwritten labels.
I see women with rouged faces loitering on corners. Rough-looking men play cards in alleyways. I gaze at people who sit at the outdoor cafés, and they look boldly back at me. No one curtsies or bows — they don’t even get out of my way to let me pass by — but some smile and nod at me. A woman selling flowers gives me a slightly wilted violet and waves me off with a gnarled hand when I offer to pay with some coins Ernestine and I had collected.
I am fascinated and terrified, drawn in and holding back all in the same instant. No sight is too ugly. No smell too repugnant. I’m awhirl in a carousel of sensation!
I collide with a boy sweeping the street and am thrown down onto my rear. “Ow!”
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” he cries indignantly.
“Sorry.” I’m on the ground gazing up at him.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you blind?” he continues to scold, extending a dirty hand to help me up. His hair is nearly black and curls around his ears and neck. It frames a lightly freckled face with bright green eyes flecked with amber.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize again as he pulls me to standing. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Well, who goes around not paying attention?” he cries. “And you’re still not — look!” I gaze down where he’s pointing to discover that I am standing in a pile of dust and debris, my clogs covered in it. “I just swept all of that. Now I have to do it again.”
“I said I was sorry, and it won’t kill you to gather up this little bit of trash one more time,” I reply irritably, unaccustomed to being so harshly scolded, especially for something that was unintentional.
The boy studies me with a neutral expression, and I gaze back at him. The vest he wears over a soiled white shirt is patched, and one scruffy boot has lifted from its worn sole, revealing only a bare foot. His face could be cleaner, and so could his abundant hair.
“Are you lost?” he asks.
“Why would you ask that?”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“Do you know everyone?” I challenge him doubtfully.
“In this neighborhood I do. Everyone comes into Dr. Curtius’s exhibit eventually.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at a sign that reads: DR. CURTIUS’S WAXWORKS EXHIBIT. “So, since I haven’t seen you before, I know you’re not from around here.”
“Well, you’re right. I’m not from around here.”
“Then from where?”
“I work in the palace. I’m here on an errand and thought I’d have a look around Paris.”
“You work at the palace!” the boy says in a fierce whisper. “Really?”
“Yes. Is that so remarkable?”
The boy’s voice drops even lower and he leans in closer. “I wouldn’t let people know you’re from the palace.”
“Why not? I’m only a maid.”
“Even still … you never know.”
“Know what?”
The boy checks to make sure no one is listening nearby. “If anyone asks, say you’re from the countryside and you work on a farm.”
“Why should I do that?” I’m starting to wonder if this fellow is in his right mind.
“Just listen to me and you’ll be all right.” His mood brightens. “Want to have a look inside?” he offers, his mouth turning up into a grin. “I can bring you in. I work here, cleaning up.”
“I’d like to,” I say. He beckons me to follow him in the front door. A woman dressed as a gypsy sits on a stool in a shadowy lobby and waves us through. She calls the boy Henri.
“Hello, Henri,” I say when we are inside. “I’m Ernestine.”
He shakes my hand, then gestures around the room where we stand.
“Take a look at this, Ernestine,” Henri says. “It’s something to see, isn’t it?”
To my right, the great writer Voltaire sits at his desk, plume poised. Across the room, the tall and commanding Thomas Jefferson, the famous American revolutionary, laughs at something his colleague Benjamin Franklin is saying. In Paris, Franklin is as well regarded as Jefferson. I am told that they came to the palace when I was a child, but I can’t remember them. “They’re so real,” I murmur admiringly.
Suddenly, I remember seeing the wax figure of Jefferson before. Mademoiselle Grosholtz!
“Does Mademoiselle Grosholtz make these figures?” I ask.
Henri stares at me, puzzled. “How do you —?” Then his face clears and he nods. “She teaches at the palace! Of course!”
“Yes, I’ve seen her there. She was working on this Jefferson one day when I went into the art room.”
“Dr. Curtius taught her how to copy people like this,” Henri tells me. “But I think she’s becoming even better at it than he is.” Henri seems to remember something and laughs. “She did make the great Citizen Jefferson at the palace,” he confirms with a smile. “You should have seen the excitement it caused on the day she stepped out of her coach lugging the wax figure. Our customers were sure that Jefferson was back in town. Everyone in Paris
came to see him.”
“Were they disappointed to discover that it was only a wax figure?” I ask.
“I thought they would be, but they weren’t,” Henri says thoughtfully. “The figure was so realistic that they felt as though they’d really seen him. At least no one complained or asked for their money back.”
“He is very lifelike,” I say. “Why did you call him Citizen Jefferson?”
“Do you hear nothing in the palace?” Henri asks, looking serious.
I don’t know how to answer. I’m not sure what he means.
“These days in Paris, everyone is called Citizen. The revolutionaries want to do away with titles. No more Monsieur or Madame. It’s all Citizen this and Citizen that. We are all equal, you see.”
I blink. Several times. This is an idea my mind can’t quite take in. “No more Your Highness?” I ask.
Henri tosses his head back, laughing. “Especially not that! If the revolutionaries have their way, all the royalty will be cut down to size. They will be citizens, too. Of course there are those who disagree, but if you ask me, that’s the way the wind is blowing.”
“Oh my,” I say. I had no idea such a thing was even possible.
“Come look at this.” Henri yanks aside a purple velvet curtain, and I gasp.
This part of the exhibit is called Ancient Rome. Toga-clad figures stand among white pillars. “Is he supposed to be Julius Caesar?” I ask, pointing at a man in a purple toga who wears a crown of olive leaves.
“That’s him,” Henri says. He pulls me over to a fat figure playing a violin. “This is Emperor Nero. People say the royal family is like him. He fiddled around with his violin while all of Rome burned.”
“Paris isn’t burning,” I object, trying not to sound as indignant as I feel.
“It’s burning, all right,” Henri insists. “Burning with talk of overthrowing the aristocracy.”
“That will never happen,” I state firmly. My mind is starting to clear. Just because Henri thinks revolution is brewing doesn’t mean it’s so. He’s hardly an educated person. “The people love the royal family; they’ve loved them for hundreds of years,” I add.
Henri shrugs. “If you say so. Since you love the royals so much, you might like to see this.” He leads me into another room, and all at once I’m back at Versailles.
“It’s me!” I cry.
Henri’s head snaps around toward me, startled. “What did you say?”
“Ah, me!” I lie to cover my gaff. I’m agape at the tableaux of wax figures before me. Imitations of my family sit at a long luxurious table heaped with all sorts of delicious food. Their clothing is opulent, as are the furniture, carpets, and drapery. It’s a familiar scene. Mama wears one of her white muslin gowns. My brother, Louis-Charles, feeds one of the palace dogs under the table. The figure that resembles me with an uncanny likeness has a book smuggled onto her lap just the way I often have.
Tears creep into my eyes when I notice the empty cradle in the corner. It’s for my infant sister, Sophie, who died at only eleven months old. Such a dear, sweet baby! There is also an empty chair at the table, and I guess it’s to represent Louis-Joseph, the older of my two younger brothers, who died of a lung disease. How I still miss him!
“Why are you suddenly so sad?” Henri asks. His eyes reveal deep concern.
“The empty cradle,” I say, pressing my hands to my eyes to dry them. “The baby and her brother were so dear. Their family misses them with all their hearts.”
“Hearts?” Henri questions skeptically. “Do any of them actually possess a heart?”
“Of course they do!” I snap at him.
“You’d never know it, not from the way they treat their subjects,” Henri says with a disdain that is casual yet clearly heartfelt. “They don’t care about anyone but themselves.”
“That’s not true.”
Henri takes hold of my hand and looks into my eyes. “Ernestine, I can tell you’ve got a kind, good heart. You think the best of everyone, even the selfish royals. I’m glad you bashed into me today.”
“You are?” I ask.
“We’ll be the best of friends, always.”
“I hope so, Henri,” I say.
Now that I have met Henri, the palace can’t contain me. I long to be out in Paris, walking with him, laughing at the odd street characters we pass, sharing a crêpe made outdoors on flat metal stoves.
One day, I am strolling with Henri, and he nods toward a grate in the street. “Ever been down there?”
“Down in a sewer?” I ask, puzzled. “Of course not. Why would I go down there?”
Henri laughs. “I’ve lived down there.”
“Really?” Is he joking?
He nods. “When we first arrived in Paris, after we left our farm, my brothers and I were homeless. Sometimes whole families live down there. It’s not that unusual.”
“Paris seems full of apartments and houses. Why would you choose a sewer?”
Again Henri laughs grimly. “Haven’t you ever heard of landlords?” When I shake my head, he continues, “Landlords own apartments and houses. They expect to be paid for the use of their property.”
“Are there really people so poor that they can’t pay the landlords?”
“Yes. Many of them are that poor.” Henri faces me. “You’ve been living at the palace much too long. Do you live as lavishly as the clueless royals?”
“Not at first. My family lived in the servants’ quarters when I was younger, but I’m an orphan now and they let me be educated with the princess and share in many of her privileges.”
“Then you’re very lucky, I’d say. No wonder you don’t think badly of the royal family. Why would you ever want to leave the palace?”
“Why did your family decide to leave the farm?”
“They didn’t decide. The king’s men conscripted my father and older brothers to work on a new roadway.”
“Conscripted?” I asked.
“It means forced. They had to leave the farm, and right at harvest — for no pay.”
“Couldn’t they explain that they had to farm their land?”
“You have been sheltered, haven’t you?” Henri says with a laugh. “You don’t say no to the king’s soldiers — not if you want to live. With my father and oldest brothers away, we lost that season’s crop and were left with nothing. My mother sent some of us older ones into the city to fend for ourselves. I live with my two brothers, though I don’t see much of them.”
“That’s terrible,” I say. “I’m sure the king has no idea this sort of thing is going on.”
My statement makes Henri rock with laughter. “I’ve never met anyone so unaware of the real world.”
“I know plenty!” I object. “Can you read?”
“Of course not.”
“I can!”
Henri’s face softens. “I’m sorry, Ernestine. I don’t mean to insult you. It’s not your fault that you work at the palace. I’m just saying that there’s another world outside the palace and it’s as different as it could ever be.”
My indignation is softened by the tenderness in his tone. “That’s why I’m here,” I explain more calmly, “to see the real Paris that I’m missing.”
* * *
The rain has slowed to a drizzle when we arrive in front of a palace with many columns in front. Though not nearly as grand as Versailles, it is still impressive, taking up blocks and blocks and facing an expansive cobblestoned plaza. “This is the palace of the duc d’Orléans and his wife,” Henri explains.
I recognize the name. He is a nobleman, a royal relative, whom my mother despises, saying he is treacherous and cowardly. Despite his royal title, his family has no real wealth. Henri tells me that to make extra money the duc has built a wooden platform at the edge of his palace grounds and rents out pavilions and arcades for popular entertainment. “How low class,” I say.
“I suppose so,” Henri says with a shrug. “But it’s fun.”
Henri takes
my hand, and we race across the plaza. As we go, the crowd gets increasingly thick. The air is filled with the cries of merchants selling their wares. Red, white, and blue ladies’ hand fans seem to be all the rage and are on sale everywhere. I try on a three-sided hat but it’s too big. Henri and I share a sausage cooked on an outdoor grill and wrapped into a fresh roll. I nearly faint from its deliciousness.
Here there is every kind of fascinating act: sword-swallowers, exotic dancers in satin gowns, poodles that walk a tight wire, a man who is four hundred pounds, a woman who is seven feet tall.
I love the smell of food, the press of people. Henri and I come upon a man playing a violin.
“Can you dance?” I ask Henri.
He breaks into a jig. I recognize it as the same movements the maid taught me. I join him, laughing. A small crowd forms around us, clapping along and singing. They applaud when the song ends.
Henri and I bow together, shoulder to shoulder, both of us smiling. “You’re wonderful, Ernestine!” Henri praises my dancing.
“You too,” I return the compliment.
He takes hold of my hand, and I curl my fingers into his as we wander together back into the crowd.
Henri takes me in to see the exhibit called The Belle Zulima, a woman who still looks beautiful, even though her corpse is supposedly over two hundred years old. Placed in a glass coffin, she is dressed in an outfit from the Orient that is no more than a short, sea-green top that reveals her belly and matching flowing pants.
The crowd viewing The Belle Zulima, mostly men, circle, admiring her. I stand at her head, fixated by her lovely face, so serene and free of any blemish or wrinkle. I wonder if she is truly a corpse or made of wax. My concentration is so great that my nose touches the glass case as I try to see in the shadowy light of the tent.
All at once her blue eyes open. And she winks!
My heart leaps and I scream, jumping away from the case.
Everyone stares at me. Too startled to speak, I point at Belle Zulima.
But her eyes are closed once more and she lies in the case serenely supine.
Didn’t anyone else see her move? Apparently not.