Madame Tussaud

by Michelle Moran

  “Then we can meet at the same place on Friday nights and you can tell me.”

  We stop in front of the marble courtyard, where the king looks out every morning from his bedchamber down the Avenue de Paris. “Will you give my love to Edmund and Johann?”

  “If you will kiss Curtius and Maman for me.” He doffs his hat. “Now it’s back to the menagerie.”

  Chapter 17

  MAY 4, 1789

  France revealed itself in all its splendor. And I asked myself, what muddled minds, what ambitious, vile men, for their own interests, are trying to break up this whole, so great, so respectable, and dissipate this glory?

  —MARQUIS DE FERRIÈRES,

  REMARKING ON THE ESTATES-GENERAL

  ALL OF FRANCE HAS BEEN WAITING FOR THIS DAY. NOW THAT it’s here, every person in the town of Versailles is watching. Even God, from His place in the heavens, must be looking down at this magnificent assembly of the Estates-General in Versailles’s Church of Notre-Dame. It is a pageantry of silks and velvets and gold that would have gladdened the heart of the Sun King himself.

  “Push to the front,” Rose Bertin says. When I am too demure, she uses her parasol to make our way through the crowds. “You see?” she exclaims. “That’s how it’s done.”

  We are standing so close to the altar now that I can see the individual fleurs-de-lis embroidered into the gold and purple cloth draping the chancel. The king and queen will preside over the roll call of the bailliages before leading a procession through the streets of Versailles to the Church of Saint-Louis. There are so many people that it’s impossible to see anything but the space in front of me. Somewhere in the crowd, Marat and Camille are watching, while Robespierre is sitting with the members of the Third Estate.

  The clock strikes nine, and as the trumpets begin to sound, the entire congregation turns. But there is nothing to see. No sign of the royal family or the men who will take the velvet seats beneath them. “The dauphin was ill this morning,” Rose whispers to me. “I had to dress Her Majesty while she was tending to him.”

  But as the time passes and the twelve hundred representatives begin to shift in their seats, I hear women say, “The queen is probably searching for another gown” and “Perhaps she forgot what day it was.” When the man next to us posits, “Perhaps she is asking her lover for one last baiser before she goes,” Rose Bertin answers him loudly, “She is with the dauphin, who is ill and may die.”

  This shames those around us into silence, but it is another hour before the royal couple arrive, preceded by a fanfare of trumpets and fifes. As soon as they appear, there is a collective gasp. The king and queen have come dressed as the true regents of France. From head to toe the king gleams with diamonds. In the cold light of the chancel, they shine like raindrops. Rose points to the gem in King Louis’s hat. “The Regent Diamond, the largest in the world.” Which means the queen must be wearing the world’s second largest. It sparkles from her hair, and smaller gems catch at the light from the bodice of her gown.

  “There’s no necklace,” I say, and Rose sniffs her response, as if to reply, Little surprise, given the scandal of the Diamond Necklace Affair. But the queen is still shimmering, a silver snowflake to the king’s bright gold. And behind her comes Madame Élisabeth, dressed in the most exquisite gown I have ever seen her wear.

  As the royal family approach, the congregation of Notre-Dame bows. First the clergy, then the nobility, then the Third Estate. Only the members of the Third Estate aren’t bowing. They are standing! Over six hundred men are standing with their hats on their heads and their legs unmoving.

  “They’re refusing!” Rose grips my arm. “They’re all refusing.”

  The nobility look to the clergy in confusion. Is this a sin? The king is the manifestation of God’s will, the blessed leader. I can see shock register in the queen’s eyes. Then the king takes his place to the right of the choir screen while the queen and her ladies take their seats to the left. The performance must go on, whether or not the dauphin is ill, whether or not the king wishes it so.

  Beneath the altar, on long velvet benches, are the king’s most important men: the Comte d’Artois, the Comte de Provence, the Swiss-born Minister of Finance, Jacques Necker. They are all pretending that this terrible snub has not happened. But up close, I can see that the queen is strained. She must be thinking about her son, wishing that she could be with him instead of here.

  Two by two, the representatives of the First and Second Estates approach the king. They bow first to him, and then to the queen. The roll-call ceremony is long and boring, but everyone is waiting to see what will happen when the Third Estate’s members are called. When the first representative’s name is announced, I am sure my heart stops. But the first man bows, and then the second. The queen exhales visibly, and Rose relaxes her grip on my arm.

  “Now that they stand before God’s altar,” someone says, “they aren’t too proud to show their respect.”

  When it is all finished, I wonder if perhaps I haven’t dreamed that first slight. The trumpeters begin to play, joined by harpists and men on fifes. Then Rose and I pour into the streets with the rest of the assembly. After two days of rain, the sun has made its way through the clouds, gilding the courtiers in their embroidered stockings and the clerics in their golden robes. The men of the Swiss Guard have lined the road from the Church of Notre-Dame to the Church of Saint-Louis, and they stand at attention like a row of toy soldiers. It is useless to look for my brothers. There are hundreds of guards, and ten times as many people.

  “We can stand here for the procession,” Rose says, “but as soon as it’s over, we must be the first into Saint-Louis. I want to see the Princesse de Lamballe’s gown. I didn’t design it.”

  “Perhaps the court is attempting to find less expensive marchandes?”

  “If the princesse wishes to use inferior cloth, then that is her decision. Vendors at the Palais are selling burlap sacks cheap. Perhaps she’d like to wear that.” Rose will see the gown, inspect it, and tomorrow she will know the name of the marchande who sold it and for exactly how much. It is what I would do if I learned of a rival modeler in Paris.

  The trumpeters herald the start of the procession, and the three estates begin their walk to the Church of Saint-Louis, where they will all attend Mass. I’ve brought paper and ink, but there’s nothing of this procession I’m likely to forget. Next to the king, the queen and Madame Élisabeth look dazzling in their jewels. Behind this glittering trio, the king’s brothers and their wives carry a canopy over the holy Eucharist. Following them are the members of the clergy in their long cassocks and wide, square bonnets. Then come the nobility, who have all put on their hats, plumed like those of the courtiers of Henri IV. It’s like stepping back in time nearly two hundred years. The silks … the brocades …

  Rose sighs. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  I wish Henri and the rest of my family could be here for this. I wish all of France could see the pomp and majesty of our monarchy. There are two hundred and ninety-one nobles, three hundred clergy, and six hundred and ten members of the Third Estate. But for every representative, there are five times as many people lining the roads. Though the applause is deafening, no one shouts, “Long live the king!”

  “There is Lafayette,” Rose says breathlessly. “And Duquesnoy!” She is pointing out the important nobles as they go by. Then she grabs my arm. “The Duc d’Orléans!”

  “I don’t see him.” The nobles have already passed. Now the Third Estate has come into view, dressed in black coats and black tricorn hats.

  She points wildly to a large man walking among the commoners, and for a moment, I feel sick. “He changed!” I exclaim. “That’s not what he was wearing in Notre-Dame.” As the crowd realizes what’s happening, there is thunderous applause. The Duc d’Orléans, a cousin of the king who should be walking among the nobility, has dressed in plain black and is marching with the Third Estate.

  Women begin waving the
ir handkerchiefs in the air, and though the crowd was silent when the king passed by, someone shouts, “Long live the Duc d’Orléans!” The cry is taken up all along the roads, and as the cheers grow louder, the Duc bows his head, a humble subject showing his solidarity with the people.

  I think of Madame Élisabeth, walking beside her brother. What must she feel—what must any of the royals feel—to hear their subjects calling for the Duc instead of the king? The Duc has turned this entire occasion into his own masquerade, a devious fraud to manipulate the people’s passions.

  “And look who else is marching with the Third.” Rose points. “The Comte de Mirabeau!”

  Everyone has heard of the hideous and pockmarked comte, who took a beautiful young heiress and forced her into marriage. After seeing her in the marketplace, he bribed one of the girl’s servants into letting him visit her chamber. Then, while she was sleeping, he slipped into her bed and swore to the household that he was her lover. What could her father do? Her engagement to another man was canceled and a marriage to Mirabeau was arranged to save her honor.

  “I have heard,” Rose says, “that Mirabeau corresponds with the Marquis de Sade.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. They are both despicable men.”

  The cheers for the Duc d’Orléans have died down, and as the procession passes, we follow the estates into the Church of Saint-Louis. The candles flicker in the darkened sanctuary, illuminating the paintings and ancient tapestries. But it’s the queen’s dress, as pale and silvery as the moon, that is even more dazzling in this light.

  There is a tense silence as the congregation waits for Henri de La Fare to give God’s blessing on the Estates-General. As the thirty-seven-year-old bishop from Nancy reaches the pulpit, there is something in his face that makes me wary.

  “Behold,” he begins, “the King and Queen of Extravagance!” He points to the queen and Louis XVI, but the king has nodded off. Only those who are close to the altar can see. The bishop gives an entire sermon chastising the royal couple for their expenditures. He compares Marie Antoinette’s gowns to the tattered rags belonging to the people in the streets. He condemns her for attempting to escape court life in a mock peasants’ village. “Does she know what it’s like to be a peasant?” he thunders. “Does she know what it is to starve and sell the milk that you are too destitute to keep?”

  It is terrible. Rose closes her eyes rather than see the queen’s humiliation.

  “We must find ourselves a king,” he sums up, “who hears his people, who feels their pain, and who controls his wife’s appetite for devouring this nation!”

  The entire church is silent. Even the queen’s enemies are in shock. Then suddenly there is joyous applause. It rouses the king. The walls resound with whistling and cheers. God must be ashamed. If these people believe that divine displeasure has caused the rain to come and their crops to fail, what do they believe will come of this?

  “Let’s go,” I say, and Rose follows me out.

  “Shall we meet again tomorrow?” she asks quietly. It is the first official meeting of the Estates-General. Madame Élisabeth will be expected to be there.

  “We can meet in the galleries,” I offer.

  “Yes.” She is distracted. Vague. “I would bring an umbrella,” she adds. “It may rain.”

  We part on these words. There is nothing more to say.

  When I return to Montreuil, there is no mention of what has passed. But when Mass is finished, I can see that Madame Élisabeth has been weeping.

  Chapter 18

  MAY 5, 1789

  On our Nation’s stage, only the scenery has changed.

  —JEAN-PAUL MARAT

  AN ENTIRE HALL HAS BEEN BUILT ON THE GROUNDS OF THE Hôtel des Menus Plaisirs for the purpose of housing the Estates-General. It is a room so high and wide that it’s impossible to believe it hasn’t been here for a hundred years. On three of the four walls, public galleries have been constructed, and from any of these benches you can see the stage where the royal thrones have been placed, and the rectangular space for the speakers below.

  Just as Rose predicted, it’s raining. All morning the heavy torrents have fallen in thick gray sheets. The hall is lit by chandeliers, and so many candles are burning that the smell of wax overpowers even the scents of powder and musk. But perhaps it would be better if the chamber was dim. If I were the queen, fanning myself compulsively in this warm, close hall, I would not want people to read on my face just how devastating this morning has been.

  Necker’s opening address has gone on for nearly three hours, and he has no solution for filling the nation’s empty coffers. So he speaks about the expensive American War. How supplying the Americans with frigates and troops to battle the British has nearly bankrupted the nation of France. The Minister of Finance rings his hands. If we had only saved instead of spending …

  “There’s the American ambassador,” Rose whispers. She’s been using the spyglass in her fan to search for Jefferson. “Look at that waistcoat.”

  “Did you discover who made the Princesse de Lamballe’s gown?”

  “Madame Éloffe. As I suspected.” She continues searching the crowds. If I were wise, I would be doing the same. Curtius went to the trouble of purchasing a lorgnette fan for me, with a brass and ivory spyglass set in the center. The artist has cleverly painted the blades so that the telescope looks as if it’s part of a hill where a girl is strolling along with her lover. Every woman in attendance has a similar fan, some with jealousy glasses that tilt out at a ninety-degree angle, others with lorgnettes set in the wooden pivots.

  But Necker’s speech is riveting to me in its failure. By now, I have memorized every line on his face and curl in his wig. No one thought of acoustics when building this hall, and the speakers must shout as if it were a barn. Only those with seats close to the floor can hear what’s being said. Necker is tiring, and finally his voice is defeated. He passes his papers on to someone else to finish.

  There is an audible groan from the audience, people shifting in their seats and searching their bags for something to eat. Finally, it is the king’s turn to address the assembly. As slow and heavy and short as he may be, there is a majesty in his bearing today. But as he begins, his voice trembles. “There is the need for change,” he says. “There is the need to economize.” Yet nothing he says is far-reaching or inspiring. It is clear he is too afraid of angering the first two estates to suggest any radical reform.

  When he is finished, he raises his hat and replaces it on his head. Out of tradition, only the nobles and the clergy are supposed to do the same. But the Third Estate don their hats as well! Members of the Third Estate are supposed to remain bareheaded in the presence of their monarch. For the second time in two days, they are purposely showing disrespect for the king.

  There is a silence in the hall so loud it’s deafening.

  That evening, the papers are absolutely triumphant. EQUALS IN THE RUE DES CHANTIERS, one reads, and another writes, A NEW TRADITION IN THE HÔTEL DES MENUS. And the pictures are no better. In one image, a fat monkey wearing a crown is shown speaking to a group of chickens. “My dear creatures,” he says, “I have assembled you here to deliberate on the sauce in which you will be served.”

  When I enter Montreuil, I hide these papers in my leather bag. It is late, but I meet the Marquise de Bombelles in the hall, and she says solemnly, “The princesse would like to see you. She is in the salon.”

  This summons can mean only one thing. She regrets calling me here to Montreuil when I’ve done nothing to distract her from her family’s humiliation. A pair of ushers hold open the doors. Inside, Madame Élisabeth is on her settee, surrounded by three of her dogs. A fire warms the intimate room, crackling and popping. It is the only sound, and the princesse makes a sad and lonely picture.

  “Marie.” She doesn’t rise. “Tell me what you thought of the Estates-General.” She indicates a chair opposite her, and I look around. Are there spies hidden behind the tapestries? Are they waiti
ng for me to divulge secrets about the Third Estate?

  “It is only us,” Madame Élisabeth promises. “It isn’t a trap.”

  I can feel the blood drain from my cheeks. Is this better or worse than being dismissed? I look down at the dogs, curled like warm, sleek muffs. “They weren’t kind,” I say.

  “No,” the princesse agrees. “And I’m wondering why.”

  My God, where do I begin? “I believe it is to do with money.”

  “Yes. The money the Third Estate is being forced to pay.”

  I nod. At least she understands this. “It makes them bitter. They see the queen in her diamonds, and they wonder how it is that they can’t afford milk.”

  Madame Élisabeth’s cheeks burn red. It was a poor example, too close to Henri de La Fare’s critique.

  “It’s no fault of the queen’s,” I assure her. “If she were to come in a simple muslin dress, they would criticize her for that as well.” I open my bag and hand her the papers from today.

  “They sell these on the streets? In Versailles?”

  “And all over Paris, Madame.”

  It is terrible to see her shock. Her eyes well with tears. “They all think the Duc would make a better king. The Duc d’Orléans! Do they understand what they are hoping for? He’s a spendthrift. A traitor! And look at the names they are calling the queen!” She is trembling, turning the pages so fast that she cannot be reading. “Is this what the Third Estate really believes?”

  Her wide eyes meet mine, holding my gaze. I should lie, as Edmund would want me to. But I cannot. “Yes.”

  “And your family?”

  “They are loyal,” I say swiftly. “This comes from the malcontents in the Palais-Royal. They have been angry for years. Decades.” These words are shattering to her. I can see the mask crumbling in front of me. But I owe her the truth. “They want a constitutional monarchy.”