Madame Tussaud

by Michelle Moran

  Inside, I search the rooms for any sign of change. But everything is the same. My mother and Curtius follow me into the workshop so I can inspect a pair of headless bodies dressed in muslin gowns. Curtius has completed the two figures of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe. One will go home with Émilie today, and the other will be placed next to her mother and our sleeping model of du Barry. I study the hands and feet, then examine the chests to be sure that the faces I began two months ago will be the same color. It is a long process to create a complete figure. It takes two weeks to perfect the clay model of any head, then another week to create the mold. Once the mold is ready, it is a week before a wax head is finished. Already then, a month has passed. By the time the hair and teeth are added and a custom body is built, two months have gone by. Today, when Émilie comes to claim her model, she will be very pleased. The head and body are a perfect match. All I need do is join the two.

  “This is good,” I tell Curtius. “Exceptional.”

  “Now let’s hear about Versailles!” my mother exclaims. She hurries up the stairs, and Curtius and I follow and sit at the table. She brings us coffee and asks eagerly, “So what is it like? How does our king live? Are there hundreds of servants?”

  I describe the richness of the palace to her. The marble halls, the sweeping stairs, the English gardens that extend to the horizon, though I leave out the stench of the hallways. Then I tell her about Montreuil, how the princesse keeps her own farm and the produce from her orangerie goes to the poor. “She is a kind woman. Not at all what they say in the libelles.”

  “I knew it,” my mother says passionately. “She is a woman of God.”

  “And your work?” Curtius asks.

  “When we’re not attending Mass, we’re modeling the saints.” I imagine I wore the same look when the princesse informed me of her intentions as my uncle wears now. “But I was thinking we could do something original. A tableau of how they died, perhaps.” When I see his brows come together, I add swiftly, “We could bring in a few implements of torture. Cages, irons—”

  But Curtius is shaking his head. “That is common stuff. People can see that in any church in France.”

  “Not a roasting pot,” I say.

  “It’s not enough.”

  “Well, perhaps she will grow tired of saints,” my mother offers. She seats herself next to me. “But tell us about your brothers. Did you see them?”

  “No,” I’m sorry to reply. “Montreuil is some distance from the palace. Madame Élisabeth only goes on special occasions.”

  “Perhaps you can catch a glimpse of Jacques Necker?” Curtius says. “The Minister of Finance is popular with the people, and the model we have is too old.”

  Necker was first to expose royal expenditures in a daring publication called Compte Rendu au Roi. The king’s finances have always been private. Yet he is supported by the taxes of the Third Estate. Is it disloyal to wonder what we are paying for? I am not sure what to think of Necker. Or if I can convince Madame Élisabeth to go back to Versailles. “I can also sketch the Hall of Mirrors. I was thinking …”

  “No more royal tableaux. In a year or two, perhaps, but not now.”

  I frown and look to my mother.

  “The Duc came last night,” she explains gravely.

  “He is actively encouraging revolt,” Curtius says. “He wants us to be a part of it.”

  I am shocked. “Doesn’t he know that you have sons in the Guard?”

  “Yes. But he wants to know if we will be ready to rise should he call upon us.”

  “In what way?” This is treachery. Edmund would say he should be sent to the scaffold. “What does he think to do?”

  My uncle hesitates. “He thinks the revolt must begin with the people.”

  “Things have changed,” my mother adds quietly. “Even I can see that. They’ve taken down the king’s portrait in the Hôtel de Ville. I saw it yesterday on my way to the shops.”

  “They are a good family,” I argue.

  “It’s not about good or bad,” Curtius says. “It’s about who has the money. And right now, that is the Duc d’Orléans. The monarchy is having to borrow money,” he tells me. “They are taking out loans. It may not be prudent to keep making models of them in their silk stockings and diamond aigrettes.”

  And what else are they supposed to wear, I want to ask? When the queen economizes, the nobles cry out. They want the right to the candles, the silk stockings, and the clothes. They want the right to sell off whichever dresses the queen has already worn. The larger, the lacier, the more elaborate, the better. But instead, I say evenly, “I hope you did not give the Duc your assurance.”

  “No.”

  “And what was his reaction?”

  Curtius takes up his pipe from a nearby table and searches for a candle. Suddenly, I realize how dark it is, despite the open windows. “Where are the candles?” we ask in unison.

  “There are no more,” my mother says. “I am saving the ones we have for the exhibit.”

  “What do you mean?” I protest. “We have the money.”

  My mother smiles primly. “And all the money in the world can’t buy them if they’re not available.”

  I think of the thouands of candles in Versailles and the greedy courtiers with the rights to sell them. “What about the black market?”

  “I sent Yachin looking yesterday, and I will send him again tomorrow.”

  Yachin lives just south in the Rue Sainte-Avoye, a fifteen-minute walk. He comes to us at sunrise and leaves at sunset. I wonder how his family is faring. I must remember to ask. I know that he has sisters still too young to work and that his father makes a meager wage as a printer.

  “You should see the shops,” my mother continues. “Yachin stood in line for three hours. I expect we’ll be buying corn on the black market soon as well.”

  Curtius turns up his palms, as if there’s nothing to be done. “The people’s deputies will make their complaints heard next month at Versailles.”

  “So the votes have already been counted? Did Camille—”

  But my mother shakes her head. “No. He didn’t win.”

  “So there will be no marriage after all.” Poor Lucile. I think of her pretty face and trusting brown eyes. Had she given herself to a trade, there would not be this heartbreak. Money and ambition never disappoint. “And Robespierre?”

  “Won easily,” Curtius says.

  I am not surprised. He is the kind of deputy who will represent the Third Estate well. “We should be very careful with our expenditures from this day forward,” I say. “If Parisians can’t afford candles, they certainly won’t be able to afford wax exhibitions.”

  “I don’t know,” Curtius replies. “They are still paying to see the bust of Rousseau, who inspired so many of the Third Estate’s deputies. Perhaps we should make a tableau in honor of the first meeting of the Estates-General. Or perhaps a library scene, with the busts of Rousseau and Franklin on the shelves.”

  Edmund wouldn’t like this. “And whose library would it be?” I ask.

  “How about the Duc d’Orléans?” he offers.

  “The people love him,” my mother remarks.

  “They also love peep shows and dancing monkeys! You don’t see us featuring those.”

  “Then the Marquis de Lafayette,” my uncle says firmly. The hero of the American Revolution, the man who helped France embarrass the British and sever their ties to their American colonies. It was Lafayette who suggested the meeting of the Estates-General. “He was elected as a deputy of the Second Estate.”

  “Is there a painting of Lafayette in the Académie Royale?” If so I can make a sketch, and from that a clay model, and eventually a mold.

  “Even better. I shall invite him to Tuesday’s salon. He is a friend of the Duc.”

  “And he would do this,” I question, “even after you refused him help?”

  “I did not refuse it. I told him that the needs of the Salon must come first.”

  I hol
d my tongue. If the Duc can persuade Lafayette to come, we can ask the marquis to a sitting. I imagine the tableau: The Library of Lafayette.

  My mother asks, “And what of the Cavern of Great Thieves? Two men came yesterday hoping to see the Marquis de Sade.”

  “There is only so much that Marie can do.”

  My mother gives a little shrug. The kind that tells us we can do as we wish, but it will be to our detriment. “And there was another one the day before that.”

  My uncle looks at me. “Isn’t he imprisoned in the Bastille?”

  “Yes.” I hesitate. It is one thing to model prisoners who are about to be hanged, another to model a madman who may someday prevail upon wealthy relatives to set him free. What would the marquis do if he should be released and see himself among the great thieves and murderers of France? “Still, I’m sure we could arrange a meeting.”

  “It is up to you,” my mother says temptingly.

  She is right. If we do not keep up with the times, we might as well exhibit old paintings.

  “PLEASE, MAY I come?” Yachin begs. “Please.”

  It was a mistake to tell him we were going to visit the Marquis de Sade.

  “Absolutely not,” Curtius says firmly. “We are going to see a murderer, not a circus.”

  “But I can carry the bags.” The offer is tempting. “I can hold the ink while you dip the quill.”

  My uncle laughs. “Perhaps you can carry the umbrella over my head.” It is pouring, great sheets of rain that haven’t let up since dawn.

  “Yes!” Yachin exclaims. “I can do that.”

  I give him a look, and his shoulders sag. “I never get to go anywhere,” he grumbles.

  Curtius and I walk on, ignoring his plaintive cries from the door of the Salon. “Did you bring him back something from Versailles?” my uncle asks.

  “Not yet. I’ll find something this week.”

  “Please. Or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  As we pass the sign for The Auricular Communications of the Invisible Girl, I notice that the potted plants on either side of the steps look waterlogged and forlorn. Even the ferns disagree with this downpour. Henri emerges from the doorway, and his long frock coat with silk-faced lapels is already wet. I watch as a raindrop glides down his nose and lands on his mouth. Without noticing, he licks his lips gently and pulls his hat farther down on his head.

  “We tried to hire a cabriolet,” my uncle says cheerfully. “But in this weather—”

  “A little rain doesn’t frighten me,” Henri says, though it will likely be a thirty-minute walk. “But the Marquis de Sade … are you sure?”

  It is me he is asking, as if I am likely to be deterred by a madman in a cell. “Of course. Patrons have been asking for him.”

  “He’s a rapist, Marie.” Henri falls into step with me. “They say he paints his cell with—”

  “I know.” I have heard the stories. Everyone has heard them. This is why we are going. “They’ve warned him we are coming, and he’s agreed.”

  “I’m sure he’s agreed to many things. That doesn’t make him less dangerous.”

  “You can admit it,” I tease him. “A part of you wants to know if the rumors are true.”

  We are the only group outside for some distance. Even the écailles, who sell sugared barley water in the winter and oysters in the spring, have taken shelter beneath the eaves.

  “Not everyone has the same prurient interests as you.”

  “It wasn’t my idea! It was my mother’s.”

  “Like mother, like daughter,” Curtius tells Henri, who looks astonished.

  Because my mother spends her time cooking, everyone who comes to our Tuesday salon imagines she has no interest in the world outside her kitchen. The only man who has never underestimated her is Curtius.

  I look around the gloomy streets and think of Versailles, where everything is bright and cheerful. How will the deputies of the Third Estate feel when they arrive, dirty and hungry, to see the well-fed courtiers in their diamond buckles and ermine muffs? It is bound to be a disaster, and will certainly cause resentment. I recall my introduction to the palace, when the women whispered behind their bejeweled fans and courtiers watched me through the high, arched windows. Though I had been dressed by one of the finest marchandes in Paris and was walking with the sister of the king, it is a place where I could never belong. All the silk and taffeta in the world cannot change the fact that I am untitled.

  As we near the Bastille, the rain drives harder. The streets have turned into rivers, carrying along mud and excrement. Even the boys who are normally crying Passez, payez have abandoned their jobs of laying down boards for passersby who pay a small fee to spare their shoes. So we are forced to cross the streets without them. I lift my hem, and we choose the least waterlogged paths. Henri’s coat is all but ruined. It will take days to clean and then dry by the fire. I had thought to make an agreeable figure in my new hat and rabbit’s fur muff, but I see that I shall be lucky simply to look presentable.

  As we reach the Bastille, I look up at the mighty stone walls. What must it be like to be locked away in a tower so tall that only birds may reach it? The marquis has been in and out of prison for more than twenty years. First, for the brutalization of a young prostitute named Mademoiselle Testard, who was whipped nearly to death by a cat-o’-nine-tails heated in the fire. There were other atrocities committed against the woman, actions with crucifixes so vile that Madame Élisabeth would faint to hear of them. Myself, I wonder if they are true. I wonder, too, about his wife, who is supposed to have hired six young girls at his behest and taken them to the remote Château de Coste, where the women believed they were to act as servants. Instead, they were taken in chains to a dungeon, where it is said that the marquis used whips and heated irons to satisfy himself with them. If this is true, then I will see it in his face. I will know by the eyes and the set of his jaw.

  We cross the drawbridge and pass beneath the portcullis. Henri reaches out to take my arm under the pretense that the ground may be slippery. But I know the truth. This is a haunted place, where men have lost their lives for nothing more than offending the king, a place where no one wants to be alone.

  “Have you been here before?” I ask him.

  “No. My family was kind enough not to request a lettre de cachet when I told them I wanted to follow in Jacques’s footsteps.”

  I laugh, despite the solemnity of the moment. We approach a long table where a dozen guards are playing dice. The men wear the riband of the Order of Saint Louis, and none of them appear the way I would expect prison guards to be, fiendish or cruel. Their wigs are heavily powdered, and their golden military badges catch the light of the candles.

  “I wish to speak with the governor of the prison,” Curtius says. When one of the men asks what sort of business we have inside, my uncle replies, “We have come to visit the Marquis de Sade.”

  A middle-aged man separates himself from the group. The bejeweled hilt of the sword at his side is extraordinary, and his attire is more befitting the court than a prison. “I am the Marquis de Launay,” he replies, “and I am the governor here.” He has dark eyes and a strong, square jaw. He must have been a handsome man in his youth. He looks at our clothes and is obviously shocked that we have chosen to walk in the rain.

  “There were no cabriolets to be had,” Henri explains.

  The marquis sighs heavily. “No. Not on days like this. I will have my men find one for your return.”

  After introductions are made and we pass through the prison, Henri releases his hold on my arm. Despite the forbidding entrance with its iron gate, there is almost nothing menacing about this place. Heavy tapestries have been hung along the walls to keep in the heat, and somewhere—perhaps in one of the cells—a man is playing the violin.

  “Are prisoners allowed instruments?” Curtius asks.

  “Of course,” de Launay says. “Books as well. What else would keep them occupied?”

  “But they m
ust pay for these privileges,” I guess. Why else should the king care if his prisoners are entertained unless it’s to make money?

  De Launay turns to my uncle. “She is quick. Yes,” he says to me as we walk. “They must pay a fee to bring an instrument inside. They may also have coffee, and wine, and their own fire … for the right price.” He winks, and I wonder what else may be had for the right price.

  “It’s not what I expected,” Henri admits.

  “No,” my uncle says thoughtfully.

  Perhaps there are prisoners languishing in the dungeons below our feet. But the ones shut behind these doors of heavy wood and iron do not seem to be suffering. “How many prisoners do you have?” I ask.

  “Oh, not many,” de Launay confides. “Only seven.”

  “I thought there would be hundreds of prisoners,” I admit. “Thousands.”

  “Did you think we were imprisoning a foreign army? How would hundreds fit on the bowling green? There must be room for socializing. Imagine hundreds of prisoners at billiards.”

  Bowling and billiards? “And do all of the men belong in here?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle,” de Launay answers me. “These are rapists and murderers. A few are vicious thieves.”

  “None have come unfairly?” Curtius asks. “Shut up for offending the king?”

  De Launay stops. “Our king is just, Monsieur. Such things do not happen.”

  “What about Voltaire?” Curtius challenges. “Voltaire was sent here.”

  “More than sixty years ago. Those mistakes don’t happen in this reign.”

  “So, for all of Marat’s ranting,” Henri says quietly in my ear, and the warmth of his breath on my skin makes my heart race, “there are only seven prisoners, all of whom belong here.”

  I nod, thinking about the small, enraged man. What would he say if he were walking through these richly decorated passageways and inhaling the aroma of spiced venison in stew? I wonder if the king knows that his prisons smell better than his palace. A clap of thunder echoes through the walls, and although I should be afraid, I’m not. Since my childhood, this fortress has loomed large in my nightmares as a place of interminable suffering. The reality is even more shocking. Tomorrow, I will tell Marat the truth. I will tell them all—Robespierre, Camille, even the Duc, with all of his conspiracy theories.