Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

by Michelle Moran

  I often forget that exhibitions are a secondary passion for him. His first love is the laboratory, but as the more versatile brother, he has taken on the role of provider. It is only in his spare time that he is able to join Jacques among the gadgets and glass tubes. “Well, think of all the time a million livres could buy,” I say. “You could construct an entire fleet of balloons.”

  “If that ever happens, I shall name one Marie in your honor.” His dark eyes are studying mine.

  Suddenly, I feel warm. “And will I get to choose the color?” I tease.

  “Certainly. Which color would you like?”

  I take a moment. And then it comes to me. “Gold.”

  I AM LATE for my sitting with Madame Sainte-Amaranthe’s daughter. As Curtius and I rush through the door, my mother clucks her tongue disapprovingly. “They will be here in twenty minutes!”

  “Then let them wait,” Curtius says.

  “Madame Sainte-Amaranthe?” my mother and I shriek. She is one of the most powerful women in Paris. Men would sell their children to be invited to her Thursday evening salons and give up their wives to be a part of her exclusive gambling club, Cinquante. She has been mistress to the Prince de Condé and the Vicomte de Pons, and there is loud talk that the vicomte is the father of her two children. She has her own box at the Italiens, the Opéra, the Comédie. This is not a woman accustomed to waiting.

  “It will be good for her,” Curtius says wryly. “A new experience.”

  “Or perhaps she will leave, and that will be a new experience for us,” I tell him.

  We enter the workshop, and I see that my mother has done her best to prepare for the sitting, anticipating our needs. “The plaster!” I ask. “Where is the plaster?”

  “Right in front of you,” my mother says calmly.

  I am flustered. I haven’t even readied the clay. And I am sure Madame Sainte-Amaranthe will not wish to have plaster applied directly to her daughter’s face. That means the wax mold must be made from a sculpture. It takes a quiet mind to sculpt, not one filled with strange contraptions and horns. The Invisible Girl! I scowl at Curtius, who is directing my mother on how to rearrange certain items. I have barely calmed my mind when Yachin announces the Sainte-Amaranthe family, then takes it upon himself to escort them personally through the Salon and into the workshop. I see why at once. He is only two years younger than Madame’s daughter, Émilie, and at fourteen she is already a stunning beauty. She has come in a dress of long white gauze threaded through with silver.

  “Thank you, Yachin.” But our barker cannot take his eyes from her. “You may go now,” I say. I am surprised he is able to walk away without tripping over himself.

  Madame Sainte-Amaranthe gives a little laugh that I hope Yachin cannot hear. “My daughter has this effect on men.” She turns a dazzling smile to Curtius, and it is clear that she thinks she still has this effect as well. Many years ago, when the Prince de Condé requested a nude of his mistress, my uncle made two. One went to the prince’s boudoir; the other lies scantily clad in our Salon.

  “As do you, Madame.… You are still next to Madame du Barry,” Curtius flatters her. “My two sleeping beauties.”

  “I thought you would have found a younger woman,” Madame Sainte-Amaranthe replies, dangling her fish on the line. “I am surprised you keep it.”

  My uncle takes the bait. “Madame, I could search the faces of a thousand women and never find one who is your equal.”

  It is a credit to my mother that she is still wearing her most welcoming smile. She understands that wealthy women of a particular age, after a lifetime of bartering their beauty, do not know any other way of interacting with men. Now that Madame has assuaged her ego, she turns to her children. “Émilie, Louis, I would like you to meet Dr. Curtius.” My uncle bows again. “Madame Grosholtz.” My mother continues to smile. “And her daughter, Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

  “Please, call me Marie,” I say.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Louis replies. He is as delicately framed and beautiful as his older sister. “Will it be possible for my mother and me to watch while you make Émilie’s sculpture?” he asks graciously. She has brought them up well.

  “Of course,” my uncle says. “These chairs are for you.” My mother has taken our best seats from upstairs and arranged them at the far end of the workshop, near the fire. “Madame Grosholtz will fetch us some drinks while Marie begins. When the head is finished, I will work on the rest of the model.”

  Curtius rarely sculpts faces anymore, mostly because there is too much to do entertaining guests and fashioning miniatures for our Curiosity Shop.

  “Have you brought clothes?” I ask Émilie, directing her to a stool across from my worktable.

  “My mother has them. Will you be putting the model in the Salon?”

  “If you approve of it,” I tell her and fetch my caliper.

  “Oh, there is nothing I’d like more!” she says while I measure her face. “But what I really want is for François Elleviou to see it.”

  “The singer?” I ask.

  “You have heard of him?” she exclaims.

  Like all young people, she cannot believe that someone as old as I am might have heard of François Elleviou. “He is something of a sensation,” I say wryly. “I’m certain most of Paris has heard his name.”

  “My mother hadn’t. Not until I begged her to invite him to our salon.”

  I want to say that it is my job to be well informed, that people don’t come to an exhibition to see figures that are of no interest. Instead, I reply, “Then she knows who he is now.”

  Émilie smiles, and I notice that both of her cheeks are dimpled. They are too charming not to include in the sculpture. “She certainly does. He is courting me.” Before I can reply she says, “There is a man in the doorway!”

  I turn, and there is Robespierre. Yachin must have sent him back. I cannot fathom what he might want. As I cross the room, I wipe my hands on my apron. “Monsieur Robespierre. What a delightful surprise.”

  “I do not mean to interrupt,” he says quickly. “I happened to be passing and thought to deliver a message to your uncle in person.”

  I point to the back of the workshop, where Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is in danger of exposing her bosom. She is showing my uncle something on her feet, perhaps a new gold buckle. Robespierre makes a great performance of disapproving. “You have guests,” he says with distaste.

  “Allow me to introduce Madame Sainte-Amaranthe and her daughter, Émilie.”

  He looks at Émilie, perched on her stool like a Grecian goddess. There are few women who can live up to such hyperbole. I have seen only two: the queen’s dearest friend, the Princesse de Lamballe, who was as pale and flawless as a diamond when I saw her over ten years ago at Versailles, and now Émilie.

  “She is fourteen,” I tell him, “and this is her first sitting.”

  Robespierre makes the briefest of bows, then hurries across the workshop to greet my uncle. I feel sorry for him. It’s not his arrogance that keeps him from engaging with women, but a lack of self-confidence.

  I return to the clay model and take up my caliper to be sure that I have the nose just right.

  “Who is that?” Émilie whispers.

  “Robespierre. A lawyer from Arras.”

  “Does he always wear green spectacles?”

  “Yes. He does not see well.”

  “Like the king. I’ve heard that the corners of all his furniture are rounded in case he should run into them.”

  But I am stopped from replying by something else extraordinary. A courtier in the king’s livery has been shown in by Yachin. The workshop falls silent as the man holds out a letter for me. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz?”

  “Yes.” I study the man’s powdered wig, his silk stockings, his blue livery. Even the nail on his smallest left finger, grown long so that he may scratch on King Louis’s doors—no one is allowed to knock but the queen—indicates his status.

  “A r
equest from Madame Élisabeth, sister to His Majesty King Louis the Sixteenth.”

  I gasp, and Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is already on her feet. I break the seal and begin to read. “An invitation. An invitation to instruct Madame Élisabeth in the art of wax modeling for twenty livres a day!” That is more than the Salon takes in.

  Immediately, Curtius is at my side. “When?” he asks.

  “Beginning the second of April!” I can hardly believe my luck. An invitation from the royal family and witnesses to spread the news that I shall be going to Versailles! I could not have planned it better if I had paid Yachin to shout the news in the streets. Think of all the figures I’ll be able to make! A new model of the Princesse de Lamballe. And certainly one of the king’s sister, who has never been done. I pass around the letter.

  “We will send our answer shortly,” Curtius says and tips the man handsomely, as well he should. I may see that man again in the halls of Versailles.

  My mother has returned with a tray of warm drinks. When she hears the news, she lowers it onto my worktable and sinks into a chair. “Such a tremendous honor,” she says in German. “But … what of the scandals?”

  Only my uncle and I can understand, but we both look instinctively toward Robespierre.

  “It is something to consider,” Curtius replies, then asks Robespierre in French, “What would you do?”

  “What does it matter what he would do?” Madame Sainte-Amaranthe exclaims. “It is an invitation from Madame Élisabeth herself, signed by the king.”

  Robespierre stiffens at the rebuke. “I would turn it down,” he says at once.

  “An offer from Versailles?” Émilie asks. “That is insane.”

  A flush creeps up Robespierre’s neck.

  “I would not be going for the queen,” I say quickly. “It is the king’s sister.”

  “And Marie can tell us the mood of the palace,” Curtius placates Robespierre. “When you and Camille are made deputies, you will be glad to have someone who knows Versailles.”

  “You are to be a deputy?” Émilie asks.

  “Only if I am elected,” Robespierre replies, “by a fair and undisputed vote.”

  “Why shouldn’t it be fair?” Émilie inquires.

  “Because very little is fair in this country of ours. Which is what the Third Estate has every intention of changing come the fifth of May!” He raises his hat. “I came to tell you that I am giving a speech at the Palais-Royal at noon. But I can see that you are busy. Enjoy the rest of your morning.”

  When Robespierre is well gone, Émilie wrinkles her nose. “An unpleasant man.”

  THAT EVENING, WHEN the wax mold is cooling and I am sweeping the steps of the Salon, I see Henri leaning against a lamppost. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his dark hair has been pulled back with a leather band. He looks as though he has been waiting for me, and immediately my pulse quickens, despite the fact that I see him daily. “How long have you been standing there?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Since you first began humming Gluck.”

  “Was it in tune?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I took singing lessons, you know.”

  “From whom? Astley and Sons?” Philip Astley runs a circus of prancing horses and performing bears. “I hear an invitation has arrived.”

  “This will be the making of us.”

  “Versailles is not …” Henri looks troubled. “They are ruthless there. The ladies will never permit you to get close to the queen. There are rules for everything. Sitting, standing, eating, sleeping. You are used to freedom. You are used to coming and going as you please. The women of the court won’t abide this.”

  “Then I will adapt. But everyone in Paris will know of our exhibition. Everyone in France.”

  Chapter 7

  MARCH 28, 1789

  It was a masterpiece of etiquette. Everything was regulated.

  —MADAME CAMPAN,

  FIRST LADY-IN-WAITING TO MARIE ANTOINETTE

  MY BROTHERS HAVE COME FROM VERSAILLES TO HELP ME prepare. Since the news arrived nearly two months ago, it seems that all I have done is get ready. There have been fittings in a dozen different shops to be sure that I am properly attired, and lessons with a master of dance who has taught me the curtsies for court. I will be joining a palace of ten thousand people, nine hundred of them nobles, and my presence must be a good reflection on my brothers, who all guard the king.

  This is the first time in nearly three months that Edmund, Johann, and Wolfgang have come home, and they are dressed in the splendid uniform of the Swiss Guard: red pantaloons, white stockings, and a hat in the style of Henry IV, with three magnificent feathers. Edmund, who never smiles, is thirty-five. Johann, who wishes to be at home with his wife and son, is thirty-three. And Wolfgang, who would sneak off with my allowance as a child to go gambling, is twenty-nine. Because we are the closest in age, I have the most affection for him. We have gathered around the table in the salon, and while my mother rushes back and forth from the kitchen, Johann, my most generous brother, is complimenting my figure of the dauphin.

  “There couldn’t be a better likeness,” he says with an easy smile. He has the round cheeks of a painted cherub. “Did you see it, Edmund?”

  My eldest brother glares across the table. “It was next to the vulgar display of the queen dressed for her boudoir.”

  “Then you approve,” I say. I can never keep from needling him.

  “The queen saw the tableau,” Wolfgang reminds him. “She didn’t disapprove.”

  “Was she wearing the same shift?” Edmund demands. He knows how exhibitions work, that as soon as the queen was gone, we changed her modest gown to something with more appeal to the commoners. “This is how rumors start,” he accuses.

  “We’ve done nothing but change her shift,” I argue, though I know that if we were being fair to the queen, we would not portray her so. But we have shown nothing that isn’t already in a hundred different libelles, obscene pamphlets available in every café along the Palais-Royal. They charge her with every kind of indecency, from having an affair with the Comte d’Artois, the king’s handsome brother, to lesbian orgies with the Princesse de Lamballe.

  Edmund shakes his head. His face is leaner than I remember, and his arms are corded with muscle. “Every image of the queen makes a political statement, and nothing speaks as loudly as her dress. Your models are the only access commoners have to the queen. And what about those who can’t read or write? This Salon is their only news. And this news is telling them that the queen prepares for her bed like some woman at the Palais-Royal. It is immodest and in poor taste. Better your exhibition take in fewer sous—”

  “And shut down?” Wolfgang exclaims. “This is not the time to be taking in less money—there was a line outside the bakery this morning.”

  “There is a line every morning,” I amend.

  All three of my brothers look shocked.

  “It has been this way for several months,” Curtius tells them. “The lines begin at two in the morning, and when the baker opens the doors, only the first fifty people come away with bread. And it has doubled in price. Haven’t you heard about this in Versailles?”

  “The king has a country to administer,” Edmund replies. “He does not make it his business to know about the bakery lines in Paris.”

  “It isn’t just Paris,” I tell him. “It’s likely the whole of France.”

  “What about the streetlights?” Wolfgang asks. “This morning, most on the Palais-Royal and the Boulevard du Temple were out. How long has it been since they were refilled?”

  Curtius and I exchange looks, trying to remember. “At least three months,” I answer. The city lacks funds to buy the oil. “All of the theaters and cafés, even the Opéra, must close when the sun is set, else their patrons risk collision or robbery on the roads.”

  “I would not mention this in the palace,” Edmund says. It is not a suggestion, but a command. “These things are not spoken of to T
heir Majesties.”

  “That goes for Madame Élisabeth as well?” I ask. People are starving, bread is scarce, and Their Majesties don’t know? It is a crime, what the advisers to the king are allowing.

  “To anyone in the royal family. If you mention it, you will bring disgrace upon us, and you will bring disgrace upon the Salon de Cire. Nothing you say remains secret in Versailles. The royal family is never left alone. There is always someone listening—always.”

  I look across the table at Wolfgang, who does not contradict him.

  “When the queen begins her toilette in the morning,” Edmund continues, “there are separate attendants for her hair, her powder, her dress. When she bathes at night, it is in a long flannel gown in front of her women. When she prepares for bed during her coucher, the Mistress of the Robes, the dames d’honneur, the Superintendent of the Queen’s Household—they are all present.”

  “How unbearable.” To be surrounded by people all day. When is there time to be alone with your thoughts?

  “It is her job,” Johann says. “From the moment she arrived from Austria, she was trained in these rules of etiquette.”

  “Those are the rules of court,” Edmund stresses. “That is what separates Their Majesties from everyone else.”

  Suddenly, I am nervous. It is one thing to model and display the royal family, but to have to live their life, that is something else. “I will be discreet,” I promise.

  “You must understand the queen’s lever,” Johann says. “There are different women to help her dress. The première femme must hand the queen’s chemise to the dame d’honneur, who then takes off her glove in order to hand the chemise to the queen. However, if a Princesse of the Blood should arrive in the middle, it must all be started over again so that the princesse can be the one to present the queen with her chemise.”

  “But that is not all,” Wolfgang says quickly. “The queen is not allowed to reach for anything herself. If she wants water, it must be fetched by the dame d’honneur.”

  “And if the dame d’honneur isn’t present?” I ask.