Faces of the Dead

by Suzanne Weyn

That night when Henri and I creep to our spying place, the rotted wood has been removed and a new wooden patch hammered into place.

  It’s early in a rainy September that a Revolutionary guardsman comes to the exhibit workroom with a huge bundle slung over his shoulder. It’s wrapped in a coarse blanket and heaved without ceremony onto the workroom floor, and the blue-gray foot that peeks out from a fold in the cloth tells me it’s a corpse that he’s just tossed into the room.

  “She was murdered by the citizens of the new Republic of France before she had the honor of being guillotined,” the guard tells Mademoiselle Grosholtz, as though this is amusing in some way. “We need two masks. One to parade on a pike so that the people can see what happens to those who would deny the people their rights, and another to keep as a record of French traitors.”

  Mademoiselle nods listlessly and gestures him toward the door.

  “How soon can you have it?” the guard demands without moving.

  “I’ll send you word,” she says, her voice flat as she stares down at the body. With workmanlike detachment, she removes the blanket.

  I cry out when I see that the dead body belongs to the Princess de Lamballe, one of Mama’s dearest friends. She’s hideously slashed, and her entire corpse is marbled with purple-black and yellow bruises. They’ve hacked away her luxurious hair, and her face is twisted into an expression of anguished horror.

  It’s too horrible! I turn away, trembling.

  Seeing my distress, Mademoiselle covers the body once again. She takes stationery from a drawer, hastily writes a message, and instructs Henri and me to bring it to Rose at rue du Temple.

  “What kind of monsters are these people?” I ask Henri as we walk, heads down against the driving rain.

  “We’re the ones collecting loose heads,” he reminds me.

  “But we’re forced to.”

  Henri draws me beside him and puts his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t think too much,” he advises. “It’s easier that way.”

  I know he’s right. I try to push the awful image of the Princess de Lamballe out of my head. Instead, I focus on the warmth of Henri beside me. These days I only feel safe when he’s near me, protected from the outside world and also from the demons of fright that run rampant in my mind. These days, if I smile at all, it’s only with him.

  We find Rose’s apartment building and a maid lets us inside. It’s a small but elegant place with heavy red velvet drapes, regal furniture, and gold-framed artwork on the walls. Most of the oil paintings depict tropical landscapes, and I wonder if they remind her of her home in Martinique.

  Rose sits on a couch in the living room, across from a uniformed military man. His elaborate red jacket lies atop a white shirt, vest, and breeches with tall boots. From his many medals, it’s clear he’s some sort of general. He’s short and has sharp features, and yet he emanates strength and power.

  “Perhaps, then, you can speak to Robespierre on behalf of my husband,” Rose implores him as she bids us enter with a wave of her hand. “I would so appreciate it, General Bonaparte.”

  General Bonaparte stands, and bows ceremoniously. “I would do anything you ask of me,” he says with feeling. He leans in closer to her. “However, I question the wisdom of your request. It might be better to let the National Assembly forget about you and your husband for now — let sleeping dogs lie, as the saying goes.”

  Rose rises to her feet. “My husband and I are hardly dogs!”

  The general drops to one knee to kiss Rose’s hand. “Forgive me, Joséphine.”

  “Why do you insist on calling me that?” Rose snaps. “My name is Rose.”

  General Bonaparte stands once more. “Rose is so commonplace. Joséphine suits you better, because you are so rare and beautiful.”

  He still hasn’t noticed us standing in the doorway behind him, and the heat of embarrassment starts to rise in my cheeks. I begin backing out of the room, but Rose raises her hand to stop me.

  “Excuse me, General. I have more visitors.”

  General Bonaparte turns and eyes us with annoyance.

  Henri gives Rose the note, and upon reading it she immediately walks General Bonaparte to the door. Then she asks her maid for her cloak. I sneak a peek at the hastily scrawled note: We have a body at last.

  We trail Rose through the streets, plying her with questions. What are she and Mademoiselle trying to accomplish? Can we help them? If the work is illegal, could they be jailed again?

  Rose ignores us as she races through the streets, the hood of her cloak pulled forward.

  “Are you using the voodoo you learned when you were a girl in Martinique?” I ask bluntly.

  Rose whirls on me, gripping my arm. Her usual smile has disappeared and her tone is uncharacteristically fierce. “You listen, girl,” she hisses. “I don’t care who or what you are. You are never to speak that word aloud. Ever!”

  I’ve never seen Rose like this.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “but why? I only wanted to know if the …” I hesitate. “If the … island magic is —”

  “Forget you ever heard anything about it,” Rose commands before resuming her quick path through the streets toward Dr. Curtius’s exhibit.

  Henri and I exchange a glance, now more intrigued than ever. What are they doing?

  When we get there, Mademoiselle Grosholtz awaits us by the back door. “I’ve prepared everything,” she says quietly to Rose, as if Henri and I are not there.

  “Let us help,” Henri pleads. I know he’s burning with curiosity as I am.

  Mademoiselle ignores him and asks Rose, “Did you bring the potion?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Rose says, and her eyes flick to Henri and me.

  Mademoiselle Grosholtz takes two rags from a drawer, handing them to Henri and me. “Dr. Curtius wants to reopen the exhibit soon. Every figure must be thoroughly dusted,” she instructs. “Rose and I must work on the princess’s corpse. We are not to be disturbed.”

  This is such an obvious ploy to get rid of us that Henri and I just stand there until Mademoiselle erupts, shooing us impatiently out of the workroom.

  “We have to find out what they’re up to,” Henri says when we’re in the exhibit.

  “It’s voodoo for certain,” I say. “You saw her reaction when I mentioned it.”

  Henri nods. “It has to be.”

  We begin dusting in the ancient Egypt exhibit. I shake the wig Henri has sewn for the Cleopatra figure and dust flies off it. It’s been so long since he’s dusted the figures that he used to clean twice a week when the exhibit was open.

  “Try it on,” Henri suggests.

  “All right.” Using the glass from a framed painting of the pyramids as my mirror, I tuck my short brown hair into the wig. I love the way I look. So exotic.

  When I turn to Henri, he’s smiling. I blush at the twinkle of admiration in his eyes. “Do you like it?” I ask.

  “You look beautiful,” he says.

  “Beautiful?” I question, pleased. No one’s ever called me beautiful before. Mama’s always been the beautiful one.

  Henri disappears into the ancient Rome room and returns wearing the olive branch wreath, shield, and sword from the Marc Antony figure.

  From my studies of both literature and history, I know that Cleopatra and Marc Antony loved each other. With a smile on my face, I leap away from him. “Oh, Marc Antony, you’ve come all the way from Rome, but I will never fall in love with you. I’m the Queen of the Nile, ruler of all Egypt.”

  “I will claim you as my queen!” Henri cries. I run across the room away from him, and he chases me. Soon we are racing around the exhibit, me darting away and Henri in pursuit. I hide behind the figure of Pharaoh Akhenaten only to turn and bump right into Henri, who has silently crept up behind.

  I cry out in surprise but not for long because Henri covers my mouth in a kiss. At first I’m startled, but then my own emotions swell and I return the kiss with equal fervor.

  We kiss a
nd hug each other for what seems like a very long time, there among the famous and infamous figures of the past. I love having Henri in this way, so close and happy.

  Finally, Henri takes a deep breath and stands, drawing me to him, holding me firmly with his hand pressed to my back. I allow my head to bend to his shoulder.

  “You sound just as royal as Cleopatra ever could have,” Henri says. “Do you miss that life very much?”

  “Not the life as much as I miss my family.”

  “Everyone says your family is terrible. They even say it about you,” Henri says, still holding me. “But I know you’re wonderful, so your family must be wonderful, too.”

  Pulling back, I look at his adorable face. “I don’t know how they’ve been as rulers,” I admit. “I’ve seen the troubles, and I can’t tell how much of it is their fault. I only know that I miss them.”

  “I’m sure they miss you, too.” His voice has become gentle, dreamlike. We begin to rock together, almost as if dancing to some silent music only we can hear. “You’re like no one else, Ernestine.”

  “Say my real name,” I whisper in his ear.

  He pulls back and looks at me with surprise. Then Henri speaks softly in my ear. “There is no one else like Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte, and I love you more than anyone in this world.”

  “I love you, too, Henri!” I say, so moved by his words of love. We are kissing once more and I am so very happy. Only with Henri does the awful world disappear. With Henri there’s only the two of us and we live on our own island of love where we’re safe and nothing else matters.

  Later that night when I awake in my bed, Henri snores lightly on his side of the curtain. The rain has stopped and moonlight brightens the room. I hear voices in the workroom — Mademoiselle and Rose and someone I don’t recognize — and slide out of bed.

  I want to see who’s there, but with the hole in the wall repaired, I can’t peer in. So I make my way through the dark exhibit of figures to the front door. I hurry down the dark, puddled street to the back of the exhibit. I lurk by the back window, peering cautiously into the workroom.

  I can’t hear what they’re saying, but what I see astounds me.

  The person Mademoiselle Grosholtz and Rose are speaking to is the Princess de Lamballe. Alive!

  The women sit around the workshop table with the lamp flickering across their animated faces. The princess speaks from behind her death mask, her face covered, and she waves her arms, describing some horror.

  Mademoiselle and Rose are almost comical as they swing from sympathy for the princess — frowning and nodding — to the triumphant elation they share with secretive nods to each other.

  Is this the success they’ve been working toward night after night? Have they truly brought the Princess de Lamballe back to life?

  I’m riveted. This is the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen!

  And then, abruptly, the masked woman slumps forward on the table, arms outstretched.

  Mademoiselle and Rose leap up, shaking the woman, gently slapping her cheeks to rouse her. The woman doesn’t stir.

  Rose slumps into her chair, dejected. Mademoiselle places a comforting hand on Rose’s shoulder, but it’s clear she feels just as disappointed.

  Another failed experiment.

  Together they lift the masked woman onto the workshop table. Rose reaches for her cloak, and I know I must leave or risk being discovered as she comes through the door to depart. But what if the corpse rises again? What if it speaks? I don’t want to miss any of it.

  I linger until Rose is nearly at the door. “I think I know what we need to do. Such a badly injured corpse is too fragile for the shock.” As she continues to speak, she begins to open the door, and I flee.

  But too late. “Halt!”

  Rose hurries toward me, scowling.

  “Please don’t tell Mademoiselle,” I plead. “She’ll be so angry with me.”

  Indecision clouds Rose’s beautiful face, and she grabs my arm and begins pulling me along down the street. I have to run to keep up with her forceful stride.

  It’s late, but a few cafés are still lit and buzzing with activity. She stops at one place alive with people singing around a piano. The crowd here is very well dressed, but they sing revolutionary songs just the same. Maybe it’s a way of protecting themselves against the Terror’s spies. Perhaps to them, “freedom and liberty” are the fashion of the moment. And, of course, they might be sincere.

  When the elegantly dressed host at the door greets Rose as Citizen Beauharnais, she smiles graciously. “I require the general’s private room, Citizen Pierre,” she says.

  The man glances at me skeptically. In my rags I hardly belong in a place like this, but I’m with Rose so he stays silent.

  He leads us to a private chamber at the back of the café and leaves us there, shutting the door behind him. It’s lovely, with red velvet drapes and furniture. We sit at a highly polished table of deep, gleaming wood. Across the table, Rose studies me for a moment before she speaks. “So, tell me, girl — what did you see?”

  “The Princess de Lamballe was back from the dead, wearing the mask of a woman they killed today. The three of you spoke for a while — I heard her voice before I got out of bed. Then she collapsed.”

  “And what do you make of that?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I say. “Does it have something to do with what you and Mademoiselle Grosholtz have been working on?”

  “You’re too smart for your own good,” Rose says, more to herself than to me. Then she glances back up at me. “What do you know of the beliefs of ancient Egypt?”

  A spark of happiness leaps within me as I tell her the events of the day with Henri, the time spent in the ancient Egypt exhibit. Then I try to recall all I’ve learned from my royal tutor regarding the Nile and the pyramids, the pharaohs, and ancient gods like Horus and Isis.

  “Very good,” Rose says. “Do you know why they stored so much wealth in the pyramids?”

  “So that the deceased people buried there would have all that they required when their souls returned from the dead.”

  How does this relate to her experiments? I cannot help but stare expectantly.

  Rose sits back in her chair, exasperated. Finally, she slaps the table decisively. “It’s better that you don’t understand. These things are dark and you’re young.”

  “I don’t feel so young,” I counter.

  “You’ve seen many things a young woman shouldn’t be subjected to,” Rose allows. “We’re alike in that way. I was about your age when I was sent from Martinique to wed Monsieur de Beauharnais. My older sister had been promised to him, but she passed away.”

  “My mother was fourteen when she came to Paris,” I say. “She was sixteen when she married my father.”

  “Then she and I have that in common.”

  “I think she came to love my father,” I say, recalling how fond of each other they always are.

  “Monsieur de Beauharnais and I have a cordial relationship, though I wouldn’t call it love.”

  “Do you love that general?” I ask.

  Rose ponders this a moment before speaking. “I’m not sure. He’s interesting to talk to, and he’s advancing rapidly within the military. It’s helpful to have such an influential suitor.”

  That might have seemed calculating, but I grew up among the plots and intrigues of the royal court. I know it’s simply how the world works.

  It was pleasant to sit there talking about love and relationships with Rose. Without Mama or Ernestine, there was no one with which to have this type of girl talk.

  “Do you think Mademoiselle Grosholtz has ever been in love?” I ask.

  “She has a love,” Rose tells me, smiling at my shocked expression. “I believe his name is François Tussaud. He’s a civil engineer and is often away, but they correspond regularly.”

  “I can’t imagine Mademoiselle in love,” I say, amused and surprised by the idea.

  “Everyone
loves in their own fashion. Do you love Henri?” Rose asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t.”

  I can’t believe what I’ve heard. “Why not? He’s wonderful, and attractive, too. Don’t you think so?”

  “Listen to me, girl. Things won’t always be like this. Even if your family is run out of the country, you will always be a royal. Your family knows you’re out here. Sooner or later, they’ll send someone to find and reclaim you. You’ll be wrenched from Henri and might never see him again. You can’t let it break your heart.”

  “I’ll insist that he come with me.”

  “Don’t be naive. They’d never allow it. You must be a friend to him but nothing more. I left a boy behind in Martinique, and I’ve never forgotten him. I wish I’d never met him rather than to pine for him for the rest of my life.”

  Pierre comes in to bring us some food, a lobster tail in cream sauce. It is so like something I might have eaten in the palace, and it shocks me that such a delicacy still exists in the world.

  We eat in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. I try to imagine life without Henri and find that I can’t. We’ve become so close that he’s a part of me.

  “You mustn’t spy on us anymore,” Rose insists after a while. “If you are ever questioned, it could cost you your life.”

  She won’t discuss anything else about the late-night experiments she and Mademoiselle Grosholtz conduct.

  Before much longer General Bonaparte appears in the doorway. He beams at Rose, but his smile fades when he notices me. Still, he’s polite as he waits for us to finish our meal and then offers us a ride in his carriage. “Get some sleep,” Rose advises as I climb out in front of Dr. Curtius’s exhibit.

  As I settle back into bed, the first glow of dawn is beginning to light the sky. Henri turns on his cot on the other side of the curtain. “Are you okay, Ernestine?” he murmurs.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I reply. He turns toward the soft light making its way into the room and I watch him, loving every plane and curve of his face. There can be no future without Henri. I won’t allow it.

  That winter I read the papers and follow Papa’s trial as it’s reported. The political cartoons mock Papa unmercifully, depicting him as either a tyrant or a fool. They show Mama dallying with various lords and counts as she spends the country’s money frivolously. Why are they so cruel? They don’t know my sweet parents at all!