Madame
Tussaud’s
Apprentice
Kathleen Benner Duble
F+W Media, Inc.
Dedication
For Liza Drury Duble: Your courage under fire and your resiliency under pressure are awe-inspiring. You are one tough girl and Boston Strong. I love you—always and forever.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Author’s Note
Further Reading and Resources Used
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Chapter One
Paris
May 1789
“Mon Dieu, I will kill you, you ruffians!”
A man’s voice booms from below, and my heart leaps to my throat. The homeowner has come back, and we are about to be discovered robbing him.
I hold a diamond brooch in my hand. Quickly, I look over at Algernon. He pauses, two pearl earbobs in his palm. What are we to do? There is only one set of stairs out of here, and already I can hear the homeowner’s feet pounding up our one means of escape.
Quickly, we stuff the jewelry into our pockets. In the next instant, Algernon is at the window, throwing open the sash and pushing back the shutters. He grabs my hand and hauls me toward the window. Without questioning him, I throw one leg over the sill. Then I pause. We are only one story up, but even from this height, the drop looks menacing. Fear makes itself a knot in my stomach. I don’t want to do this. Before I can change my mind, Algernon pushes me over.
I tumble out, and then halt abruptly in my descent as his hand grips mine. I look up into his green eyes, and he gives me a wicked grin. Then he lets go, and I fall onto the cobblestones below.
I stand and shake myself, feel in my pockets. The jeweled pin is safe.
A shot rings out, and my eyes fly frantically to the window above. With relief I see Algernon’s curly head appear, and in less than a moment, he, too, is over the edge, his strong hands grasping at the windowsill. He lowers himself down as far as possible. Then he lets go, and I catch him as best I can.
I help him to his feet and quickly push him up against the side of the house just as the homeowner’s face and his musket make an appearance in the window above us.
“I am going to get the sergents du guet,” the man shouts.
The homeowner cannot see us now, as we are pressed against his house, and so he is unable to shoot. It is a dark, rainy night, and there is no one about, or we would have to worry about strangers accosting us and holding us until the owner could come back down the stairs. But luckily the street is empty, so we can wait until he moves from the window, and then run.
It will be a race now, to see if we can escape. My blood pounds in my ears with anticipation.
Algernon and I stand pressed close together against the house, my body touching the length of his. In spite of the cold and the rain soaking us, warmth radiates from him like the sun.
At last, the owner pulls his head back inside so he can fetch the police, and Algernon and I are off. As fast as we can, we scramble down alley after alley, but it is not long before we hear the whistle of the sergents du guet. They are in pursuit, and I almost laugh with the thrill of the chase. I love these moments of danger, when Algernon and I stand on the edge of capture.
Down streets and alleys we dash, the footsteps of the law heavy behind us. Soon my lungs burn, and I don’t know how much longer I can go on. Then Algernon grabs me about the waist and whips me into a neighborhood tavern. The barkeep gives us a look, raises a tablecloth, and we slide under the table. The barkeep drops the cloth back into place.
With my knees pulled to my chest in the darkness under the table, I cannot still the beating of my heart. It gallops with furious pulses, and I fight to control my breathing, for fear it will give us away.
Algernon must be feeling the same rush, for he takes my hand and silently holds it to his chest. Beneath his linen shirt, I can feel his heart racing, and the solid roundness of the pearl bobs we have lifted.
Algernon grins. He is so close, I can see the fine hairs on his upper lip.
“Where are they?”
An authoritative voice rings out in the tavern.
I hold my breath.
“Pardon, monsieur?” the barkeep says in an unhurried voice. “What are you saying?”
I have to stifle a giggle. Algernon’s eyes meet mine, and I can see my merriment reflected there, for the barkeep is a friend, a patriot in our cause, and will never betray us.
“I asked you if anyone has come in here just now,” the sergent demands. “I am in pursuit of two young robbers.”
“Non, monsieur,” the barkeep says. “As you can see, there is no one. I am just about to close for the night. My patrons have all left.”
“And no one has come in here in the last few minutes?” the sergent demands.
“Non, monsieur. Did you not just ask me this?” the barkeep says.
“You lot are all alike,” the sergent mutters, and I can almost picture his annoyance, “protecting each other, lying for each other. But stealing is stealing, mon ami. And if I find you have been harboring these criminals, you will hang for it.”
With that, we hear his footsteps and the sound of the door closing behind him. Still, Algernon and I do not move. We will have to stay here a bit longer to ensure the sergent leaving is not a ploy, for we know all the tricks of their trade.
In the silence that follows, I hear the sound of glasses clinking together as the barkeep does the dishes. Now that the danger is almost past, I am exhausted and relieved that we have escaped. I lean my head on Algernon’s shoulder, and he rests his head gently on mine. He smells like fresh air, and I breathe him in, trying to ignore the smell of stale ale that surrounds us.
Then, I hear the door creak open again.
“Did you forget something, monsieur?” the barkeep asks, his voice bland, as innocent as a babe.
The door slams shut in anger, and once more, Algernon and I have to stifle a laugh. It will be a long night as we wait for the sergent to give up.
• • •
I feel a slight tickle on my nose. I sigh and turn over, lost in a dream of brie cheese, bread, and thick slabs of pâté. The tickle comes again, bringing me fully awake to the coughs and snorts of the other criminals in our alley—and to two big brown eyes and a slobbering tongue.
A small mongrel puppy stares at me. I start with surprise, and Algernon laughs.
He is holding the puppy’s tail, which he has been brushing against my cheek. Algernon has let his soft heart get the best of him again, and has rescued yet another starving thing.
“Isn’t he adorable?” he asks me, smiling.
He lifts the puppy onto his lap, and the animal licks his face. Lucky dog, I think.
Algernon’s hair is matted from sleep, but it cannot hide the boyish mischief of his eyes.
“Oui,” I agree, grumbling as I shift to avoid a rock that is digging into my side. “He is adorable. But now, we will go hungry feeding this beast, as we did the last one.”
Algernon frowns when I mention the other puppy he rescued. That animal was r
un over by a carriage not two days after we found him. The people inside the carriage hadn’t even bothered to stop. The dog had been a bump in the road, nothing more. They had driven off, laughing. The coachman hadn’t even looked back.
The thought of the poor animal’s demise and the callousness of the people who ran him over tires me even more than the lateness of last night.
I pull my threadbare blanket up over my head. “Let me sleep just a little more, Algernon.”
“There’s no rest for criminals,” Algernon reminds me. “The day’s a-wasting, and since the jewels we took last night will be too hard to fence for awhile, we have to work today or go hungry. So we’d best get moving.”
He reaches out and pulls back my cover, and then draws back abruptly when he sees that I only have on a chemise. I quickly gather the blanket back up around my neck.
“It was warm last night,” I say, in explanation of why I wear so little.
He nods, and his eyes slide away.
I sigh. I want so badly for us to be together, and I think Algernon wishes it too. But I know there is little hope of it, and this knowledge frustrates me unmercifully.
I am homeless and in this alley struggling to survive because I have lost my entire family. The Comte d’Artois’s men shot my papa when he accidentally chased a rabbit onto the Comte’s private grounds. Six months later when Maman and my little brother, Jacques, died from starvation, I had to take to the roads, unable to stay in our cottage, as I could not work the Comte’s fields and pay his taxes alone.
But Algernon is here because of Julia—the girl he had known from childhood, the girl he had loved. She was killed by the guards of His Majesty, Louis XVI. They beat her to death one day when they discovered them both stealing firewood for their families. They forced Algernon to stand and watch as they pummeled the very life out of her. The guards had held him tightly so that he could not save her. When they were done, they had simply walked away, leaving Algernon to carry her body home.
After, he came to Paris, determined to take revenge against the rulers of France and their guards. He speaks little of Julia, but I can tell, he thinks of her often. He is wed to her memory as surely as if they were truly wed in life. Julia is the ghost who floats forever between us, creating a barrier I cannot cross.
“That was some fun last night, wasn’t it?” he says. I know he is trying to lighten the mood between us. “Too bad we missed some things. Do you remember the house well enough to draw it, so we can try again?”
I scowl. How can he even ask me that? I have been with him for over a year now. He knows me better.
Algernon grins at my look of displeasure. “Of course you can.”
He hands me a stick, and immediately familiar desire prickles my fingers. I have never been able to resist the temptation to sketch what I have seen.
“So draw,” he commands me.
I begin scratching in the dirt, the stick rough under my fingers. I draw a map of the rooms and hallways of the mansion we were in last night.
When I have finished, I look up to find a look of satisfaction on Algernon’s face. “You’re a wonder, Celie.”
I have a sudden memory of Maman looking at a drawing of mine and calling it a wonder, too. I remember her telling me my drawing abilities were a gift from God. I don’t know if what she said is true. In this world of have and have-nots, I sometimes wonder if there even is a God.
Either way, what I do know to be true is that drawing has always come naturally to me. I remember everything around me with just one glance. I can tell you how many wrinkles there are around the eyes of the flower seller down the street, or the exact color of the tail on the horse the marquis rode this morning, or how many baguettes of bread the baker had in his shop window five days ago at two o’clock in the afternoon.
Some people find my abilities spooky and witch-like. But Algernon loves me for them, and his praise always makes my bad moods evaporate, as it does today.
“We’ll hit them another time,” he says, leaning back against the stone wall of the seedy tavern in our alley. “You’ll pick their lock easily again. You always do.” He smiles. “Those fingers of yours can draw the details of any house or pick the most complicated lock better than any thief I’ve ever worked with.”
His praise swells my heart.
“But today, we will hit the Palais, no picking of locks, ça va?” he asks.
The Palais is the latest of our schemes, and a very successful one at that. At the gaming tables in the Palais-Royal, we find unsuspecting card players, and we relieve them of their cash.
Here is our ploy: Algernon goes to the square dressed as a gentleman in laces and jacket and shoes with fake silver buckles—clothes I stole for him on my first successful heist. He takes a seat at the gaming tables, waiting until a willing partner sits down to play him. Behind his opponent, I sit dressed as a blind beggar girl, tapping my cane and calling for alms. But in reality, I am not tapping for money at all. Instead, I am tapping out a code Algernon and I have devised, letting Algernon know the cards his victim has in his hand.
The idea was conceived by Algernon and is très intelligent. Already we have fed ourselves for days, without anyone suspecting.
“We should get going, then,” he says.
“I have to dress,” I remind him.
He reddens with my words. “Of course.”
When he turns, I hurry to throw on a dirty skirt and shirt.
In the alley around us, other ruffians are waking with the rising of the sun, some stirring up the ashes of fires gone out, some foraging through goods stolen last night. The smell of stale urine and unwashed bodies is overpowering.
There is a scuffle down the street, where two men are arguing over the livres they pickpocketed last evening. The men drunkenly stab at each other with their knives. I cringe at the scene.
I will never get used to the violence that often erupts here. After Papa’s death, any kind of physical altercation makes my knees weak. I still remember the bullet hole in my father’s forehead and the white coldness of his skin when I reached out my hand to touch him. My poor Papa was a man who never hurt anyone, who was gentle and kind and soft-spoken, and who taught my brother, Jacques, and me to always use our minds and not our fists—but he was killed by a gun. The irony of this makes my blood churn.
I turn my head. I cannot watch this fight in the alley. If there is blood, I will vomit.
“I’ll not let anyone touch you,” Algernon says to me over his shoulder. As usual, he has read my mind. “I’ll expose you to the pox first.”
I give a small laugh. I appreciate his gallant defense of me, but I certainly do not want to contract smallpox, with its heavy fevers and ability to mar the face and body with thick, round scars. Sometimes, when robbing houses, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and I know that my skin is smooth and fair. I may be poor. There is nothing I can do about that. But I refuse to be ugly just to ward off the men in the streets of Paris.
Algernon turns back around, a look of surprise on his face at my merriment, for usually I am voiceless when violence is involved.
He puts his hand under my chin, lifting my face until I am looking straight into his grass-green eyes. His fingers are warm on my skin.
“Best day of my life when I found you, Celie Rousseau,” he whispers. “I promise to always keep you safe.”
Our faces are so close that our breath mingles in the warm spring air. His eyes are soft. My heart thuds hard at his words of fidelity. Could today be the day he forgets Julia?
“I would have died if it weren’t for you,” I tell him.
I think of the first time I saw his handsome face, as I lay dying in a ditch beside the road to Paris. I remember how gently he lifted me up and gave me something to eat, and nursed me back to health.
He pauses, as if to say something more. Then his eyes glaze with memory.
“And I’d have lost a very good artist and a master lockpick to boot,” he finally says, his voice r
ough. He drops my chin and turns, gathering up what we will need for our work today.
Disappointment washes over me. And as quickly as it comes, I squelch it.
Why should I expect this morning to be different? And truthfully, what could we actually expect to share?
The reality is that a relationship in this alley would be less than romantic. I have seen couples here, quarrelling over a scrap of meat, no roof or bed to warm them. Do I really want my relationship with Algernon to become like that?
So while my heart might beat a tad too quickly when his handsome face is near mine, or my skin may ripple with pleasure when his fingers graze my arm, there is no room in a criminal’s life for love. There is only room for one thing here: survival.
I grab a cane and don a pair of dark green spectacles.“Let’s go. I’m ready to rob the wealthy of Paris.”
Algernon laughs as he stands, his white teeth gleaming against the dark tone of his skin. “You are always ready to rob the wealthy,” he reminds me, “as am I.”
I hear the bitterness in his voice and know he is thinking of her and of how much he wishes to change the plight of the poor in this country. And I am reminded of the way the Comte’s men turned me out of my home and sent me on my way, a young girl all alone. Bitterness binds my resolve with his.
I am ready. I am ready to steal from those who stole from me.
I follow him as he walks out of the alley, and into the light of the day, the puppy in his arms. A few streets later, as per our routine, he leaves my side to make his own way to the Palais, and I take the shorter route, hobbling and banging my cane about as if I truly am blind.
When I enter the Palais, I find my usual spot, sit down, and put my dirty cap in front of me for coins. Early spring sunshine has encouraged the people of Paris to meander out of doors on this fine day. The smell of coffee fills the air. I watch the people strolling about, the women’s wide skirts dusting the cobblestone courtyard, the men’s hats doffed to one another as they move from shop to shop, talking, laughing, seeing and being seen. Tonight, we will most likely have full bellies.
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