by Suzanne Weyn
“And how?” Papa adds.
Ernestine wraps me in a hug. “I’ve missed you beyond words. We all have!”
I’ve missed them, too, and maybe I haven’t realized how much until this moment. In the next minutes they all gather round, embracing me. Everyone is crying, except Louis-Charles, who is all smiles.
When we calm down, Mama is full of questions. She wants to know where I’m living, whether I have enough to eat, and if I am being treated well. I assure her I’m fine. “Then why have you come here?” she asks.
“I had to see … all of you.” I can’t bring myself to say I wanted to see my father one more time before his death. It’s just too painful.
And suddenly it strikes me — do they even know he’s been condemned to die?
Papa extends his arms, and I walk into them as he folds me in a hug. Pressing my head to his chest, I hear his heartbeat — his good, big heart!
As the evening progresses, I realize that they don’t know what Papa’s fate will be. They talk about what they’ll do when the current situation is over. Looking forward to the future is what keeps them strong. To tell them what I know would only bring them pain.
“You know I’m going to have to hide now,” Ernestine says. “We got lucky tonight, but every guard is not as oblivious to who is actually in here.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologize.
Ernestine nods. “It’s all right. We’re together again and that’s what matters.”
Papa and Mama each have separate chambers. Monsieur Cléry sleeps with Papa. Madame de Tourzel shares another room with Aunt Élisabeth. Louis-Charles sleeps in a room with me and Ernestine. He quickly falls asleep on his narrow divan, but Ernestine and I are too excited to sleep. We lie together on the large bed speaking in confiding whispers, just like old times. It’s wonderful.
We talk quietly into the night. I tell her all about Henri and how I adore him. “He sounds wonderful,” Ernestine says. “It’s too bad that you’re engaged to Louis-Antoine.”
“I can’t possibly marry the duc de Angouleme now that I’ve found Henri. And if they do away with the monarchy, maybe I won’t have to.”
“But he’s so nice!” Ernestine protests.
“You liked him even more than I did.”
“Oh, we got on so well,” Ernestine recalls. “I’ll tell you a secret: That night after he visited, I was jealous of you, that you’d get to marry him.”
It all seems too far in the future to think about — and too distant in the past to remember. “Who knows what the future holds?” I say.
“That’s true,” Ernestine agrees. “Tell me more about life outside here.”
She gasps when I unpin my blonde wig and reveal my short brown hair. “This is the new me,” I say with a grin.
Ernestine runs her hand along my head in wonder. “You look so different,” she remarks. “It’s not very fashionable, is it?”
“No,” I agree, ruffling out my real hair, “but it’s so light and easy to keep. I’ve grown to like it.”
I tell her about the strange experiments that go on at night. I talk about the walking ginger root, but I don’t say anything about the Princess de Lamballe. Ernestine knew her well and might not even know of her brutal death. I decide it would be too upsetting to mention.
Ernestine’s intrigued when I recount the conversation I had with Rose. “Ancient Egypt was such a mysterious place,” she remarks. “It’s so odd the way they buried royal figures with all their things so they could come back to use them in the next life. They must have really believed it was possible, for them to go to all that trouble.”
“But why do you suppose Rose mentioned that? What was she trying to tell me?”
Ernestine leans close and whispers, “I think they’re using Rose’s magic to bring the wax figures to life — don’t you think so? The moving root was only an experiment.”
Of course!
That’s what it has to be!
But it’s such an outrageous idea that I can’t be too upset that it didn’t occur to me. “Do you really think so?”
“She admits she was trained in mystical arts, doesn’t she?”
“Rose learned from a priestess who knew about spells using herbs and roots and all that kind of thing.”
Ernestine nods knowingly. “That’s why she brought up ancient Egypt. It’s all a version of the same thing. They’re moving the spirits of the dead into the wax figures — or at least they’re trying to. They’re bringing them back from the guillotine!”
Ernestine and I stare at each other, awestruck by the audacity of the idea.
“That’s it!” Ernestine insists confidently.
Although Ernestine and I eventually settle down to sleep, I can’t quiet my mind. There’s nothing but wax and wire inside these figures. How could they stay alive?
Then I think of the Princess de Lamballe.
Is that why Mademoiselle and Rose were so excited when the princess’s body was delivered to them? Is it why the princess wore the mask of another that night when she seemed to come alive? Ernestine was only partly right.
What if the wax figures can only hold a spirit for a brief period of time before they have to be transferred into a real flesh body?
The thought gives me chills, and I sit upright in the bed, wrapping my arms around my knees. There in the dark, I’m very afraid. These are elemental forces of life and death that Rose and Mademoiselle are toying with. They are crossing the line between the two.
But why are they doing this? Who are they bringing back from the dead?
The days pass with excruciating boredom. The guards refuse to give us paper or new books. There isn’t even an open window to look out of. Ernestine and I tell Louis-Charles every story we can remember and even make up some new ones. But the constant talking becomes exhausting, and we often fall into a dull lethargy.
The only excitement comes when one of us — either Ernestine or I — must hide from a guard or a servant delivering food. We decide to take turns hiding so no one forms a clear picture of what I look like. No matter which one of us is called into question, someone will confirm that it is indeed Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte who is being presented.
We have one luxury that we share — each of us is granted a brief, daily walk in the Temple Garden. I go one day, and Ernestine goes the next. Crowds amass at the high, spiked iron gate and shout rude, obscene things at us, so I try to stay toward the back of the garden when it’s my turn to walk.
One day, while toward the back of the gardens, I find a chink in the high stone wall. Through it I can see a pleasant little park area with only a few people sitting, talking, or reading. I like to look through it, pretending my life is that serene.
I tell Ernestine about the spot and the lovely view and she delights in it as well. We make up a new game: What did you see through the chink in the wall? Each reports what she saw that day — a spotted spaniel, children running, an unusual bird. It gives us something fun to do in the evening.
The days move so slowly, and not a moment passes when I don’t think about Henri. Is he well? What is he doing? Does he hate me for running out or does he understand?
I try to spend as many afternoons as I can with Papa. When I was a girl, he spoiled me with beautiful toys, clothing, and books, and also with his time. He walked with me in the gardens and showed me how to work the locks that he loved to build and fix.
One day, I knock at his chamber door and find him at a splintered desk, tinkering with the insides of a clock. “Come in, sweet girl,” he invites me. “How are you holding up under these miserable conditions?”
Sitting on the edge of his desk, I shrug and pick up a gear, turning it in my hands. “I’m happy to be back with everyone, though I miss the friends I’ve made in Paris.”
“You have friends in Paris, eh?” he says, smiling forlornly. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same.”
I want to insist that he still has supporters, that there are those who remain loyal
. But those loyalists have been terrorized into silence or have fled for fear of their lives.
“Pull that chair over, Marie-Thérèse,” Papa says. “I must talk to you about something important.”
My heart races with anxiety. What is he about to say?
When I am seated beside him, he takes my hands in his. “My girl, you’ve already been through more than a young woman should have to bear, but I fear that another terrible blow will be ahead for you. It seems there has been a vote —”
Standing, I throw myself into his side, my face instantly soaked in tears. “I know, Papa! It’s too awful, but I’ve known for two weeks.” What can I say? There’s nothing! All I can do is sob, racked by my own helpless grief.
Papa hugs me to him, saying nothing but just letting me cry. After a while, when the intensity of my sobbing subsides, he brushes back a lock of damp hair that’s fallen into my face. “Listen to me, Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte, we cannot change what can’t be changed. I go to my death with the conviction that I’ve done all I can to compromise with the revolutionaries. Perhaps a smarter man than I could have figured a way around all this madness, but I’ve done what I can do. In the future, I want you to know that I’ve loved you and our family with all my heart, and you have been my greatest source of joy in this life.”
I cry out as his words tear my heart apart. Once more I sob into his shoulder. This time, he won’t have it. “Stop, my girl. You have to be strong, now more than ever. Your mother will depend on you, and so will Louis-Charles. If you ever see an opportunity to get out of here, take it. You can work for us better if you’re free.” He looks me over and his face softens. “But I am so happy to see you again before …” He hesitates and then hugs me to him. “Before my time comes.”
* * *
On January 21, the guards come for Papa. He’d said good-bye to all of us the night before, amidst much weeping. This is breaking my heart! He’s the sweetest Papa in the world. It can’t be really happening, though I know it is.
With the windows shuttered we can’t see his tumbrel clatter away, but we hear the drums that accompany Papa’s departure from the Temple prison.
Several hours later, we all sit listlessly, draped despondently around the room. The door opens and a guard appears with our meals. With him is a woman I recognize because I’ve seen her in the public squares of Paris speaking against my family with the Society of Revolutionary Republican Women. Her name is Claire Lacombe, but she’s called Red Rosa. Her appearance here frightens me. What could she want with us?
“I am taking the princess,” Red Rosa announces harshly.
Aunt Élisabeth rises from her chair, but Red Rosa waves her away. “The young princess,” Red Rosa says.
Ernestine has stepped behind a curtain, and I stand in front of her. Which of us should go? Who would be better off?
Mama steps toward Red Rosa. “What do you want with my daughter?” she asks boldly.
Red Rosa swings around and locks the door. We watch her in amazement.
Mama stands in front to shield me. “You leave her alone,” she cries.
Ernestine steps out from behind the curtain, emboldened by her desire to protect me.
“Your Highness, I’m a friend,” Red Rosa says. “These are but disguises crafted by Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”
I know her voice now. “Rose?” I ask.
“Yes, yes, it’s me.”
“And me,” the guard finally speaks.
“Henri!” I whisper, shocked. Their masks are so lifelike, but now I realize it’s wax that’s adhered to their faces and has been molded into the likeness of Red Rosa and into the image of one of the guards.
“For weeks now I’ve been forging letters to the revolutionaries, claiming to be Red Rosa, saying I want to take the princess to my society and make her admit her crimes against the people of France,” Rose explains.
“She has no crimes to admit,” Mama says.
“No,” Rose tells her. “It’s just an excuse.”
“This is Rose and Henri, the ones I’ve been telling you about,” I say. “They’re my friends. You can trust them.”
“Hurry, then,” Mama says.
“Be sure to keep Ernestine out of sight until midnight tonight,” Rose instructs Mama.
“My Mousseline Serieuse,” Mama coos as she holds me tight. “My brave girl.” A tear rolls down my cheek at her words.
Still misty-eyed, I hug everyone. Louis-Charles clings to my neck so tightly that Mama must gently pull him off. “Until we meet again,” I say.
Ernestine squeezes my hand, and with a last wave, I follow Rose and Henri out the door. Our descent down the winding stairs and through the dim, dank corridors to the front courtyard of the Temple seems to take forever. At every moment, I’m sure someone will appear to challenge us. But eventually we emerge into the daylight outside.
I squint into the sunlight.
Rose and Henri pull me into an alley, where Rose quickly takes the pins from my blonde wig and ruffles my hair. “We don’t want this crowd thinking you are who you are,” she explains.
In the weeks I’ve been imprisoned, the blonde roots of my hair have grown back. “Here, put this on,” Rose says, pulling one of the revolutionary red caps from the bag she carries beneath her cloak.
The next thing she does is to peel the wax from her face. It comes off in chunks. “Thank goodness Mademoiselle Grosholtz reminded me to oil my skin before I put this on,” she says as her own skin emerges, blotched red from the wax.
Henri also peels off his wax mask. When he’s done, I fall into his arms, and he kisses me.
“Young love is grand, but not now,” Rose chides us mildly. “Let’s get off the street as quickly as possible.”
The three of us keep our heads down as we stride purposefully along the boulevards. All around us there is celebration: people — some of them already drunk — wheeling around the streets, singing and cheering. “Is it a holiday?” I ask Henri.
He doesn’t answer and his expression is pale. Why doesn’t he answer me?
And then I realize why.
They’re celebrating the death of the king.
“The king is dead. Long live the Republic!” someone in the crowd shouts.
Tears jump to my eyes. Henri pulls me to him, enfolding me in his arms. “Don’t let them see you cry,” he whispers sharply. I know we could be sentenced to death for even such a mild show of disloyalty to the Republic as that, so I dash away the wetness from my cheeks.
“It’s Henri and Ernestine, the head collectors!” a woman shouts.
All eyes turn toward us. “Where’s the king’s head?” a man asks us. “Do you have it? Let’s see!”
“They don’t have it,” Rose intervenes. “It’s being worked on.”
“They’ve got it,” the man insists. “Give it to us.”
The man is in the lead as a crowd begins to circle us. I grip Henri’s hand tightly. I’ve seen all too many times what one of these mobs will do to someone who makes it unhappy.
Rose steps in front of us, holding up the letter to Claire Lacomb, which bears the seal of the National Assembly on the top. “We are citizens employed in the people’s business,” she tells them in a fierce, commanding tone. “Anyone who interferes with us will find themselves on the scaffold at the Place de la Révolution.”
The crowd disperses almost immediately, and Rose hurries us onward until we’re at the back door of the workroom. Mademoiselle Grosholtz is there, pacing anxiously. “Thank God!” she cries when we appear, but this is the last she speaks of my having been gone for weeks. Instead, she’s all about the business at hand.
“I don’t know if we’ve already waited too long,” she says to Rose.
“Perhaps not, though,” Rose replies, throwing off her cape.
They hurry to the worktable, where a figure lies in a supine position. It’s draped with a sheet.
When Rose yanks off the sheet, I stagger back into Henri.
The fi
gure on the table is Papa!
I run to him and then recoil. He’s wax — only a wax image of my father. With questioning eyes, I look at Rose and Mademoiselle. What is this? What’s going on?
“This is the event we’ve been working toward for so long,” Rose says. “We want to capture your father’s spirit, but we must know his real name. What is it?”
“Louis the Sixteenth of France, of course,” I say, too stunned to question further. “King Louis the Sixteenth.”
“No,” Mademoiselle Grosholtz protests. “We need his real name in order to call to your father’s authentic spirit. What’s his given name?”
I stare at her blankly. “I don’t know it.”
“Is it Louis Capet?” Rose presses.
I shake my head, knowing that this is something the revolutionaries call him, but they’re wrong. Papa told me that his family isn’t descended from the Capetian dynasty as the people think.
“Is it Louis Bourbon?” Mademoiselle suggests.
“Yes, that might be it,” I say, not sure, but knowing Bourbon is a family name.
“That will have to do,” Rose decides. “Time is running out.” She puts Henri and me to work with all sorts of tasks. We sprinkle the life-size wax figure with foul-smelling powders and dab it with rose water. We draw the curtains at the back window and position lit white candles around the room.
Along with the large figure of Papa, Mademoiselle has created a twelve-inch wax figurine of him, which Rose wraps in a soft cloth and holds just far enough above a candle flame that it doesn’t melt.
“Louis Bourbon, King of France,” Rose intones as she holds the figure with one hand and passes her other hand back and forth over it. “We call your spirit to this place. We call your spirit to this place. We call your spirit to this place.”
The fingers on Papa’s life-size image twitch.
We all stare, awestruck.
“Louis Bourbon, keep coming to us. We are here to welcome you. Your daughter, Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte, is here. She doesn’t want your spirit to leave this earthly plane. We can help you,” Rose continues, speaking with fervent passion. She turns to me. “Call your father! Guide him here!”