“Oh, let’s go!” Madame Élisabeth decides. “We haven’t been to the palace in days. How often am I able to show another artist the splendor of Versailles?”
I try not to look too triumphant.
THE GLASS berline that takes us to the palace is lined in velvet. Its rich silk cushions are embroidered with gold, and the horses are as richly dressed as the king’s Swiss Guards, with white plumes that bob and sway in the breeze. I wish my mother could see me, sitting across from Madame Élisabeth and the Marquise de Bombelles as if I had been born and bred to court. We are chatting about the royal family’s paintings, and the art they have collected in Versailles since Louis XIV made this his home. I now realize how small our collection of paintings appeared to him, like visiting a rustic cottage when all you’ve known are châteaux.
I have not seen the palace in over a decade. I was sixteen when Curtius took me to sketch the Grand Couvert for a tableau. Although I can remember everything about the queen—down to the color of the ribbon in her hair—I recall very little about the work of the architect Louis Le Vau and the landscape architect André Le Nôtre except that it was magnificent. Now, as the carriage rounds the bend, the Palace of Versailles comes into view, and I am overwhelmed.
Perhaps I gasp, because Madame Élisabeth says, “It’s like a fairy-tale palace, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I breathe. At one time, when Louis XIII had determined to build his hunting lodge on this spot, the ground was marshy and unsuitable for living. But now! Now our Bourbon kings have tamed the wild, replacing the wetland with garden terraces and perfumed groves. Down Grand Avenue, bronze nymphets rise from the polished marble of a sprawling fountain. Like a giant mirror, the still waters reflect the entire length of the château. There could never be a more beautiful palace in all the world. No wonder the Duc d’Orléans covets his cousin’s crown.
The Swiss Guards recognize the princesse’s carriage, and we are allowed to pass directly into the Marble Courtyard. As we alight from the coach, courtiers are already crowding the upper windows of the palace, pointing and whispering behind their hands. I look down at my skirts, then at my shoes, to be certain I haven’t covered them in mud. What are they staring at? I look at the Marquise de Bombelles, who says archly, “Welcome to Versailles.”
“Ignore them,” Madame Élisabeth suggests.
“Are they staring at me?”
“Of course. You’re with us,” the marquise says as we walk toward the palace. “They want to know who you are and if you’re someone they should be plotting against.”
“They are simply ambitious,” Madame Élisabeth says with far more kindness than my brothers would have. “They all want grander and better privileges.”
“Yes,” the marquise adds bitterly, “such as the right to the candles.”
To light them? To snuff them out?
“Every evening,” she explains, “all of the candles in the palace are replaced.”
“Even if they’re unused?” I ask.
“That is the tradition,” Madame Élisabeth says gently.
The marquise looks at me, and I know at once she disagrees with this practice. “Only a few courtiers are allowed to collect them,” she says. “And the ones who do may make fifty thousand livres a year at the market.”
My God. That is ten times what we collect at the Salon de Cire, even in our best years. That is more than most noble families take in anywhere in France. No wonder the men and women here are scratching at each other’s eyes.
“And the clothes,” the marquise says, as we approach the doors. “Nothing the queen wears may ever be worn twice. So who is to get those taffeta dresses and silk riding habits? She must have five new pairs of shoes every week. If she doesn’t want them …”
“The dames order them anyway,” Madame Élisabeth finishes. “There is certainly waste.”
“Which is exactly how the courtiers want it!” the Marquise de Bombelles exclaims, suddenly passionate. “They are wolves, prowling around the henhouse. And when the hens are gone, they will blame the farmer that there were not enough hens and eat him, too!”
“So I should not expect a warm reception,” I say, trying to make light of it.
Madame Élisabeth puts her gloved hand on my arm. “It’s not anything to worry about, Marie. That is the true gift of Montreuil. We can stroll these grounds, then escape to tranquillity whenever we wish.” We have reached the château, and Madame Élisabeth says proudly, “My brother’s palace.”
A pair of guards open the doors, bowing as we enter. I am inside the Palace of Versailles, being led through the halls by the sister of the king. I take in everything. The wide murals, the gold-framed paintings, the Savonnerie carpets and rich velvet drapes. I must memorize the magnificent features of Versailles the way I memorize a person’s face. When I return to the Salon de Cire, we will re-create a different room each month!
Madame Élisabeth narrates as we walk, ignoring the bows of courtiers who stop talking as we pass to look longingly in our direction. They are like beggars, but there are no scraps to be had from her. It is not at all like I remember. I didn’t realize how many people were allowed to crowd these halls. Some of them are courtiers, but many, I can tell, are hangers-on. Others wear clothes that are ill-worn, and I am certain they have not bathed in many months. Their scent lingers heavily in the air, and even the violet powder and orange blossom pomade used by the courtiers cannot disguise it. They are looking for a handout, much like everyone else. How do my brothers keep the royal family safe when anyone may enter the grounds? I am shocked to see uncivilized men relieving themselves in the vases. I see feral cats and stray dogs marking territory and making deposits. Madame Élisabeth and the marquise fan themselves for air, and I do the same.
I am shown salons dedicated to the Greek gods Hercules and Mercury. Because I am an artist, like the female painter Vigée-Lebrun, who has painted many images of the queen, I am shown inside chambers that would otherwise be closed to me. Everywhere, there is art and references to the greater days of mankind, when men built temples of marble so high they kissed the brow of heaven. I commit it all to memory, from the Salon of Apollo, which served as the throne room for the Sun King himself, to the white-and-gold baroque chapel where Louis XVI wed our queen. Then I am taken to the Hall of Mirrors, and everything that has come before is suddenly erased in the face of such beauty. I stop walking.
“It is my favorite as well,” the princesse confides. She passes a triumphant look to the marquise.
The entire length of one side of the hall is lined with mirrors, seventeen mirrors so large that at night the light of the chandeliers must be reflected indefinitely. I can imagine the polished parquet floors gleaming beneath the candlelight like a lake. Like the wide sea of courtiers preening and posing in front of the mirrors, I am unable to keep from stealing a quick glance. I want to know what it looks like to be promenading through the palace with the king’s sister on one side and a marquise on the other. The rich fabrics of our gowns are reflected back to us in the glass. Everyone is watching, and the sharp clicks of courtier heels suddenly fall silent as they stop to bow before the princesse. I imagine the tableau I could create of this scene: The Princesse on Her Promenade!
But the hall is teeming with a hundred possibilities. There is The Courtier in White, a man dressed entirely in one color, from his silk stockings to the plumes in his hat. And The Man with Diamond Buckles, whose shoes reflect dazzlingly in the glass. I want to know these men’s names. I want to study their faces and re-create them in the privacy of my workshop at home. Imagine the fortune we could bring in if we could reconstruct the Hall of Mirrors inside our exhibition! But the high, frescoed ceiling alone would take a lifetime to imitate, even if we hired the best painters from the Palais-Royal. Still, it’s a thought I will tuck away. If Henri can create the illusion of magic, why can’t we create the illusion of a palace?
In front of everyone, Madame Élisabeth touches my arm and guides me toward a view of
the gardens. The hall also possesses seventeen arched windows opposite its seventeen mirrors. Symmetry truly is the essence of beauty, not only in architecture but also in people. My most beautiful subjects have faces that are perfectly symmetrical. You can give me a group of people’s measurements, and without seeing them I can predict which man is the most handsome and which woman the most attractive. I told this once to Henri. When he refused to believe me, I asked him to use my caliper to take the measurements of two friends. He was to choose one of exceptional beauty, and one that Nature had overlooked. I forbade him from telling me which was which, and when I chose correctly, Henri was forced to admit that measurements never lie. I do not have a symmetrical face.
Dozens of women are walking the garden paths outside, and Madame Élisabeth says, “Those are the queen’s dames du palais.”
“Unfortunately,” the marquise breaks in, “we don’t have time to wander outside today.”
I turn to Madame Élisabeth, to see if the princesse might overrule her, but this time she nods. “Yes, we would not want to be late for vespers.”
I look back at the women laughing intimately behind their wide, jeweled fans. What’s the point of being at Versailles if my only view will be the orangerie outside of Montreuil? Madame Élisabeth smiles at me, and immediately I feel guilty for thinking this.
“Did you enjoy your tour?” she asks.
“There could not be a more splendid palace anywhere in existence.”
“Except in the kingdom of heaven.” Madame Élisabeth touches the cross at her neck. “Do you ever imagine what it will be like there?”
“I’m afraid my thoughts are more of this earth,” I admit.
“I imagine it always. The angels, the music, the gilded halls and crystal staircases …”
As we leave, each door is opened for us by a servant in blue and white silks. I wonder why the princesse would wish for heaven with all of this at her disposal. But perhaps there will be things mortals cannot imagine. Perhaps in heaven, I think rebelliously, the halls will not stink of urine.
I bring my square handkerchief to my nose again and see that Madame Élisabeth and the marquise have done the same. For all the beauty of the château, a stench has followed us throughout the halls, and here it is the worst. It is terrible, really. If I were better acquainted with Madame Élisabeth, I would ask why the king doesn’t insist that his private residence be private.
We leave the palace and ride back to Montreuil, arriving in time for vespers. Because Madame Élisabeth is sister to the king, she has been granted the privilege of her own private chapel. As the bell tolls four, everyone working in the small château gathers inside. There are at least two dozen of us, but I am the only one directed to the same pew as Madame Élisabeth. It is the place of honor for the newest guest, and I do not expect I will be seated here tomorrow. But today, I am at the side of Madame, praying with the greatest woman in the land after the queen herself.
While the priest sings Deus in adjutorium meum intende, I think of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. It is a few blocks from our Salon on the Boulevard du Temple, and certainly France’s greatest house of God. Everyone of means attends Mass there on Sunday, and it is a place I can study the nobility for as long as I please. I have modeled duchesses based on what I’ve seen of them in Notre-Dame. I’ve had men exclaim in utter astonishment at how well I’ve captured them in wax and ask how it was possible for a likeness to be so close when the subject had never done a sitting with me.
Unfortunately, there is no one to be seen in here. The chapel is small, and the pews are crowded with farmworkers and servants from the château. It is of no use to the Salon. I look over to study the princesse’s face while the rest of the chapel is deep in prayer and am surprised to see that she is staring at me.
“You do not attend vespers at home?” she whispers.
I flush. “No. Only Sunday’s Mass.”
She nods gently. “God appreciates seeing His flock whenever they come in, even if it’s only once a week. Whenever I cannot steady my mind,” she adds, “I think of the people of France, suffering without blankets in the bitter cold and tucking in their children at night without food. Perhaps, if you find that your mind is restless, you can pray for our people.”
I bow my head, humbled by the princesse’s request. There is no one in France with such a kind heart, and certainly her brother cannot be so different. The Duc d’Orléans must be a terrible man to whisper scandal about these people.
Chapter 9
APRIL 3, 1789
Man’s natural character is to imitate: that of the sensitive man is to resemble as closely as possible the person whom he loves. It is only by imitating the vices of others that I have earned my misfortunes.
—MARQUIS DE SADE
THERE ARE MOLTEN WAX AND ROWS OF CALIPERS, PLASTER molds, and oil paints in small glass jars. Someone has laid out every necessity so that the princesse will not have to do it herself. It is our first day in the palace workshop, and as I watch Madame Élisabeth tie the Marquise de Bombelles’s apron into a bow, it is so reminiscent of home that immediately I am at ease. Madame Élisabeth turns to me, and I see that blond curls have escaped from her bonnet. They put me in mind of Charles Perrault’s story “Little Red Riding Hood.”
“We will start with something simple,” I tell her. The longer I stay in Montreuil, the more molds I will be able to take back to the Salon. So first it will be fruit. When she has mastered that, we shall go on to larger objects. Then, after several months, we will begin faces. I imagine she will want to model her brother and possibly her niece, Madame Royale. If I am very lucky, we shall model them live. “Fruit,” I say, “is very easy to create.”
“Yes,” Madame Élisabeth agrees. “We have done fruit. And flowers in vases.”
I am shocked. “Madame knows the basics of wax modeling?”
“Oh yes,” the marquise says. “She is very good at flowers. But it is faces and bodies she wishes to do.”
“Then you know about calipers and plaster molds?”
“Certainly,” Madame Élisabeth replies. Then she adds, “We would not have called upon someone of such talent to waste time with fruit.”
Then perhaps I will have a new figure for the Salon before the month is out! “Then we will proceed to sculpting faces in clay,” I reply.
“Whose face does Madame wish to begin with?” The king, I wish her to say; the king. There are hardly any angles on his face. Just round, wide planes as easy to mold as an apple.
The princesse turns to the marquise. “Angélique, what do you think?”
“Perhaps the face of our Lord Jesus Christ?”
I am sure my heart stops in my chest.
“I was thinking Saint Cecilia,” the princesse admits. “But it is far more appropriate to begin with our Lord. We can do Cecilia next.”
I am forced to appear jolly as a servant fetches a portrait of Christ, but this is a catastrophe. People pay to see princesses and kings, not the faces of saints! Those can be seen in any church in France. As we wait, the princesse elaborates on which saints she would like to model in the future: Saint Cyprian, who was beheaded with a sword. And Saint Sebastian, who was stoned to death. Plus a tableau of Saint Potamiaena, an Alexandrian slave boiled alive after refusing the advances of her licentious master. It is all very gruesome. Even worse, I think, than our Cavern of Great Thieves. The princesse would like to take her finished models to the Churches of Saint-Geneviève and Saint-Sulpice in Paris. If this is all we are to do, attend Mass and model saints, I must find a way to salvage my time here. Perhaps we can do a different kind of tableau, like The Saints and Their Slaughter. I will have to ask Curtius what he thinks.
WHEN THE CARRIAGE returns me to the Boulevard du Temple, I am shocked by how dull the buildings appear. Many are in desperate need of paint, and none have the cheerful look of Madame Élisabeth’s golden orangerie. I have been gone for only four days, but already I have become accustomed to the grandeur of Montreui
l.
As the driver stops in front of the Salon de Cire, Yachin puts down his sign. The kippah he is wearing is black today, the same color as his curls. When he first came to us I asked him why he wore the little hat, and he told me that it was a tradition among the Jews, a sign of respect for God. It has not been easy for Yachin’s family to be foreigners in this country. Only two years ago our king overturned Louis XIV’s law that forbade the exercise of any religion outside the Catholic faith. But this Edict of Tolerance has not granted Jews the right to citizenship. Perhaps the Estates-General will change this as well.
As I open the door, Yachin offers me his hand. “You’re back already?” he exclaims when I step out.
“I am a tutor from Thursday to Sunday. So tell me,” I say quickly, before my mother and Curtius can come outside. They will have heard the horses and carriage even from the workshop in the back of the house. “How was business?”
“There were thirty-five people yesterday. At least.”
Thirty-five times twelve sous is four hundred and twenty. That’s good. Very good. “And drunks pissing in our urns?”
“None,” he promises. “So did you bring me something? Did you see the queen? What about the king? Is the château as big as it is in paintings?”
“No, no, no, and yes,” I reply. My mother and Curtius come out, dressed in work clothes. My mother embraces me, then pulls back to look at my face. In four days, I am certain I have not changed, but she shakes her head. “Already you are getting thin.”
“I eat every meal.”
“I don’t care!” She raises a finger. “I can see from your face.” She points to my cheekbones, which have always been high, then to my collarbone above the lace fichu.
“Let her be.” Curtius smiles. He pays the driver, then embraces me warmly. “You look the same to me.”
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