Faces of the Dead

by Suzanne Weyn

  “What else can you do?” Henri asks, rapt with fascination.

  “You don’t need to know these things,” Mademoiselle interjects. “There’s work to be done. We’re going to the Place de la Révolution.”

  “Why there?” I ask, suddenly sickened by the thought.

  Mademoiselle Grosholtz nods at her basket. “We will sort through the pile and collect the severed heads of the famous and the beautiful.”

  Alarmed, I look to Henri. Is she serious?

  He stares back, his eyebrows raised as if to ask, Would you rather starve?

  This time I know it isn’t a test.

  On the first day of our hideous new assignment, I don the bonnet rouge, the red cap of the revolutionaries, as do Henri and Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Mademoiselle says that if we wear them as well as the tricolor ribbon, no one will stop us as we select heads from among those piled in front of the guillotine.

  We arrive at the crowded Place de la Révolution. It’s already crowded with people who want to witness this horror. The people — or I should say Citizens, for now everyone is an equal Citizen of France, and is to be addressed as such — all chatter about how the guillotine is a much more humane way to die than being hung or shot. They seem proud to be murdering their fellow citizens in such a merciful way.

  I hang back and watch Mademoiselle Grosholtz charge through the mob. “Make way! Make way!” she shouts to part the gathered crowd. “By order of the National Convention, I have come to collect the heads of the dead.”

  Henri stands midway between me and Mademoiselle, as though filled with divided loyalty. With a small gesture, he signals for me to come forward. But I can’t.

  In that pile I might find the heads of soldiers who have been kind to me, servants I know and love, advisers and ministers I’ve seen at the palace many times. How can I stand to look?

  Luckily, Mademoiselle and Henri don’t insist that I join them, but get on with their horrendous work. Mademoiselle sorts through the heads as though she is looking for the best cabbage at the market. Henri gazes into the sunny sky but holds the basket steadily as Mademoiselle picks up each head she selects and places it carefully inside the basket.

  It’s a warm day, and the stench of rotting bodies is becoming overwhelming. Sitting on the street curb, I cradle my head in my hands to keep from fainting or puking.

  At first, the babble of the crowd is just a garble of voices to me as I concentrate on breathing steadily. But slowly I discern the secretive tones of two women speaking together just a few feet away.

  “Tonight we plant the Liberty Trees,” a short, sloppy redhead says, and her voice is loaded with meaning.

  The other woman chortles with malice. “We’ll plant a nice tree right at the front gate of the Tuileries Palace, won’t we?”

  “It’s a tree they’ll never forget,” the redhead says.

  They’re talking about more than planting trees. I’m sure of it. They’re planning something.

  “They’ve lived in luxury long enough,” the redhead adds. “It’s much too cozy in there, if you ask me.”

  Her friend grins. “I couldn’t agree more.” The two put their heads together and continue laughing.

  They’re talking about my family! What’s happening? What do they intend to do? I have to find out.

  “Pardon me,” I say, slowing rising from the curb. “Do you need more helpers for the tree planting tonight?”

  The women stare at me warily. “Are you a friend of the French people?” one of them asks.

  The woman’s redheaded friend punches her arm. “Don’t be stupid! Look at the red cap, the tricolor ribbon.”

  “Are you loyal to the Revolution?” the dark-haired woman asks me. “Do you understand all that it means? Are you old enough to join the French people in their fight tonight?”

  “Of course I’m loyal,” I say. “I’m loyal enough and old enough to plant a tree.”

  The dark-haired woman leans toward me. “Are you old enough to kill a queen?” she whispers.

  * * *

  Mademoiselle Grosholtz makes beds for Henri and me in the workroom of the exhibit. They are just two planks with blankets and pillows, and a curtain hung between them for privacy. Though they’re hard, they are better than sleeping on a park bench or the ground as Henri and I have done so often.

  “Good night, Henri,” I say from my side of the curtain. “Sleep well.”

  “Good night, Ernestine.”

  “Henri, you know how much you mean to me, don’t you?”

  Henri peeks around the curtain. “What is it?”

  I sit up and pull my knees to my chest as he crosses to my side of the room. “Nothing.”

  “I can tell something is wrong,” he says.

  “Things are just so uncertain these days,” I say. “I want you to know how much you mean to me.”

  Henri scrutinizes me with serious eyes. “It was the severed heads today, wasn’t it? I know how upset you were.”

  “How could you bring yourself to do it?” I blurt. “How could you?”

  Henri shakes his head. “I don’t know. Mademoiselle Grosholtz needed the help.”

  Impulsively, I lean forward and squeeze his arm. “It’s all so horrible!”

  He sits on the edge of the bed and hugs me close. I place my head on his shoulder and breathe deeply. For a moment the world goes away and I feel safe. It’s just Henri and me in our own private universe. Turning his head, Henri kisses my lips gently. I’m happy my first kiss is from him because I love him so much.

  Am I in love with Henri? I don’t know. I’ve never been in love. I only know he’s my dearest friend besides Ernestine, and he’s been so good to me. When we’re together, I feel I’m with someone who wants only the best for me and to protect me as much as is possible. When we’re parted, I just want to get back to him. If I see something lovely, I wish he were there to see it, too. Is that love? I think it could be. “If we’re ever parted, we’ll find each other,” I say, “no matter how long it takes.”

  “Yes, we will,” he agrees.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  He lays his head back on my pillow, and it isn’t long before his eyes drift shut. I wait until his breathing turns heavy and I know he’s asleep, then I get up and kiss his forehead lightly, hoping he will be able to forgive me for what I’m about to do.

  How can I leave him? It feels like such treachery. But I have to rejoin my family. I will find my way back to him. I promise myself that.

  Silently, I dress and slip out of the workshop. I suspect that the Tuileries Palace is about to come under siege. It could be my one and only chance to ever rejoin my family.

  * * *

  All over Paris the streets are lit with torches as people plant trees around the city. There’s a feeling of celebration, like a giant party. People sing songs of liberty. They drink, too: wine, beer, every kind of alcohol. It’s not long before the city is a raucous assemblage of drunken revelers.

  Maybe nothing sinister is happening, I think. Perhaps it’s just a night of parties and tree planting. My feelings are mixed, because it means my family is safe but also that my plans to go back to them are not going to happen.

  I move along with the crowd and as it nears the Tuileries Palace, the mood shifts. The songs filling the night air become more hostile, filthy, and aggressive. Brawls break out among the intoxicated people. Smaller groups from all over the city converge at the gates of the palace until it is one giant mob.

  “Let us in!” a woman shouts at the guard in front.

  Remembering the attack at Versailles, I know these people will break in one way or another. Therefore I’m not entirely surprised that the guard unlocks the gate and steps aside. He’s not going to get killed to protect my family. The days of that sort of loyalty are gone.

  A roar wells up as the people surge forward through the open gates. The saws, axes, picks, and shovels used for planting trees are suddenly brandished as weapons. I
’m terrified by the fury of the mob, but there’s no turning back as I’m swept along in the frenzy.

  I’m practically lifted off my feet, pushed forward by the wave of people on every side. Will I even be able to find my family before these people do? I suddenly wonder what I could possibly have been thinking to come here tonight.

  Though I’ve never lived at the Tuileries for any length of time, I’ve visited and know its secret passages. As the savage mob races down a hallway, brutalizing any servants who stand in their way, I search for a certain closet door. When I see it, I step inside.

  “Where is she going?” I hear a woman ask, and I freeze with fear.

  “Leave her,” someone answers. “She’s hiding in the closet. The poor dope is scared.”

  That’s certainly true! Pushing aside capes and coats, I run my hand along the wall and find the latch I seek. Pushing through the door, I face a curving stone staircase and race upward. I’m breathless by the time I burst into Mama’s chambers.

  Madame de Tourzel sits reading to Louis-Charles while Ernestine writes in a journal and Aunt Élisabeth sketches. Obviously, they haven’t yet realized what’s happening down below.

  Mama sits in a chair, engrossed in her needlework. Looking up casually, she pales and drops her work when she sees me.

  They all stand in alarm, shocked, as though I’m a ghost.

  There’s no time for explanations or endearments. “Come on! Into the passage. Quickly!” I say. “There is a mob headed right for you.”

  Without a word, they hurry into the secret passage. I’m the last out and I make sure the door is shut tightly, locked behind me.

  “This way,” Mama directs us. Apparently, she’s also no stranger to these tunnels. It’s very dark but we keep hold of one another, making a chain of clasped hands as we hurry on. “Wait here,” she commands us. Light shines through a doorway I’d never have known was there, and she quickly returns with Papa, dressed for bed, and his personal valet, Monsieur Cléry. In the darkness Papa doesn’t see me, but he bids farewell to his servant before leading the way onward.

  As we travel through the tunnel, I hear muted screams and shouts. The walls vibrate with the violence I know is happening in the hallways and rooms. Are the guards fighting the crowd? Are there any left who would bother? What’s happening to the servants and other nobles still in the palace? I can’t let myself think about it or I’ll become paralyzed with terror.

  We reach the passageway’s end and pour into a very small chamber containing only a cabinet, three velvet-backed chairs, and an elegant but faded rug. There are no windows. Papa bolts the door behind us. Mama takes a chair and Louis-Charles climbs into her lap, burying his face in her shoulder. Ernestine and I huddle together on the rug. Papa and Aunt Élisabeth sit side by side on the chairs while Madame de Tourzel sits on the floor in a corner, cradling her head in her hands.

  The screams outside the room have heightened, punctuated with outbursts of malicious laughter. I hear gunshots. Things crash and shatter as furniture is smashed into walls. Ernestine bows her head and covers her ears to block it all out.

  “Don’t be scared,” I say to comfort Ernestine, although it’s a foolish thing to say. We are all terrified.

  Ernestine lifts her head and we look at each other, our expressions alive with emotion. Her eyes are reproachful, questioning. What am I doing here? Why did I return on such an awful night? But she must know that I came in order to save them, to save all of us.

  Little Louis-Charles slides to the floor and begins to sob. Mama rubs his back and cradles him in her skirts, to muffle the sound of his crying as well as to comfort him.

  Mama stretches out her free hand and clasps mine. Papa, too, casts a warm look my way. How happy I am to see them again — all of them! We all long to speak, but it’s a time for silence and no one dares.

  The agonizing night lasts an eternity. But, finally, there’s quiet.

  “Can we go back to our rooms?” Ernestine asks.

  Papa shakes his head and whispers in reply, “It could be a trap. We’ll stay put a little longer.”

  “Marie-Thérèse, come hug your mother,” Mama says, which I do as she holds me tight. I kiss Louis-Charles, too. How big he’s grown since I last saw him, though he seems too thin. All of them look haggard and worn.

  “You should go soon,” Papa says to me. “You don’t want to call attention to yourself by leaving here alone.”

  “I’m staying,” I insist firmly.

  “No, you’re not,” Ernestine says with equal conviction.

  “You can’t,” Papa agrees. “They don’t know about Ernestine. They’re not looking for her. If they find the two of you here, they will know we’ve been deceiving them.”

  “Then let Ernestine go,” I say. “She’s been in here long enough. It’s not fair. Besides, I miss you all so much.”

  “And we miss you,” Mama says. “We pray for your safety every night. Did your uncle come for you?”

  I shake my head. “What happened to his army?”

  Mama sighs. “You don’t hear any talk of an approaching force from Austria?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  Mama and Papa look at each other sadly. I feel as though I’ve just dashed their last hope.

  “So you’ve been on your own all this time?” Mama asks.

  I tell them about Henri and Mademoiselle Grosholtz. They’re relieved to know I have friends and a place to stay. I need to convince them that Ernestine will be comfortable enough in my place, with friends to look out for her.

  “People saw me come in dressed in these clothes, so we’ll have to switch outfits,” I say, acting as though it’s been settled and Ernestine is going to leave. “I’ll give you the address to find Henri. He’s at Dr. Curtius’s exhibit. The exhibit is shut down but go around the back and —”

  “I’m not going, Marie-Thérèse. As you just saw tonight, you’re safer out there than you are in here.” I can see from her firm expression that Ernestine will not be convinced otherwise.

  Papa stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Marie-Thérèse, you owe it to France to stay away. Hopefully, we will all be together again before long. Something has delayed them, but Austria may yet come to our aide. You must be available to rally them to our cause, to show we are still a force in France.”

  I mean him no disrespect, but I have to laugh. “Look at me, Papa,” I say, spreading my arms wide. “Do I look like someone a foreign king or queen would rally behind? I’m a beggar girl.”

  “I see a Bourbon princess,” he says. “I see Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte, Madame Royale of France, a lovely young woman yet still the Child of France.”

  His faith and pride in me makes a sob catch in my throat. I want to be worthy of his trust, but it’s so difficult.

  There’s a tap on the door, and we all freeze. But then we hear the voice of Monsieur Cléry. “Your Highness, the crowd is gone. The National Assembly has ordered all of us to report to their headquarters. They’ve sent carriages and guards to escort us there.”

  Papa opens the door to him, and we all stand, preparing to leave. Monsieur Cléry’s grooming is usually impeccable, so we all stare with concern at his disheveled appearance. Not only are his clothes torn and his eye blackened, but his powdered wig, which I’ve never seen him without, is altogether gone, revealing a bald head.

  Aware of our unspoken questions, he wrings his hands. “I don’t think you want to see what is back at the palace,” he states solemnly, “especially not the young dauphin. It could scar him for life.”

  “Are you all right, Monsieur?” Mama asks him.

  For a moment, an expression of wild panic flashes across his face, and then he regains his composure. “Quite all right,” he says, clearly lying. “I know a passage that will bring us to the back courtyard, and I’ve directed the carriages to be brought there. The maids who have survived are packing right now and —”

  “Those that survived?” Mama interrupts, her face pa
le.

  “Yes, Your Highness. Forgive me. We must hurry or the National Assembly will grow impatient.”

  Madame de Tourzel takes Louis-Charles from Mama’s arms and heads for the door. “You two really are like twins,” she remarks to Ernestine and me. I squeeze Ernestine into a quick affectionate hug.

  “Come, girls,” Mama says from the door. “Hurry.”

  I’m cheered that they’re including me in their entourage, but when I’m about to step out of the doorway and go to one of the two waiting carriages, Mama squeezes my shoulder to stop my progress.

  “Go back to your friends and stay safe,” she says. “It’s better that way. Now that we know where you are, we can find you when all this awfulness ends.”

  I throw my arms around her, desperate to stay with my family, and she holds me tightly. “Will it ever end?” I ask her. This insanity has been going on for so long. Maybe it won’t end. Perhaps this is how life will be from now on. The people have turned into savages, beasts, and they’ll prey on my family until they devour them completely.

  “Of course it will end,” Mama assures me. “These things always end. The American Revolution ended.” She smiles wryly. “Even the Hundred Years’ War ended eventually.”

  “A hundred years of this!” I cry, horrified at the idea.

  “No! No!” she says, patting my back. “That was a foolish joke. By this time next year, we’ll all be together again. Perhaps not Paris, maybe in Austria, but somewhere.”

  “Your Highness, you must go,” Monsieur Cléry urges.

  “What about you and the rest of the serving staff?” Mama asks him.

  “The servants are to remain here to await further instruction from the National Assembly.”