Faces of the Dead

by Suzanne Weyn

  “Very well,” Mama agrees, though this news seems to worry her. She frees herself from my grip and presses a green velvet purse into my hands. “Hide it,” she whispers. “Use the coins to live. Keep the jewels for bribery and survival,” she adds as she hurries out into the night. Immediately, two members of the Revolutionary Guard flank her, not noticing me hanging back in the shadowy doorway.

  Monsieur Cléry draws me back farther. “They mustn’t see you.”

  Naturally, he’s right, but still I strain forward, aching for a last view of my family as the carriages rattle out of the courtyard. How long will it be until I see my beloved family and friends again?

  Monsieur Cléry guides me stealthily around the palace walls with an unsteady grip on my arm. “What will the National Assembly do to them?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Monsieur Cléry says, but I suspect he knows more than he’s willing to tell.

  “Is everyone inside dead?” I dare to ask.

  “Nearly,” he admits. “Some of us were able to hide in the passageways.” He stops, trembling all over, covering his eyes with his hands. “Anything they didn’t steal, they destroyed. They ransacked the palace and killed anyone in their path. Even the guards were no match for their ferocity. They were a pack of rabid dogs.” I notice for the first time that there’s a wide smear of blood across the back of his jacket. I don’t have the nerve to ask how it got there.

  When we reach the wide avenue leading to the palace, I’m happy to see that it’s nearly deserted, though farther off in the city I still hear revelry and see the flares of bonfires. “Keep to the backstreets,” Monsieur Cléry advises. “In the coming days you might consider darkening your hair, to make it harder for that horde to recognize you.”

  “Thank you for all you have done for my family,” I say.

  “Your parents are good people, dignified and strong,” he replies, choking a little with emotion. “It is my honor to serve them.”

  After all the insults, lies, and jeers, it’s so soothing to hear a kind word. Tears of gratitude well in my eyes. Monsieur Cléry notices them and sighs. “Your Highness, you are the bravest young woman I have ever met. I am proud to know you.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” I say. “I’ll try to live up to your idea of who I am.”

  Turning, I head down the wide avenue of Tuileries Park, which is lit only with an occasional lantern hanging from a pole and the beams of a luminous full moon. I veer to the right side, where the tulip beds that have just recently begun to sprout have been trampled by the marauding crowd.

  Tossed in a bush, illuminated by the moon, is one of Mama’s pink silk shawls. Thinking I would like to have something of hers, I step off the path to retrieve it but recoil when I touch it. It’s soaked in blood!

  What kind of horrible massacre went on in there?!

  The dark silhouette of a male figure has stepped off the path and is approaching. Panic seizes me. Every muscle tenses. “Get back!” I shout. “I have a gun. I stole it from the palace tonight.” It’s a lie, but maybe it will frighten him.

  “Ernestine. It’s me. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

  “Henri!” I cry, sagging with relief as he reaches me.

  “Do you really have a gun?” he asks softly.

  I lean on his shoulder, so happy to see him. “No. I don’t have a gun, but I was in the palace.”

  “I heard it was a … very bad. Are you all right?”

  “The screaming and fighting — it went on for hours. We hid in a small, secret room. If they’d found us …” I shudder, thinking of what might have happened.

  “We?” he questions. “Who were you hiding with?”

  In my distress, I’ve said too much. Henri and I face each other, speechless.

  But then, Henri puts his arm around me and guides me to a dark, secluded bench, and we sit together. “Ernestine,” he says in a low, sincere tone. “You listen to me now.” I’ve never before heard him sound so serious.

  “What is it?”

  “I know who you are; who you really are.”

  My breath catches in surprise.

  “Why didn’t you tell me yourself?” His voice is accusing, hurt. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I trust you, but it’s a secret that could have gotten you killed.” I shut my eyes for a moment as I recall the boy, just a little older than me, we saw beheaded that day in the Place de la Révolution. What if that happened to Henri because he was discovered helping me? Nothing could help him then, not all the red caps or tricolor ribbons in all of France.

  “How long have you known?”

  “I told you before that I noticed the resemblance when I first compared your face to that of the wax princess in the exhibit. But later you said you looked like the princess, so I chose to believe you.”

  “The real Ernestine does look almost exactly like me.”

  “Then, tonight,” he continues, “Mademoiselle Grosholtz was talking to Rose in the workroom and I heard what they were saying. She told Rose that she was certain you were Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte.”

  Gasping with alarm, my hand flies across my gaping mouth. Can they be trusted? Will they turn me in for a reward?

  “Don’t worry. They won’t tell. They both hate the revolutionaries,” Henri says. “They were imprisoned, remember? Rose’s husband is still in jail for being a royalist, and Mademoiselle was almost guillotined — she was only days away from it.”

  His words calm me down some. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Henri. Honestly, I am. I’ll never lie to you again. I promise.”

  “Then tell me, Ernest —” He cuts himself short. “I mean Princess Marie-Thérèse, what —”

  “Shhh!” I hiss, looking around frantically. There are spies everywhere these days. “You see why I couldn’t tell you?” I whisper fiercely. “What if you’d been overheard just now?”

  “You’re right,” he agrees. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. I’ll keep calling you Ernestine. What were you planning to do out here tonight? Why were you in the palace? You could have been killed. Were you going to leave without even saying good-bye to me?”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you tonight — that I’d find a way to get back to you. Didn’t you understand that?”

  We sit silently beside each other and watch as the sky becomes gray with predawn light. Henri laces his fingers into mine and I squeeze his hand. It’s good to be quiet together, comforting.

  Six months pass and what a strange time it is!

  Day in and day out, Henri and I travel to the Place de la Révolution with Mademoiselle Grosholtz and climb among the pile of heads searching for the best ones: the most famous, the most beautiful, the most interesting.

  The crowd recognizes us by now and parts to let us through. We’re there on the authority of the Terror, what the revolutionaries are calling their regime now. They’re well named, as everyone in Paris fears them.

  Because we’re emissaries of the Revolutionary Tribunal, those who run the Terror, no one dares to get in our way. And the strange thing is that I find an odd pleasure in playing the part: scowling, glaring; once I realized I was even baring my teeth. Ernestine the terrible ragamuffin, not to be toyed with, nor taken lightly — a fierce animal of the streets.

  A terrorist!

  Look at me the wrong way, and you might be the next to have your head chopped off! I can arrange it.

  In my old role as the Royal Child of France, I wouldn’t ever dare be this imperious. This charade is so ridiculous it makes me want to laugh out loud, but I don’t dare. My acting is deadly serious business. It keeps everyone back and looking away, from studying my face too closely.

  My pretend ferocity also distracts me from the task at hand.

  We’re sprayed with blood as each new head falls.

  The ferocity of this new character I pretend to be helps me to overcome my revulsion. It’s not me, Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte, watching the beheadings, but some other tougher, more
unfeeling person. Just the same, I don’t look at the severed heads any more than necessary. I don’t think any more than necessary. I move in a sort of mindless state, like the zombies Rose de Beauharnais described to us.

  Back at the workshop, Mademoiselle shuts the staring eyes of the dead and covers the faces in oil, then, hours before they stiffen, smears them in plaster to make an imprint of the face. She gently lifts off the dried plaster and then lets the hot wax on her burner cool somewhat before pouring it into the face mold she’s created.

  When members of the Revolutionary Guard arrive to collect the masks, they treat Mademoiselle Grosholtz rudely, reminding her that if she doesn’t do her job well, she’ll be thrown back into prison … or worse. Mademoiselle is stiffly polite to them. In some cases, the guards want the severed heads, too. They want to display the most famous heads atop high fences around Paris.

  One day, a guard I recognize stares at me as I sew black human hair into a wig for the figure of Cleopatra in the exhibit. It takes a minute, but I recall seeing him last year as we were escorted back to Tuileries from Varennes.

  I grow nauseated with worry and turn my head away from him. Has he recognized me? What will he do?

  “Who is that girl?” he demands of Mademoiselle Grosholtz.

  Mademoiselle is wrapping heads in cloth and piling them into the canvas bag the guards have brought. She continues with her task, never looking at me or the guard. “She’s a beggar girl who has worked for me for the last four years, since she was twelve years old.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “She doesn’t have one. She’s no one, like so many children who live on the streets of Paris. I call her Zero because she’s nobody.”

  “Zero,” the guard addresses me roughly.

  I reluctantly stand, pretending to cower in order to shield my face. “Yes, sir.”

  “Address me as Citizen. We are all equal citizens of the New French Republic now, are we not?”

  “Yes, Citizen,” I amend.

  He looks me over and I force myself not to bite my lip or tremble, and finally he leaves.

  That night Mademoiselle presents me with a jar of the dark brown dye she uses for her wigs and commands me to use it. “Everyone knows the princess is blonde like her mother,” she says. “That lovely flaxen hair could cost you your life.”

  “Thank you.” I know she’s right, remembering how Monsieur Cléry gave me the same advice. At least hair dye is better than ink.

  “I suggest you cut it, too,” Mademoiselle adds.

  Cut my hair! It makes sense, but the idea is so upsetting. It would be like cutting away one of the last links to my mother. “Would you cut it for me?” I ask. “I think my hand will shake too much.”

  “Do you see all the work there is to do here?” she snaps angrily. “Do you think I have time to coif your hair?”

  “No,” I say meekly.

  Henri has been standing in the doorway witnessing all this. “I’ll cut it for you,” he offers.

  Mademoiselle Grosholtz seems about to protest, probably to say that she needs him to work. But she stops herself and returns to oiling the face of the head in her hands.

  Henri is used to working with the wigs in the studio, so when he bobs my newly brown hair to chin length and cuts fringe on my forehead, his work is straight and even. “Do you like it?” he asks.

  I’m not sure, though I know it’s better than the mess I would have made of it. “I hardly recognize myself,” I say, looking into the tall mirror we have propped against the wall.

  He smiles at our reflections. “Isn’t that the idea?”

  “I suppose so,” I agree. “But it’s odd to appear so different from the person I’ve always been.”

  “I think you look very pretty.”

  “Really?” Swiveling, I look up at him.

  “Very pretty,” he repeats as he takes my hand in his and presses a kiss into my palm. The gesture is so loving and reassuring that my eyes mist up. Henri is so good to me. How could I ever live without him?

  * * *

  The time quickly passes as Henri and I continue assisting Mademoiselle Grosholtz with her work. I learn more from her every day and find I like working with the wax — smoothing it, forming it. The repetitious nature of the task gives me pleasure in that it distracts me from all my worries.

  Mademoiselle also seems to enjoy the work. I can see her silently making artistic choices as she labors to re-create the glow of life her models enjoyed when they lived. Under her meticulous, tender care, the women look beautiful, and the men peaceful and strong. I wonder if it’s her way of paying tribute to the dead, compensating for the lack of prayer and funeral their desecrated bodies never received.

  Rose de Beauharnais arrives late every night after the work is done. Henri and I steal out of our beds to watch Mademoiselle with Rose in the workroom. We’ve found a section of rotted wood in the corner of an adjacent room that can be pulled out. By lying flat on the floor we can see most of what they’re doing.

  At night, Rose lets her lush curls down around her shoulders and works in a flowered, satin kimono. With her dark arched brows and shining otherworldly eyes, I think she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  We see another side of Mademoiselle Grosholtz, too. Though she wears her usual plain dress, mobcap, and apron, her stern face is lit with excitement. Whatever they’re working on thrills her.

  Rose is, as Henri guessed, using roots and herbs. Every night she arrives with packets of them, each time reporting some new discovery. “I found an herbalist working by the Seine who was selling turmeric,” she reports eagerly. One night she comes in elated to have made contact with a chemist who opened his healing supplies to her, providing bat wings, rat brains, and ferret tongue. “Now we can really get somewhere,” she pronounces as she gleefully displays her new treasures to Mademoiselle.

  But as much as Rose grinds her ingredients with a pestle in a mortar and is assisted by Mademoiselle Grosholtz, who chops, shreds, and boils at her side … in the end she shakes her head in disappointment.

  What are they trying to accomplish? Whatever it is, success is eluding them. But each night they attempt it anew … setting out the ingredients, chanting over them …

  And fail once more.

  Until one night.

  Henri and I watch, fascinated, as Rose boils her exotic potion and holds up a large, whole ginger root over the steam. The root looks so much like the figure of a little man. Then I realize that Mademoiselle has placed a small wax head on top of it, like the head she created of me so long ago.

  As Rose holds the figure in the hot mist, she intones words I can’t understand. It’s a cross between speech and song — and she is deadly serious as she works her magic.

  The next thing I see makes me doubt my own eyes.

  Rose places the ginger-root creature upright on the table, but it doesn’t topple over. My jaw drops in silent disbelief as the creature takes a faltering step forward! It takes another step and then another.

  Finally, when it reaches the end of the table, it stumbles. Mademoiselle Grosholtz steadies it and then gently lifts it, cradling the creature in a cloth. Rose slumps into a chair, a look of triumph on her face.

  Mademoiselle places the root creature in a cabinet and locks it. Then she and Rose hug, rapturous with delight.

  At Henri’s nod, we hastily stuff the rotted, mulchy wood back into the opening and look at each other, amazed. “You saw that, too, didn’t you?” Henri asks, pale and wide-eyed.

  “I did.”

  “After she goes to sleep, let’s try to open that cabinet,” he says.

  Do we dare? How can we not? This strange creature is true magic! I’ve never even imagined something like this could exist.

  Is it still alive? Can it speak? Why have they created it? What are they doing?

  I’m in a fever of curiosity. I must explore this further.

  “I’m good with locks,” I tell Henri. Locks and keys
are Papa’s hobby, and he’s shown me all about them.

  “All right, then,” Henri replies. “We’ll wait for them to leave. As soon as they’re gone we can sneak in.”

  But Mademoiselle stretches out on the worktable, fully dressed, and never goes to her room to sleep. Henri and I wait for hours until we fall asleep, lying there on the floor.

  We check again just before dawn. Mademoiselle is no longer lying on the table. Eagerly, we hurry into the workroom. All it takes for me to get the cabinet lock open is one of the tiny, sharp-tipped awls Mademoiselle uses in her work.

  But the cabinet is empty!

  “Where is it?” Henri asks in a sharp whisper as he searches behind baskets and wooden boxes. I don’t see the root creature. I’m so intent in our pursuit that Mademoiselle Grosholtz’s presence startles me, and Henri and I whirl to face her.

  Mademoiselle carries a large willow basket. Whatever is in it is covered in a small blanket. “How did you unlock that?” she asks.

  I hold up the tool.

  “We needed a nail to make the eye pupils on those heads we built yesterday,” Henri lies, picking one up from the cabinet.

  Mademoiselle stares at us skeptically.

  My curiosity is so great that I can’t stop myself from asking, “Mademoiselle, forgive me, but I watched you and Rose last night. Did you create a living creature from a root?”

  Henri’s head pivots sharply toward me, aghast at my boldness.

  Ignoring him, I keep my gaze fixed on Mademoiselle as I await her response.

  If Henri hadn’t also seen the creature, Mademoiselle’s incredulous face would make me doubt my own sanity. She looks at me as if I have truly lost my mind. “You must have been dreaming,” she says with conviction. “What an idea!”

  “I saw it, too.” Henri comes to my aid.

  “I don’t know what you two thought you saw, but there was certainly no living root. We’re experimenting with potions that will preserve the quality of the skin until I’m ready to make my masks. Skin hardens so quickly after death that it distorts the likeness.”

  I don’t believe her, but what can I say?