Faces of the Dead

by Suzanne Weyn

  All at once, a sunniness envelops me that I haven’t felt in a very long time. We’re near a park whose gardens are still beautiful, even though they’ve fallen into disrepair. Grabbing Henri’s hand, I pull him off the street and into the park. There, I wind the music box and set it on a bench. Stepping close, I take hold of him and we dance to the happy melody.

  How very handsome Henri is, especially when he smiles at me, as he’s doing now.

  * * *

  Fall comes and the weather grows dank. Our moods mirror the season, but it’s not only the outside climate that’s responsible. Mademoiselle’s Monsieur Tussaud has taken a trip to England. He claims he’s looking for a place for them to live when the time is right, but I believe Mademoiselle worries that he’s not coming back.

  Rose’s husband is still awaiting execution, and Rose is starting to suspect that the general is exerting his influence to keep Alexandre de Beauharnais imprisoned because he wants Rose — or Joséphine, as he likes to call her — for himself.

  The dismal gray autumn weather has hit Brigitte the hardest. She’s picked up a hacking cough and seems weaker every day. It’s difficult for me and Henri to sleep with Brigitte tossing and coughing through the night. This sleeplessness makes us tired and irritable in the daytime.

  And the beheadings continue relentlessly. Day in and day out, droves of people lose their heads at the Place de la Révolution. Every day we come home, spattered in blood, carrying our baskets filled with the wide-eyed visages of the newly decapitated. At least in the colder weather, the flies don’t swarm around them as much.

  Only Henri keeps a bright demeanor. “How do you stay so cheerful?” I whine at him one day when I’ve had my fill of even his smile.

  “I don’t think, I just do. If I began to brood, I might never stop, so I don’t allow myself to begin.” I wonder if he’s the most sensitive of us all, that he must build such a wall around his thoughts. I don’t think I could be like him, though. It’s just not in me.

  And so we go on this way. Then comes a day that’s etched in my head forever — the most horrible day of my life.

  It’s October 16, and we head toward the Place de la Révolution for our usual grizzly task. The crowd is somehow more agitated than usual, but I can’t find anyone to tell me why.

  Leaving Mademoiselle and Henri, I try to find a newspaper seller and see one at the end of the boulevard. Before I can reach him, though, a roar of raised voices swells around me as a tumbrel of prisoners comes around the corner.

  Shouting, the mob rushes forward but is held back by guards with their guns.

  I climb onto a park wall to get a better view. What could be agitating them so?

  The horse-drawn cart contains only women prisoners. At first I don’t see anyone I recognize. Then I look again and freeze at the sight before me.

  Mama is in the tumbrel.

  She’s dressed in a plain white muslin gown. Her hair has been chopped very short and is covered by a ruffled cap. She’s pale but dignified as the awful mob jeers and insults her.

  “Citizen Marie Capet to die today!” a newsboy shouts, hawking his paper.

  “Mama!” I shout at the top of my voice, not caring who might realize my identity. I’m beyond caring. I wave my arms wildly for her attention. “Mama! Mama!”

  She’s heard me! I see her searching the crowd.

  “Mama! Here!” Some turn toward me, but then look away, disinterested in a lunatic girl.

  “Mama!”

  At last, we connect. Her hands cover her face as tears finally spill down her cheeks.

  I am dissolved in my own grief, drowning in rivers of sorrow. “Mama!” I croak with outstretched arms.

  With a small movement, Mama shakes her head and dashes the wetness from her face. I know what she’s telling me: You’re making a scene. You must stop. Don’t let them find you.

  The tumbrel is moving on and I try to follow, but the crowd is thick and won’t let me pass. What should I do now? Maybe I should go and be with her when the end comes.

  Oh, I can’t!

  To see Mama die would be too horrible. And perhaps it would be worse for her to have me there. I remember how Papa didn’t come see us the morning of his execution. Mama explained to us later that the sadness would have been unbearable, and he couldn’t have gone to his death with dignity, as he did, if he’d seen us that morning.

  I’m suddenly dizzy and I stumble, falling from the low wall. My head bangs against it as I topple, my head crashing a second time onto the sidewalk.

  No one stops to help me or even to inquire if I’m hurt.

  Head down and sick to the pit of my stomach, I drag myself back to the wax exhibit and go to my bedroom. Usually when I enter, Brigitte stirs in her sleep, but this time she doesn’t. Her exquisite face is so pale it looks like one of Mademoiselle’s wax faces before she applies the paint.

  Laying my hand on her cheek, I immediately feel that it’s like ice.

  Brigitte is dead.

  Strangely, I feel nothing other than an overwhelming fatigue, and I curl up at the end of Brigitte’s bed. My head pounds as though someone were slamming my skull with a club.

  A surge of nausea hits me, and I vomit from the side of the bed. That helps lessen the knot in my gut and the torture in my head — but only slightly.

  Finally, I tumble into a deep hole of slumber that’s so deep not even dreams can find me. My pain is gone in this place, and I hope I can stay there forever. It’s very peaceful.

  Sometimes I hear a murmur of voices, but I’m too far away to reply to them. I don’t want to be rescued. I like where I am. It’s safe from violence, cruelty, loss, and grief.

  After a while, I don’t hear these voices anymore.

  My secret hiding place deep within myself becomes the gardens of Versailles, the Petit Trianon. In this dream state there is sunshine, music, and birds. For a long time I sit on a bench where I watch the sparkling fountains of the palace grounds shimmer in the light. Resting like this makes me grow stronger.

  After a while, I feel lonely. I especially long to see Henri.

  Then one day, I awake. I’m lying in the bed that once was mine before Brigitte occupied it.

  An elderly man with white hair wipes my forehead with a warm, wet rag. “You’ve come back to us,” he says. I’ve seen him before, but I can’t remember where.

  Opening my mouth to speak, I’m speechless. The man lifts my head in order to spoon some water into my mouth. “Rest,” he advises in a kindly tone. “You’ve been in a comatose state for a long time, many months. Don’t try to talk. I’ll tell you what’s been happening.”

  He calls a name and a woman comes into the room. I’ve seen her, too, but am unsure why I recognize her. She has a pile of unruly black hair and is dressed as a gypsy. She beams happily when she sees that I’m awake. The man asks her to bring me some broth, and she departs quickly to get it.

  “I am Dr. Curtius and that woman is Madame Grosholtz. You know her daughter, Anna Marie.”

  Dr. Curtius, of course! And Mademoiselle’s mother. I recall her taking money at the door of the exhibit. It’s like remembering another life.

  “The revolutionary government threatened to arrest Anna Marie once more. We heard they were coming for her, so she secretly married Monsieur Tussaud and they left for London. She hated to leave you, but I assured her I would care for you.”

  “Thank you.” This time my voice is a croaking whisper, but at least it works.

  “Rose wasn’t as lucky. She’s in prison once more,” Dr. Curtius continues.

  “Henri?” I ask.

  “In prison, also. They accused him of helping Anna Marie escape, which he did. They say that makes him an enemy of France.”

  My poor Henri!

  “Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte?” I ask, not sure if he knows who I really am.

  “Your double is still in the Temple prison, as is your unfortunate brother, Louis-Charles.”

  “Aunt Élisabeth?” I
ask.

  “I don’t know.” Something in his expression, maybe the way he averts his eyes, tells me he does know. I’m convinced she’s been beheaded. All this bad news is too much. Closing my eyes, I feel the secret hiding place deep within me calling for my return.

  But Dr. Curtius shakes my arm, keeping me tethered to the present. “Stay with us, Marie-Thérèse. There’s hope yet.”

  Madame Grosholtz returns with the broth, which she gingerly feeds me as Dr. Curtius continues, “Robespierre angered the Committee of Public Safety and has been beheaded. The Committee is trying to distance itself from the atrocities of the Terror. It will please you to know that they’re even improving the conditions of the children who remain in the Temple prison.”

  I nod. “Thank God.”

  “The Committee cares about how France looks in the eyes of the world. They’re ashamed of much of what’s happened in the name of liberty.”

  “As well they should be,” Madame Grosholtz grumbles.

  “Will they release Rose and Henri?” I ask hopefully.

  “I don’t know,” Dr. Curtius replies. “So many prisoners still die each day.”

  My stomach lurches and I wave the bowl away. Turning on my side, I return to the blessed oblivion of sleep.

  * * *

  This time, though, it takes only forty-eight hours before I awaken again. My voice returns to its original strength. Each day, I eat and my body regains some strength. After two weeks of recovery, I stand, taking shaky steps at first but gradually growing steadier. In a month I’m nearly fully recovered.

  Dr. Curtius and Madame Grosholtz are so kind to me. They seem like an old married couple, though I can’t figure out the exact nature of their relationship.

  My blonde hair has grown back to its original length and color. Madame Grosholtz combs brown dye through it and plaits it down my back.

  I begin working at the wax exhibit again, helping Dr. Curtius with the figures and guiding tours. No longer do I go collect the heads of the newly murdered. For some reason, the government doesn’t press Dr. Curtius to do this. Maybe they have more wax faces than they know what to do with. It could be that they now want to hide the evidence of their murders. Whatever the reason, I’m overwhelmingly relieved to be free of this hideous task at last.

  One day in June, Madame Grosholtz finds me in the work studio and says she must tell me something important. Her grim expression frightens me. She takes my hand and guides me to a bench, where we both sit. “Your brother passed away today,” she reveals. “He was sick in the prison, and there was nothing anyone could do.”

  Little Louis-Charles! What have they done to him?

  I thank Madame and wait until she’s gone before I let my tears flow. My dear brother, the sweetest little boy in the world. How much more can I stand? Will this trail of misery and loss ever end?

  But I do bear more — six months more of dull days. I couldn’t understand why I should be alive when Papa, Mama, and Louis-Charles were not. One day in December, I am headed across rue Saint-Honoré when I see a coach pull up in front of a grand restaurant a few paces ahead of me. To my delight, Rose steps out of the coach. She sees me and her face lights up.

  “Rose! You’re free!” I cry out and hurry toward her.

  She’s never looked more regal, with her dark curls bundled to the top of her head, encircled in a wide golden band. Her high-waist gown is the very latest fashion, as is the satin-lined cloak draped over her shoulders. On her hand is a dazzling sapphire and diamond ring.

  In the next moment, General Bonaparte steps out of the carriage behind her, his face haughty, and I decide I don’t care for him very much.

  “Don’t let her call you Rose,” General Bonaparte commands Rose sharply. “From now on, you will be known only as Joséphine Bonaparte.”

  Rose glances at him but makes no reply as she bends to embrace me. “Ah, my dear girl,” she says quietly. “I’m so glad to see you up and well. You had us all so frightened.” She turns to the general. “You remember my friend Ernestine, do you not? We drove her home in your carriage that night.”

  “Yes, of course,” General Bonaparte agrees, clearly disinterested.

  “How have you been, Ernestine?” Rose asks.

  “Dr. Curtius and Madame Grosholtz treat me well,” I assure her. “Is Henri free, also?”

  “As far as I know, he’s still in prison. They freed me five days after they beheaded my husband. But they’re letting people go free every day. He might be out anytime now.”

  Bending my head, I lower my voice. “Do you hear anything of the fate of the royal children?”

  “They’ve allowed the princess to stroll in the Temple garden lately, something they haven’t done before,” Rose confides. “I haven’t seen the little prince, though. I’m afraid he might be … very ill.”

  “He’s died,” I tell her.

  Rose presses me into a tight hug. “I’m so very sorry, chérie.”

  General Bonaparte coughs impatiently.

  Rose hugs me once more. “Listen to me carefully now,” she whispers, still keeping me enclosed in her embrace. “It’s fate that we’ve run into each other. Anna Marie left you a note in the lining of your little music box.”

  “What does it say?”

  Rose shakes her head. “Read it. Be sure you read it when you’re alone.” She gazes deeply, pointedly, into my eyes. “No one else can see it.”

  The general coughs once more.

  “Forgive me, my sweet,” Rose apologizes, cupping General Bonaparte’s pointed chin tenderly. “Farewell, Ernestine. Remember what I’ve told you. Be well until we meet again.”

  “Until we meet again,” I echo as General Bonaparte takes her arm and escorts her into the restaurant.

  I can’t work now — I’m too excited. I have to see what the note tucked in my music box tells me.

  But I also need to see Ernestine, and so I head toward rue du Temple. A small crowd has gathered at the perimeter of the castle, and this makes me hopeful that someone is outdoors. The people seem calm now, not as wildly vengeful as before, more curious than spiteful.

  Squeezing to the front of the crowd, I peer through the spiked iron fence to see Ernestine pacing, rubbing her arms to keep warm. How pale and painfully thin she’s become! Her expression is so profoundly sad. And she has neither a cloak, nor gloves, not even a warm hat. How she must long for fresh air to be willing to come out, even in this cold.

  “Citizen Marie Capet!” I shout, calling her by the name that all the newspapers use when referring to her, to me.

  I hope she recognizes my voice, and she does. She walks straight for me, and the crowd is riveted.

  “You’re just a chink in the wall,” I say angrily to her.

  “A chink in the wall? How dare you?” she responds.

  “Yes, just a chink in the wall.”

  I back away, hoping she understands. Some of the crowd cheer me because they think I’ve insulted the arrogant princess, but others scowl at me. They seem to feel she’s suffered enough.

  It seems to take forever to run around the streets to rue de Beaujolais where the park area is by the back wall. Thankfully, no one is around on such a frigid day. Ernestine is already there when I arrive.

  “I’m so happy you came,” she says, mist coming from her lips. “I think they’re going to let me out tomorrow.”

  “How wonderful!” I reply. “What time will that happen?”

  “I don’t know. At dawn, I think, maybe before. We’re to slip out of Paris as unnoticed as possible. They’re going to disguise us.”

  “I wish we knew exactly when.”

  “Come while it’s still dark to be safe. You have to be here. The Holy Roman Emperor, Francis the Second, has personally requested that Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte’s playmate, Ernestine, be allowed to travel to Austria with her. No one knows where she is, but if you show up, I’m sure they’ll take you. It’s our chance for the both of us to escape together.”

 
; “They’re sending you — us — to Austria?” I ask.

  “Yes. Vienna. Your mother’s family has agreed to take us in.”

  “Tell them you’ve received word that I’ll be there. Then, in the coach, I’ll switch clothing with you and go back to being me.”

  “But your hair! How will you explain that?” Ernestine asks in a panicked voice.

  “I’ll get a wig from one of the exhibits.”

  “Yes, that’s good. I hope Louis-Charles comes with us,” Ernestine says. “Perhaps your mother and Aunt Élisabeth will come, also.”

  The mention of Mama, Louis-Charles, and Aunt Élisabeth makes me so lonely. Clearly, Ernestine does not know anything of the outside world. I decide not to tell her. I don’t want to talk about their deaths, and she’ll find out soon enough.

  “I can’t believe I’m really going to be free. And we’ll be together again!” Ernestine’s teeth chatter with the cold, but she’s so happy.

  “We will! But now I have to go. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Come to rue Meslay during the early hours of the morning. I couldn’t stand it if we had to leave without you.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Until tomorrow,” she says, leaving the wall.

  I fold my arms for warmth as I head back to the exhibit. My head spins with this new information. It’s so sudden — so unexpected. How can I leave while Henri is still imprisoned? My family is all gone now. If it weren’t for Henri, there would be nothing to hold me here.

  But Henri is here, and I can’t leave him.

  And yet … I have family in Austria — aunts, uncles, grandparents. They want to help me. It’s the opportunity I’ve been hoping for.

  Is there more hope of freeing Henri if I go to my family? If I stay behind, I’m powerless to do anything. If I go … maybe there’s a chance I could inspire them to return to Paris and free those in the jails.

  I don’t know! I think the smart thing to do is to leave while I have the chance. If anyone were to discover my true identity, I might also be a victim of the guillotine. Once they realize Ernestine is gone, the revolutionaries might search for her in the streets.