At last, we rise, my legs wobbly from the effort of maintaining a curtsy for so long. The royal family are all seated near the canal: the king and queen, their children, Madame Élisabeth, and the Comte d’Artois.
“The royal family sitting together would make a wonderful exhibit at the museum,” I say to Manon. “Would you like me to draw it, to send to l’Oncle?”
Manon smiles. “Spoken like a good apprentice.”
From her drawing bag, Manon hands me a piece of parchment paper, a board, and a pencil as the battle out on the water begins. The ships sail into position. The roar of guns and cannons echoes out across the water. The crowds press closer to the banks of the canal, straining to watch the battle. My hand flies across the paper.
The crowd claps as the French ship’s cannon rips into its enemy counterpart. I move from Manon to get a better view, ducking under one man’s arm, stepping on another lady’s long dress, apologizing as I go.
But I stop abruptly when I spot Jean-Louis standing just behind the crowd. His face is tear-stained. What can he be crying about?
“Are you not enjoying the entertainment?” I ask him when I reach him.
“I am in trouble, Celie,” he wails. “Papa has been ill with fever this past week, and he asked me to do his job so that no one will notice. I was to deliver the marquis de Lafayette’s luggage to his room, but it is locked. And I cannot get in. We could be let go if I cannot find a way to deliver the marquis’s suitcase to him, and my papa and I will go hungry again, just like we did before Papa got this job.”
I hesitate. I know Manon will not approve. But I know what it means to be hungry and without a home.
“Come, Jean-Louis, show me to the door,” I say, making up my mind, and hoping I will not come to regret it.
I follow Jean-Louis up the stairs inside the Petit Trianon until we stand in front of a large, elaborately decorated door painted in gold leaf. Beside the door sits the marquis’s luggage.
“Do you really think you can unlock it?” Jean-Louis asks.
I set down my pencil and drawing board and examine the lock closely. It is more complicated than other locks I have seen. I take one of the pins from my hair, and a large piece comes tumbling down, showering us both with powder.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I bend down to look once more at the lock. The mechanism inside is fairly complicated. I insert my hairpin, carefully twisting it the way Algernon has taught me. I listen as the tumblers inside make a slight clicking sound. Then I rise and twist the handle of the door. Still locked.
“Are you sure this is the right room, Jean-Louis?” I ask.
He nods, tears coming to his eyes again.
“Stop crying,” I tell him. “Crying never helps anything.”
I bend back over the lock. “I don’t know why someone would lock up an empty guest room so tightly.”
“The king does it,” Jean-Louis says, sniffling and wiping his nose. “He loves locks. He is always installing locks he makes himself on the doors to empty rooms around the palaces.”
“Then why don’t you just go ask him for the key?” I ask in exasperation, as once more the door will not open.
Jean-Louis’s eyes widen. “I cannot just go up and ask the king for a key.”
“Why not?” I snap, as my third attempt does not unlock the door, either. I am getting anxious. It won’t be long before Manon notices my absence. “Especially if he is the one who put the lock on here in the first place.”
“It is for us to figure out,” Jean-Louis says. “The king wishes to become a master locksmith, and so, he practices on his servants. It is a game to him.”
I straighten up and stare at Jean-Louis. “A game?”
Jean-Louis nods. “He wants us to try and unlock it. He is trying to build a lock that no one can undo. We must each try four times, and only then, can we go to the king’s man and ask for help. But if we are late doing our duties, we take the blame.”
At this, Jean-Louis begins to cry again. “This is the second time this has happened to me. If I don’t have the luggage in the room by the time the entertainment is over, and the marquis comes to change his clothes, I will be let go.”
Jean-Louis’s words roar in my ears. The injustice of it all decides me. If it takes all day, I will unlock this room. I bend down over the lock, listening carefully as I move the hairpin back and forth.
From outside, the sound of cheering and the roar of guns grow louder. Sweat drips down my face and gathers in my armpits. But at last, I hear the small clicking noises that indicate that the lock is coming undone. Two more flicks of my wrist and I stand, wiping my brow. Then I put out a hand, and open the door. Jean-Louis starts crying again. But this time, I assume, it is with relief.
• • •
When I finally arrive back at the canal, the naval battle is ending with the enemy ship sunk, and the actors who have played its sailors splashing around and crying for help. The queen claps and laughs, obviously delighted with the spectacle. The courtiers and servants join in the jubilation.
I do not applaud, and I see Manon frown at me. I don’t care. The naval battle has probably cost thousands of livres to create. And watching it after just unlocking a door that the king has secured at random for his strange hobby piques my anger.
I am furious that the king spends his time making locks rather than concentrating on running his country fairly. How can I have been here these past few weeks and done nothing to help out our cause?
I have finished my drawing for Manon, and I have not started anything to show the royals’ lavish lifestyle. At least in this, I can get busy.
I take out the extra piece of parchment Manon has given me and begin to draw a second sketch of the naval battle. I have waited too long to go back to the Petit Hameau and draw there. The scene before me is wild in its excesses. It should be enough to incite a response in the people of Paris. I sit upon the banks of the canal as the battle draws to its finale, and sketch away. I draw the king and queen, chatting casually with their courtiers, the day bright with sunshine as the captain of the French ship stands at the bow of his replica and makes a final speech of heroic proportions. At length, a shadow falls across my drawing.
“You have done too much, Celie.” Manon’s voice is sharp. “We do not have the room to recreate the naval battle itself in our space at Le Salon de Cire.”
Nor would you if you could, I think bitterly. She is unwilling to risk the wrath of the royals, and so she would never display anything so controversial. Silently, I hand up the first finished drawing to Manon, who looks it over. The drawing is a bland one, showing the king and queen sitting quietly and regally.
“Very good, but why then are you drawing a second piece?” she asks.
“For Algernon,” I say, as I continue to sketch. The canal and the ships are finished. The king and queen are sketched in. I can finish the detail later. I begin outlining the other spectators, trying to quickly capture it all in my mind, for the entertainment is drawing to a close.
“Wouldn’t it be more appropriate for you to sketch the quarters in which you are living, since your criminal companion is so concerned about your welfare?” Manon asks.
My hand stops sketching for a moment. “Algernon loves naval battles. I thought to let him see how much I am enjoying the entertainments at court.”
“I am not sure this is the appropriate picture to be sending back to Paris,” Manon says, her voice steady but determined. “A less extravagant one would be more to your friend’s liking, I think.”
Manon is aware of the dangers in conveying such a drawing to someone outside the court system. She knows it would display to the poor all the senseless waste of the court. Her words make my blood boil.
“I am working for you, as you wished. Isn’t that enough? Will you now tell me what I may or may not draw, too?” I snap.
There is a loud roar from the crowd. The entertainment has come to a close.
The king rises abruptly. Everyone grows quiet,
dropping swiftly into a deep bow or curtsy. I rise and curtsy, too, but my pulse pounds in my ears as the king passes me. He looks hot and tired, even though he sat during the performance with a servant fanning his face.
I hate him. I hate them all, sitting there so smugly, spending money as if there was as much of it in France as water droplets in the canal before us. I hate Manon for keeping her mouth shut and letting this excess continue while others starve. She has the means to let the people know what happens here, yet she will not use it.
I am disappointed in myself, in how I have wasted these past few weeks simply teaching Madame Élisabeth and drawing for l’Oncle’s insipid exhibits back in Paris. I should have been advancing the cause of the people.
I spy Jean-Louis in the crowd, his head almost to his knees as he honors the very man who has almost lost him his job. I am tired of doing nothing that might poke or prod this king into action. And then, suddenly, I know what I can do.
I smile, imagining Algernon laughing with delight over my new idea. It will be great fun for me, and it will teach this king a lesson, even if it is only in a small way. At least, it will be something.
The Comte d’Artois pauses by me. “Have you seen something funny?”
“She has just enjoyed the entertainment, Monsieur le Comte,” Manon answers smoothly. “She smiles because it has pleased her to see it.”
“I believe the girl can speak herself, Mademoiselle Manon,” the Comte snaps. “You forget I know just what kind of tongue she holds in that pretty head of hers.”
“A tongue that has grown civil and ladylike,” Manon answers.
“Or perhaps she has a serpent’s tongue,” the Comte replies, “smiling pleasantly, but forking her tongue with insolence when no one is looking,”
“She has been here going on three weeks now, monsieur,” Manon says, “and she is well-received. Your sister has grown quite fond of her.”
The Comte snorts. “My sister is a fool. She trusts everyone. But you see, I know better, for storm clouds are gathering even as we speak. And it is urchins like this one here who are bringing them together.”
My face grows hot, as my thoughts slide unbidden to the drawing that even now I hold in my sweaty hands.
“I will be watching you, girl,” the Comte says, his voice low and heavy with threat. “I will be watching you very closely.”
“Watch her as closely as you like, Monsieur le Comte,” Manon says, smiling. “You will find here only a loyal subject who honors her king and queen.”
As the Comte walks away, Manon turns to face me. She takes my half-finished drawing from my hand. “I will send this along, the way it currently is. But do not prove me wrong in what I have said to the Comte, Celie, or you shall have me to deal with. And I warn you, if you do not like the Comte and his methods, you will like mine even less, for I will have your brother arrested should you cross me.”
She turns and walks away. I pause, imagining guards coming for Algernon and dragging him off. And yet, I know he would not want me to sit here passively, either. He would tell me that prison is the risk we must take if things are to change in this country.
And so I march back toward my room, feeling determined. For Mama and Papa and Jacques, for Algernon and Nicholas, for all of the people of France, it is time for some action. It is time to make the king realize that two can play a game.
Chapter Nine
I sneak out of my room late that night. Candles flicker eerily in the corridors, sending shadows bouncing about on the walls. Though the hour is late, servants still scurry about, answering the late-night calls of the royals or their guests. I know no one will question why I am up; still, I cannot be caught carrying out my plan. Earlier, I had felt the thrill of doing something dangerous. I could picture Algernon and his delight at my idea. I could see his white teeth gleaming with laughter and his eyes dancing with delight. Now my head pounds with the fear of being caught, alone.
I creep up the stairs to the very top of the Petit Trianon. I will methodically make my way through the palace floor by floor. Quietly, I tiptoe down the corridors, stopping by each door and examining it carefully. When a servant approaches, I draw back into the shadows, hoping I have not been spotted.
At last, I find what I have been looking for: a door that has a lock that is different from the traditional ones on the doors of the palace, a lock that is of the king’s making. I take out the hairpins I have brought along and get to work.
As before, it takes several tries. This lock is completely different from the one Jean-Louis asked me to undo. I have to admit that the king is actually an excellent locksmith.
Slowly, I work my way through the palace, corridor by corridor, floor by floor, until at last, I fall into bed exhausted and triumphant. Altogether, I have unlocked over twenty doors. I smile to myself as I fall asleep.
• • •
Madame Élisabeth is visibly upset when Manon and I arrive the next afternoon. She is on her knees praying when we enter her rooms, and she rises with a decidedly unhappy face.
“Last night, someone undid all the locks my brother installed in this palace,” she says. “He is beside himself, demanding to know who has done this.”
Manon shoots me a look. I keep my face neutral and calm, but inside, I am grinning with joy. The king is upset. Perhaps he will give up spending time making locks, now that he has seen that they are not impenetrable, and turn his attentions to the needs of his people.
“He is so distraught that he insists on my attendance at the public dinner tonight,” Madame Élisabeth continues. “I have begged him to excuse me, but he is adamant. You know how he hates that display. And I hate it even more.”
I have never seen the dinner, but I know that once a week, the king and queen have their meal outside where the public can come and view them eating. I am interested to see this spectacle, for I cannot imagine what it must feel like to watch your sovereign stuffing himself while your own stomach growls with hunger. I have a sudden memory of Maman’s distended belly as she gave Jacques and me the last of our food, forgoing eating herself. Starvation is not a pretty thing to witness.
Manon slowly lays out the brushes and pencils for our lesson that day. “I understand, madame. But one meal is not so bad. The people who come to watch enjoy the experience very much. You are giving them a great deal of pleasure.”
Madame Élisabeth sighs. “Why would someone enjoy seeing us eat?”
“For the same reason people pay to see you in wax at Manon’s museum,” I say, and then bite my tongue. I have spoken without being spoken to first—breaking a rule of the thick etiquette book.
But Madame Élisabeth laughs at my transgression. “Perhaps you could make a display of us eating for your museum, and we will no longer be required to put on these dinners.”
Manon pauses. “That is an excellent idea, madame. If we have your permission to be there, I will have Celie do a drawing today and send it off to Dr. Curtius.”
Madame Élisabeth nods. “If it will keep me from performing this obligation again, you may attend with my blessing.”
A servant enters the room and whispers into Madame Élisabeth’s ear. Madame Élisabeth’s face grows white, and she rises quickly. “I am sorry, Manon, but we will have to forgo today’s lesson. I must deal with another matter.”
We curtsy deeply as Madame Élisabeth sweeps from the room.
I wonder why she is in such a hurry, what business would be so pressing that she would cancel our time together. Madame Élisabeth so rarely varies her routine that whatever it is, it must be important.
“I must write to l’Oncle about setting up this new exhibit,” Manon says after the king’s sister has gone. “You are free this afternoon, Celie, but you must be ready and dressed for this evening. A display of the king and queen eating dinner will bring in much money for us.
“And I have heard that your cohort in crime was delighted to get your drawing,” Manon adds, her eyes on my face. “He asked if you could
send another.”
A delectable shiver passes through me at the thought of Algernon holding the picture I had in my hands just yesterday. It is as if he is in the room right next to me, and I bless the king’s riders who are swift in delivering mail to Paris and back.
“Would that be all right?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager, although I am already considering what I can draw next that will bring a smile to Algernon’s face.
Surprisingly, Manon nods her agreement. Her sudden willingness for me to send another drawing worries me. Why is she being so agreeable? My palms begin to sweat at the idea that perhaps she has discovered what we are up to, and is using Algernon and me. Perhaps she has made a pact with the king’s men to help them track down Algernon, so they can arrest him while he is distributing Mirabeau’s incendiary pamphlets.
I have no way to warn Algernon of this. I will simply have to hope that he is as wily as ever, and as cautious as he has been in the past.
“You may take the time this afternoon to do a sketch,” Manon says. “And you may draw whatever you wish.”
With these words, I grow more certain. Something is definitely not right. I will have to watch my step.
• • •
A short while later, I leave my room, on my way to the gardens. My mind is spinning, trying to decide how to draw something for Algernon that could warn him while still giving Mirabeau something he can use. Fear for Algernon makes me shiver. I know we must take some risks, but I still wish to bring about change with as little harm as possible to Algernon and myself.
So consumed am I by my dilemma that I do not notice the slightly open door until the sounds of crying from within make me pause. Jean-Louis is sitting on a chair, sobbing his eyes out. Is he in trouble again? Has the king installed new locks?
I am about to go to him, when there is movement from behind the half-shut door. Madame Élisabeth appears and kneels down next to Jean-Louis. “I am sorry, Jean-Louis. Your papa was so faithful to our family. I wish I could have saved him.”
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