Madame Tussaud

by Michelle Moran

  “That will never happen!” She rises, and as she does, the doors of the salon swing open. Her little dogs scatter from the settee, jumping and nipping at the heels of the king.

  “Your Majesty.” I stand and then sink into my lowest curtsy. Madame Élisabeth snatches up the three papers I’ve brought.

  The king is smiling. “Please, sit,” he tells me.

  I take a seat on a backless stool while he occupies the embroidered chair. Even in the Salon de Cire, I was never this close to the king. He smells of alcohol but doesn’t appear to be drunk. “I think it went well today.”

  “Your speech was excellent,” Madame Élisabeth says kindly. “The people could hear you at the back of the hall. Ask Marie.”

  The King of France looks to me. “Were you in the audience?”

  “Yes. Your Majesty’s voice carried to the very farthest seats.”

  This makes him happy. My words—the words of a common woman—have delighted the king. “I have very high hopes for this assembly,” he reveals. “Even with their little mutinies, these are sensible men. Men who want the best for us and for our kingdom.”

  I flinch at this astonishing ignorance. But Madame Élisabeth does nothing to correct him.

  “The queen thinks I am being too kind about this hat rebellion. But the people love me. We must allow the Third Estate their small defiances.”

  I wait for the princesse to produce the newspapers. I wait for her to tell him about the libelles. But instead, she offers him bread and tea.

  Chapter 19

  MAY 8, 1789

  Create citizens, and you have everything you need; without them, you will have nothing but debased slaves.

  —JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU

  THE PAPERS ARE CALLING HIM ROB-PIERRE, ROBESTS-PIESSE, even Robertz-Peirre. In the Salle des États, where everything echoes beneath the barrel-vaulted roof and the speakers compete with chatty audiences to be heard, only his friends from our salon, Camille and Marat, have gotten it right. Their articles detail his sudden rise to prominence, stressing how this provincial lawyer from Arras has taken the Estates-General by surprise. The Journal de Paris National, the Courrier de l’Europe, even the daily Journal de Paris, have something to say about him. I wonder what Henri and Curtius think, reading his name from the Boulevard du Temple.

  Although neither Madame Élisabeth nor I have visited the Estates-General again, it’s impossible to avoid the news. It’s in the halls, on the streets, and in hurried whispers during Mass. When the princesse asks me if I’ve heard of this man, this Robespierre, I admit that I have some acquaintance with him.

  “He is bringing the entire Estates-General to a standstill,” she accuses, and she’s not wrong. As it is, each estate has one vote when ruling on taxes or fiscal reform. Since the clergy and nobility will vote together to preserve their privileges, Robespierre is insisting that the votes of every deputy be counted. The Third Estate fought to gain greater representation, but it means nothing if each estate is to have only one vote. On Friday night, when I meet Wolfgang outside the Grand Commune, it’s with a packet of letters as thick as a book.

  “You must be bored in Montreuil,” he jokes, since he has only one letter for me. But he looks well. And again, his shoes are new. This time the buckles are gold.

  “Gifts from Abrielle?” I ask.

  “She is very generous.”

  “Is that part of her charm?”

  He dismisses my question with a laugh, then takes my arm and we sit together inside the Grand Commune. Food will not be served for a few hours, and we are alone with the richly paneled walls and wooden tables. “I’m surprised you haven’t found a wealthy comte, or a rich merchant in the Palais-Royal.”

  “Are you talking to Curtius?” I demand. “How would I have time for the Salon if I were caring for a husband and children?”

  “You might find a husband who doesn’t want children.”

  “Are there men who don’t want heirs?”

  My brother thinks about this. “You don’t have any desire for marriage?”

  “Not if it means giving up my work. And it will. Children will come, and how will I tutor, or make models, or promote? He will want me by the fireside, knitting bonnets and pouring tea.”

  “It’s hard for a woman, isn’t it?”

  “Are you feeling sorry for me,” I tease, “now that you’re courting Abrielle and neglecting to write?”

  He smiles. “A little. Here.” He hands me his single letter.

  “That’s all your news?”

  “It’s long,” he says, then adds swiftly, “but promise you’ll burn it as soon as you’re done.”

  “And all of mine.” It goes without saying that none of them must be shared with Edmund. “Will you show these to Johann?”

  “If you want me to. I think he can keep secrets. Are there things in these he shouldn’t read?”

  “No.” I lower my voice. Though we’re alone, there must be cooks in the kitchen. “It’s just the news I’ve heard of the Estates-General. The princesse is convinced that Robespierre wishes to overthrow the king.”

  “If she knew that he dines with the Duc in your salon, it would be the end of our careers.”

  “Well, she’ll never know it from me. And the Duc wouldn’t say.”

  “Robespierre might talk.”

  “No. Their paths will never cross.” I am sure of this. “Not unless it’s in front of Rousseau’s grave.”

  My brother finds this amusing. “He’s odd, isn’t he? Funny that he should be the one to stir up their passions. I suppose he quotes a great deal from his idol?”

  “Every chance he gets.” I repeat, “ ‘There can be no patriotism without liberty, no liberty without virtue, no virtue without citizens; create citizens, and you have everything you need; without them, you will have nothing but debased slaves.…’ He wants a country with citizens, not subjects.”

  My brother’s eyes have gone wide. “He should be careful.”

  “Why? He has nothing to lose. He borrowed coats from Curtius before leaving Paris. He doesn’t have a single livre to his name.”

  “He has freedom. And he must have a family.”

  “The king would never arrest them.” I tell Wolfgang about my meeting with Louis XVI. How certain he is of the people’s goodness, and how he wishes to make a speech to inspire them.

  My brother shakes his head. “Then I hope he feels inspired to hear more from Robespierre.”

  A SMALL CROWD is waiting for me when I return to the Boulevard du Temple. Curtius must have told our neighbors that I was coming, and they have all turned up to hear the news. There are Henri and Jacques, Yachin and his father, even the butcher and his portly wife. More people appear as I descend from the carriage, and Curtius proudly leads them up the stairs to our salon. There is no time to inspect the exhibit or see the new room Henri and Curtius have built. Everyone wants to hear what’s happening in Versailles. I tell them what I know without compromising Madame Élisabeth or the king.

  “We’ve been hearing a great deal about Robespierre, that he’s become an important voice in the Assembly,” Henri’s brother says. “He was such an unassuming man.”

  Everyone around Jacques Charles agrees.

  “They say his voice carries across the entire hall and he holds the Third Estate in a sort of trance. Do you think that’s what they’re in?” the butcher asks.

  “They are simply tired of shouldering the financial burden for the entire nation,” I say.

  The men begin to debate: Will the votes be counted by order or by head? Will the privileges of the first two estates be abolished? My mother brings out fresh rolls and pâté. It is a sign of our neighborly goodwill that we are willing to share our bread. I notice that Yachin eats enough for two. “Yachin,” his father, Abraham, scolds when he notices I am watching. He explains shamefacedly, “I think he is growing.”

  “Let him eat.” I smile. “He works hard enough.”

  Abraham nods, and Yachin rea
ches for another roll. “It was very kind of you to give him such a special token from the queen. My wife was tremendously proud. She took it to all of our neighbors in Saint-Martin.” This is the quartier where most of the city’s Jews are living. It is terribly poor. “My wife and I are loyal to the king, but we have great hopes for the Estates-General.” He strokes his long beard. It is a habit with him. “We want citizenship. As it is, we must register in Paris and renew our passeport every three months. The fees for this … Well, most Jews cannot afford them. But where else can we go?” He shakes his head. “At least in this country, we have the freedom to pray. There is a synagogue on the Rue Brisemiche. And there are shops that follow the dietary laws of Kashrut. We have built a community,” he tells me. “There is a hebra for the poor and the heder where my son can learn Hebrew. Eventually, the king must see reason. Look at what the Estates-General has accomplished: in one week, he has learned that the people have a voice. And if the deputies can speak out, then so can the Jews.”

  “Is that what Zalkind Hourwitz is doing?” Henri asks. I had not known he was listening to our discussion.

  Abraham looks across the table in surprise. “You read the Courrier?”

  “And the Chronique. I try to read as many literary journals as I can.”

  “Hourwitz has been sending his petitions for many months,” Abraham explains. “And he’s making some progress. Perhaps by this time next year …”

  This is the kind of hope that is all over Paris. In the salons, in the streets, in the cafés that have overrun the Palais-Royal. Everyone is hoping for great things from the Estates-General.

  At noon, Yachin returns to his place outside and our guests begin to leave. Only Henri stays, since he and Curtius are waiting to show me the new exhibit. We go downstairs, and when Curtius throws open the doors to the room, I gasp. It is an exact replica of Jefferson’s study, from the paintings on the wall to the mahogany desk. I touch the wooden shelves, where leather-bound books have been fitted between marble busts and potted plants. “How … how did you do this?”

  “We had Jefferson’s help,” Henri admits. “He allowed us to return and sketch his study.”

  I feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes. I don’t know why I should be so affected by this. But it’s the most beautiful room we have ever exhibited. The chairs, the wallpaper, the long leather couch with its clawed brass feet—it is all so exact. “Thank you, Henri,” I say. We shall continue to repay him by sending our customers to see his Invisible Girl, but I think of the experiments he might have had time for if not for this, and I am deeply moved. He must have spent hours here, possibly nights. I imagine his hair tied back from his face and the two lines between his brows deepening as they always do when he is hard at work. Truly, there has never been a better man than him. “You are far too kind to us.”

  He makes a little bow. “It was my pleasure.”

  “Now there is simply the matter of a few models to make,” my uncle says.

  “Only Jefferson and Lafayette,” I reply.

  “Didn’t you bring drawings of anyone else? What about Mirabeau?”

  I fetch my bag and take out my sketches. There are half a dozen men. The hideous Mirabeau is among them, as well as the Duc d’Orléans.

  “We should do all of these,” my uncle says. “Especially the Duc.”

  I think of the way they shouted his name in the streets, and the worry on Madame Élisabeth’s pale face when I saw her. “What if we’re encouraging rebellion?” I ask. “What if by making a model of him we’re reinforcing the idea that he should be king? Edmund would say—”

  “Forget what Edmund says,” Curtius exclaims, and he walks me to the Salon’s largest window. The entire Boulevard is spread before us. “People. And all of them are going about their business. If the Salon de Cire disappeared tomorrow, do you think that man would change his mind about polishing his boots? Or that woman would have chosen a different parasol? The events of this month are bigger than us. We are simply reporting them in the flesh.”

  “Or wax,” Henri offers wryly.

  “We aren’t changing minds,” Curtius says. “Think of the artist who paints a brewing storm. Is he responsible for the rain? You might say he has created a thing of beauty out of something filled with misery and danger.”

  He is right. The Salon de Cire exists to report events as they are happening. Mistresses, murderers, newly made queens …

  I spend the next three days in my workshop. When it’s time for me to return to Versailles, Curtius writes a letter filled with regret, stating that I will not be able to assist Madame Élisabeth again until June. I sign my name, and though I feel guilty, we are not like the princesse. We must maintain a business for a living. Madame’s twenty livres a day are all well and good, but how long will the position last? The Salon must come first. There are molds and sculptures and bodies to be made. There are teeth to be found and eyes to be painted.

  There must be seven new models for the Salon de Cire by the time I return to Montreuil. Jefferson, Lafayette, Robespierre, Mirabeau, Necker, Danton, and the Duc d’Orléans. I try to imagine Robespierre’s face when he returns to find himself in wax. He will be beside himself with glee, I think. He will probably want to take the model home.

  I begin by sculpting the Duc, thinking to do the unpleasant tasks first. Though in clay he’s not so offensive. His lips don’t sneer, and his eyes don’t narrow into derisive slits. In fact, when I’m finished, he’s rather pleasing to look at. Not a handsome man. But pleasant.

  Mirabeau, however, is just as loathsome in clay as in the flesh. I include the pitted scars left by the smallpox, and the protrusions on his nose and lips from syphilis. The prostitutes call it the Italian disease, though I suspect it can be caught from anyone, really.

  It is a far more joyous task when I begin to sculpt Jefferson. He and Lafayette have similar noses. Aquiline, strong. Though their jaws are different. One square, the other round. I close my eyes and think to myself, I could sculpt Jefferson from memory.

  Of all the models, Georges Danton’s proves the most difficult, but he has become a popular assemblyman, and there is no choice but to use the extra wax and sculpt this giant of a man. I have laid eyes on him only once, but to see him at the podium in the Hôtel des Menus is to never forget him. He has the body of a mill worker rather than a lawyer. His hands, chest, even his shoulders, are larger than any man I’ve ever modeled. But it’s his heavy brow that distinguishes him the most, and it will probably be Danton whom our customers are most impressed with.

  THREE WEEKS LATER, when all seven models are finished, Curtius sends Yachin to help me dress the figures. He sorts through the chests of clothes we’ve collected, looking for something suitable for Robespierre.

  “What about this?” he holds up a pair of tattered stockings.

  “I said Robespierre, not Marat.” I brush Mirabeau’s hair away from his face and wonder if preparing a model of Marat could truly be any worse than this.

  Yachin holds up an embroidered coat and silk cravat, and I nod. We used them for a model of the Comte d’Artois several years ago. “When do you think we will have the unveiling?” he asks.

  “On Friday,” I tell him. That gives us three days to arrange the models and prepare the rooms. Plus, create a window display that features the Estates-General. “If you can find a pair of blue stockings in that chest, it might work.”

  He brings his discoveries over to me and perches on a bench to watch while I sort through his pile.

  “It was a pleasure to see your father again,” I say. “How is his business?”

  “Well. Or better than before. Suddenly, everyone wants to use our printers. My father says most of his requests are for libelles attacking the monarchy. I have read what some of these papers say about the queen and her friends. They accuse her of …” His voice drops low. “Well, they aren’t kind.”

  I put down the brush. The hair on Mirabeau’s model is as precise as it’s ever going to be. �
�Does your father print them?”

  “He won’t have it. He tells them to find someone else. That he has a family to consider. Who will take care of us if my father is arrested? I haven’t even become a Bar Mitzvah. Mine will come next month, and there’s to be a fine meal in my honor.”

  I can see that Yachin is already thinking of this meal, and I offer him some of the bread and sausage my mother left on the table.

  “Don’t you want it for yourself?”

  “I’m not a growing young man.”

  “But the bread.” He hesitates. “It must have been expensive.”

  Yes. And the newspapers are saying that the wheat we’ve been given from America is infested with insects. There is going to be starvation if something isn’t done. The king has resorted to begging the English for flour, but their House of Commons has flatly refused, saying that this is God’s justice for supporting the Americans in their war. “Don’t worry.” I smile. “Just eat.”

  While Yachin is quiet for a moment, I go to the model of Jefferson. The clothing he’s chosen for the American looks exactly like something the ambassador would wear. Silk culottes with a waistcoat of striped velvet. I place my hand briefly on his chest. Unlike with the model of Madame du Barry, there’s no gentle rise and fall. But for a moment I imagine that this strong, sculpted man is Henri, waiting for me to tie his cravat.

  Chapter 20

  MAY 29, 1789

  This hardworking German [Philippe Curtius] produces colored wax heads of such quality that one could imagine that they are alive.

  —MAYEUR DE SAINT-PAUL, EXCERPT FROM TOURIST BROCHURE

  “MEET THE DEPUTIES OF THE ESTATES-GENERAL!” YACHIN cries. “Then come see the greatest thieves in France!”

  “Will the queen be there?” I hear someone ask, and the people in line begin to laugh.

  Commoners, noblemen, tourists from England—they are all crushed together: the rich want to walk through Jefferson’s study, while the poor wish to see Robespierre in the Estates-General. This is success even greater than when the royal family came to visit, and the customers can’t shove their twelve sous at us fast enough. The Journal can write of Robespierre, but we show him the flesh. The Courrier can paint a picture of the Salle des États with words, but we have brought it to life. And only the Salon de Cire can show Danton as he truly is in life—towering, immense, with a chest like a barrel and hands like heavy plates.