Faces of the Dead

by Suzanne Weyn

  I decide I must go, and so I return to the exhibit to pack my things and tell Dr. Curtius and Madame Grosholtz that I’ll be leaving. And most important, I have to see what’s in the note Mademoiselle has left for me.

  When I come into the exhibit, though, Dr. Curtius and Madame Grosholtz are in another room with paperwork laid out on the table in front of them and it doesn’t seem like the right time to disturb them.

  I head for my bedroom, looking it over. I’ve lived here for over two years. It’s hard to believe I’ll really be leaving. Henri’s empty bed is still on the other side of the hung sheet, though it has been stripped of its bedding.

  My music box has sat unopened for months. I haven’t looked at it or listened to its sweet folk song since before I fell into my deep sleep. Now I sit on my bed and open it. The music instantly begins. The mother and daughter shepherdesses twirl.

  I wiggle my finger into the seams of the pink satin that lines the box. Frustrated, I turn the box upside down. There’s nothing on the bottom and no letter spills out. I assumed I’d find it right away, so I didn’t ask Rose to be more exact.

  When I set it right again, I notice that the little oval mirror glued to the inside cover of the box, behind the spinning figures, is slightly out of place. Excitedly, I pry the mirror off and there it is — a folded note glued under the mirror.

  I open it, my hands shaking.

  Marie-Thérèse, I know that someday you will wake up. You’re a strong girl and this sleeping, though understandable, will not go on forever. While you slept, Rose and I have worked feverishly on our “experiments.” With one experiment we had lucky timing and it might have worked, though we can’t be sure of how long the effect will last. You must find your way to a farm owned by a family named LeFleur outside the village of Charenton. If the meaning of this letter does not become clear to you, then it’s safe to say that we failed once more. It has been my honor to know you. Until we meet again. Madame Anna Marie Tussaud.

  What is she saying? What have they done?

  Do I dare to hope any one of my family has been brought back from their awful death? Is it even possible?

  The idea is so shocking — so overpowering — that I can’t think straight. Stunned, I sit on my bed, clutching the note, unable to put together a sensible idea or thought or plan.

  But slowly another consideration occurs to me.

  How am I to do this if I must leave for Vienna tomorrow?

  My head spins with uncertainty. What is the right thing to do? I have no idea.

  That evening, I speak to Dr. Curtius and Madame Grosholtz, though I don’t say anything about the note, since I promised Rose I wouldn’t. They both agree that I must go with Ernestine in the morning. “It’s the only way you’ll ever be assured of your safety or will regain the security of your family.”

  “They’re not really my family,” I argue. “I’ve never met most of them. Even the uncles who’ve visited I hardly recall.”

  “You’re a Hapsburg princess, and that will mean a lot to them. Under their protection, you’ll marry a royal and live the life you were born to, a royal life,” Dr. Curtius insists.

  How strange that idea seems now, after all that’s happened. I can’t even picture myself leading such a life anymore. In fact, I don’t even want it. It’s so unfair. How can I live so lavishly now that I’ve seen how most people struggle just to survive? I’d never feel good about the luxury and wealth again.

  I would like the security, though, and the sense of family.

  Later that night, I pack a few things, my music box among them, the only remains of my former life. I can hardly sleep for anticipating the coming day’s events. It’s almost midnight and I can’t stand it any longer.

  Instantly, I’m up and making my way through the dark wax museum. I’m glad I said my good-byes earlier. I understand now how hard it is to say farewell when you know you might never return. Wrapping my wool shawl around my shoulders, I open the exhibit door for the last time.

  It’s a strange sensation to be out on the dark streets of Paris when they’re so empty. The only sounds are the cooing of the mourning doves and the rattle of the winter wind. Trash blows past me as I hurry along toward the Temple prison.

  Despite the early hour, I’m late for my appointment. “Here’s Ernestine!” I hear Ernestine say in a loud voice to some people standing near a horse-drawn coach, and I start to run.

  “Hurry,” says a woman I’ve never seen before. We dash inside the carriage, and the driver, a soldier named Mechin, takes his place. We ride with a prison guard named Gomin; a plump, older woman named Madame de Soucy; and her maid.

  As we ride out of Paris, we hear the church bells chime twelve. “I’ve been in prison for three years, four months, and five days,” Ernestine says, and tears spring to her eyes.

  “Well, you are free now,” says Madame de Soucy.

  “Not yet,” says Gomin. “There are many who would still like to capture or even kill you, Princess. If we’re stopped, they might well kill us all.”

  Madame de Soucy makes a snort of disapproval, scowling deeply at the guard.

  “It’s simply true, Madame,” he defends himself. “We won’t be safe until we are over the border.”

  One by one, the adults are lulled to sleep by the steady rocking of the carriage.

  “I wonder how soon until you’ll wed Antoine,” Ernestine says with a wistful tone.

  “I wish you could marry him instead.”

  “So do I,” Ernestine says. “We got on so well. I’ve never forgotten him. Since the day we first met, he’s always been on my mind.”

  That’s how I feel about Henri. It’s as though we’ve melded into one being. What affects him also affects me, and I believe it’s the same for him with me. Could Ernestine and Antoine have made that same kind of connection? Can love at first sight really exist? Perhaps it can. It could be that deep down a person recognizes a perfect mate instantly.

  Ernestine has been through so much because of me: falling in love with a young man she can never have is probably as bad as all she’s endured in prison.

  “I’m so sorry you had to suffer in my place,” I say.

  “It was terrible,” Ernestine tells me, “but I’ve done it for so long that it will be difficult to go back to not being a princess.”

  “I’d gladly let you take over for me.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Not now. The horrible years are over. Now everything will be grand balls and sumptuous dinners and beautiful clothing once more.”

  “I don’t want that,” I insist. I gaze at Ernestine, my dear childhood friend. “Would you really like to go on being me?” I ask.

  A seed of hope has sprung to life within me.

  “I would love it,” she says, “but, of course, that can’t ever be.”

  The carriage rolls to a stop and for a long moment Ernestine and I grip each other’s hands. What’s happening?

  There’s a quick rap from outside the curtained carriage window. Pushing aside the curtain, I see it’s Mechin. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m just stopping here at Charenton to water the horses. We’ll be going again in a moment.”

  Thanking him, I lean back in my seat.

  Then, with a jolt, I realize what he’s just said.

  Charenton! We’ve stopped in Charenton!

  It’s the village that Mademoiselle Grosholtz told me to find.

  Fate has brought me here.

  And suddenly, I know what I must do. I embrace Ernestine in a sharp, quick hug. “I’m going, Ernestine,” I whisper. “You will be princess. Never tell anyone that you’re not.”

  “Are you mad?” Ernestine asks in alarm. “Where will you go?”

  “I’m not sure. Say you were asleep, and when you awoke I was gone. Maybe I went out to relieve myself and was left behind. Perhaps I ran away. It doesn’t matter. You’re the important one. They won’t go back for me. And if they do, they won’t find me.”

  Ernestine grabs my arm. “Whe
re will you live?”

  “I’m not sure. You go and enjoy being a princess. I know you’ll continue to be wonderful at it.”

  Madame de Soucy stirs in her sleep. She opens her eyes, readjusts her position, and then drifts off once more.

  Outside, a horse whinnies, reminding me that I have only a short while to make my escape.

  Hugging Ernestine once more, I crack open the carriage door and check that there is no one around. Blowing a kiss, I grab my bag, pull my shawl around my shoulders, and slide out of the carriage. “Until we meet again, dear friend,” I whisper.

  In the distance, I see Mechin walking back toward the coach. I inch around the back and stealthily slide into the darkest part of the road until I find the cover of some thick bushes. Panting with excitement, I crouch there until the carriage rides away, watching it recede into the distance.

  Slowly, I stand and survey my surroundings. The moon has risen high in the night sky and lights my way. The wind shakes the foliage, making me shiver. There’s a barn just across a field. Letting myself in, I spend the hours until dawn buried under a pile of hay inside its walls. When the brightening sky breaks through the barn’s wooden slats, I struggle out of the hay, brush my clothing, and set out walking down the road in search of the LeFleur farm.

  The man on horseback of whom I ask directions knows of the LeFleur farm, so it’s not difficult to find, though it’s about five miles away. With my bag slung over my shoulder, I head toward it, walking quickly on the road between yellow-brown fields lying dormant for the winter. Occasionally, I see sheep and goats nibbling on hay that someone has laid out for them. The bleating of the sheep makes me think of how Mama and I would play at being shepherdesses in our field.

  When I arrive at the LeFleur farm, I’m charmed by the sign on the gate, a plainly rendered painting of violets and the name of the farm. How simple and pretty it is. The stone house beyond the wooden gate is equally cozy and welcoming.

  But now what do I do? I don’t truly know what I’m searching for. If anyone were to ask me, what would I say? I’ve been told to come here, but I don’t know why.

  Heading up the wide lane toward the house, I decide to ask for employment. That will at least get me through the door. After that, I’ll see whatever there is to see.

  Nervously, I step onto the front porch and rap on the door, my heart hammering.

  A plump, white-haired woman in a plain, apron-covered dress answers the door when I knock. “Excuse me,” I say, “I’m hoping you might have a job for me.”

  The woman looks me over and her expression is kind. “What kind of work do you want?”

  “I’ll do anything. I can read and write. I’ve worked as an artist’s assistant. I can clean. I’m a quick learner.”

  A soft smile appears on the woman’s face. She opens the door wider and gestures for me to enter. “We need help in the kitchen making the jellies and jams. You’ll also have to help with the pickling and canning, which should be complete by now but isn’t.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Do you mind goats and sheep?”

  “I love them.”

  This makes her laugh. “What’s your name?”

  How do I answer that? I don’t want to say Ernestine de Lambriquet. What if someone comes looking for me? “Anna Marie Grosholtz,” I say.

  “You’re from Alsace?” the woman asks.

  “My grandfather was,” I say, thinking of Dr. Curtius. “I’ve always lived in Paris.”

  A suspicious expression appears on the woman’s face. “Why are you so far from home? How did you get here?”

  This time I tell the truth. “My parents and other relatives were guillotined for unintentionally angering the revolutionaries. My brothers and sisters have all died from sickness. I have no family left, and my friends have fled or been imprisoned. I’m on my own and want a safer life in the country.”

  Suspicion has softened into sympathy, and the woman puts her arm around me. “If you’re a good worker, you’ll have a place here. The LeFleurs are kind, honest people. I’ve worked for them since I was a girl your age. My name is Celeste.”

  In the kitchen, two cooks, one tall and older, the other petite and about twenty, work at the large stove, stirring big pots. The wooden table is laden with apples, carrots, and potatoes. “Here are Sophie and Monique,” Celeste tells me, then turns to the cooks. “Anna Marie will be helping you.”

  I scrutinize the women. Were they perhaps servants back at Versailles? But I’m sure I don’t know them, nor do they give any indication that they recognize me.

  “Welcome, Anna Marie,” says the taller woman, Sophie. “We need your help. Those apples won’t be crisp for much longer if we don’t use them.”

  Monique hands me an apron and a paring knife. “Start with the apples and then peel the potatoes.” She sees my hesitation and adds, “This knife is tricky. I’ll show you how I like to do it.”

  “Thank you,” I say, grateful for her help. I sit on a stool at the table and discover that it’s not really difficult to peel an apple or a potato. Before long I’m slicing them and the kitchen fills with mouth-watering aromas as the maids bake apple pies and make applesauce. “The Christmas meal has to be readied,” Sophie explains. “Then we’ll start canning.”

  After several hours of peeling, chopping, and baking, Monique places a slice of apple pie by my side. “Take this upstairs to the governess. The children nap at this hour, and I usually like to send her a snack. You’ll find her room at the top of the stairs.”

  I take the pie and climb the stairs. The door of the top room is ajar and a blonde woman sits with her back to me, writing at a desk. “I have a pie for you, Madame,” I say.

  Slowly, the woman turns. Her expression is friendly at first but immediately becomes wide-eyed with surprise.

  I freeze in place, shocked, and she knocks over her bottle of ink as she stands.

  It’s Brigitte — the beautiful Belle Zulima!

  Alive!

  “Brig —”

  “My Mousseline Serieuse!”

  The plate I’m holding crashes to the floor.

  “Mama?” I ask, trembling.

  Her arms open wide to embrace me, and she takes a halting step forward. “Yes! Yes! My child! My angel! It is I.”

  And I know deep in my heart that it is.

  “Mama!” I cry as we fall into each other’s arms. We hug and weep, laugh and smile, until we’re exhausted.

  “How, Mama? How can this be?” I finally ask.

  Mama shuts the door, guiding me to a small couch, where we sit. “It’s all very strange to me. Listen. After my execution, my spirit hovered over my body, not quite believing that I was dead. I had to see my children one last time. As soon as I thought it, I was transported back to the Temple prison, where I hugged Louis-Charles, so sick, so mistreated.”

  “I’m sure he was comforted even if he didn’t know why,” I say. “He’s died, you know.”

  “I didn’t know,” Mama replies, her voice cracking once more. “How they tortured him,” she adds, shaking her head. “At least he’s free of them, at last.”

  “What happened after you left Louis-Charles?” I ask.

  “Then I longed to see you, so I traveled to where you were sleeping so deeply that I was certain you had died. It grieved me so much that I longed to be taken from this world at last. I heard female voices calling me to them. I thought they were angels summoning me to heaven, and so I gladly went.”

  “Mademoiselle and Rose …” I realize breathlessly.

  “When I traveled toward the voices, I found they were two women in a workroom, and a woman was lying on the table.” She points to herself. “She was the woman whose body I now inhabit.”

  “Brigitte,” I tell her. “She died on the same day you did.”

  “The women said words in some strange tongue, words that lulled me into a trance. When I awoke, I was looking out of the eyes of this lovely woman. I’ve been alive in her body ever
since.”

  Once more, I fall into her arms, so overwhelmingly grateful for this miracle.

  We tell people we’re sisters, since Mama now looks too young to be my mother. I call her Antonia and she refers to me as Anna Marie. Our story is that we were separated because of the Revolution but have been searching for each other. Everyone can feel our joy at being reunited.

  “How did you get here?” I ask her the next day as I feed the goats in their pen and Mama watches the two small LeFleur children, a girl and a boy, run in the adjacent field.

  “When I realized I was still alive, I remembered this farm and the sweet sign in front. I’d passed it as a young girl on my way to the French palace where I was groomed to become a queen. I never forgot the lovely simplicity of it.”

  “You told Mademoiselle Grosholtz?”

  “Yes. After she left, I walked for many weeks, sleeping in barns and on the side of the road. I was half starved by the time I reached the front gate. I collapsed right at the sign, but the LeFleurs found me and nursed me to health. Then, when they discovered I could read, write, and speak several languages, they engaged me as a governess for their children. I’m so happy here. LeFleur farm is the place I was hoping to re-create at the Petit Trianon.”

  “This is the model for our country home?” I ask, amazed.

  “Yes, and now we’ve found our way here, to the real place of my dreams.”

  It’s strange how a life I once would’ve considered boring now seems wonderfully tranquil and safe. Perhaps I’ve grown old beyond my years.

  * * *

  I long for news of my friends, but it’s hard to come by. One day, Sophie comes back from a trip into the village of Charenton with a newspaper. “Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte has married the duc d’Angoulême,” she says casually, tossing the paper on a side table. “I hope that poor girl finds some happiness at last after all she’s suffered.”

  Smiling, I inspect the paper and see a drawing of Ernestine in a lovely wedding dress standing beside Antoine. In the picture they both seem radiant with happiness. But then I feel a pang. What’s happened to Henri? Will I ever see him again?