Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

by Michelle Moran

  “You are the only people who have come to see the marquis today,” de Launay says, then sighs again, since he charges all visitors a handsome fee. We stop outside an unmarked door. “Mademoiselle. About the marquis … I feel I must warn you. He may be old and fat—”

  “So what should we be afraid of?”

  De Launay looks at me as if he’s never heard such an ignorant question. “His words, Mademoiselle. They are his weapons now.” He takes out a key and opens the door.

  I hold my breath, expecting to see a monster, a prisoner with wild hair and unwashed clothes. Instead, there is a corpulent man nearing fifty, sitting at his desk with ink and a quill. He turns slowly, and I see that it pains him to move. A lifetime of excess has stiffened his joints and ravaged his face. But his eyes. My God. They are the piercing blue of an icy winter’s sky.

  “Your guests,” de Launay says.

  The marquis rises and doffs his hat to us. “I hear you have come to make me immortal.”

  “We have come to sketch your likeness,” my uncle replies.

  The marquis looks at me. I think of a vulture, the way it studies its meal. “And is this your lovely assistant?”

  “She is the artist,” Henri says shortly.

  “A lady artist!” His brows raise. “Well, why not? The queen’s painter is a woman. Not as pretty as you, of course. And certainly not—”

  “Are you going to ask us to sit?” There is a hardness in Henri’s voice, but the marquis is not offended. He is interested only in me.

  “Yes, sit,” he says distractedly, for his eyes never leave my face. “Here are three chairs. And Mademoiselle the Artist may take my desk.” He pushes his papers to one side and makes a tidy pile in the corner.

  I cross the room to his leather chair, and the marquis seats himself across from me. The cell has been decorated with handsome bookshelves and an embroidered settee, a wealthy nobleman’s chamber. The bed is of fine wood, and I can see that the linens are of high quality. A cheerful fire burns in the fireplace, where the marquis has hung out his stockings to dry. I cannot imagine how he has gotten them wet. On the bowling green, perhaps? On his way to billiards? Curtius hands me his leather bag, and I take out my supplies, arranging them on the marquis’s table. Then I turn and study the old man’s face. He is smiling—no, leering—at me, but I am not afraid. He is a shark with no teeth, a hawk without its claws, and I refuse to become unnerved. “I would like to sketch you,” I say.

  “Many women do.”

  “Then you know what I require. Sit still, do not fidget, and I will study your face.”

  “Only if I may study yours.”

  “That is enough!” Henri exclaims.

  The marquis is laughing. “Would you prefer that I put on a blindfold?” He is like a child who cannot hold his tongue. “Or perhaps a blindfold and some chains?”

  Curtius rises, and the marquis says quickly, “Stay!”

  “Then keep civil,” my uncle warns.

  “If that is the price of infamy.” The marquis leans forward, and I can see his strange features up close. “I hear I am to be added to the Cavern of Great Thieves.”

  He is a madman. That much is certain. His eyes are spaced too close together, the way they are in children who will grow up to be imbeciles. Only there is cunning reflected in them instead of ignorance.

  “But tell me”—the marquis holds up his hands in protest—“what have I stolen?”

  “A great deal, I hear. Lives. Innocence.” I study his face while we talk. There is no symmetry in it at all. I have brought my caliper, but I have not yet decided whether I should use it. Perhaps I will ask Curtius to take the measurements.

  “Ah.” The marquis sits back. “Yes. A great deal of innocence.”

  “Which is why you are here,” Henri says harshly.

  The marquis stares at him. “You have never had a longing you wished to satisfy? A longing for Mademoiselle the Artist, perhaps? I noticed that you escorted her into my cell with the care that only—”

  “Enough,” I say sharply.

  “Oh. So the feelings are not returned.”

  I don’t dare to look at Henri. I look down at my hands, at the paper and the quill. “Curtius, will you take his measurements?” I ask.

  My uncle takes the caliper while the marquis reaches beneath the waist of his culottes.

  “What are you doing?” my uncle demands.

  “Mademoiselle says you wish to take my measurements.”

  The marquis is so crass, so subhuman, that I burst into laughter.

  “You see,” the marquis says cheerfully. “Already, we have broken the tension.”

  “Let Curtius take his measurements,” Henri says to me, “and then we will leave.”

  “No sketch?” the marquis exclaims.

  “No,” I say flatly.

  I have memorized his features. With the measurements, that is all I will need.

  “I will be still,” the marquis promises. “As quiet as a virgin on her wedding night.”

  “Then begin now,” Henri warns.

  Curtius calls out numbers, and I write them down. As I wait for the figures, I study a large roll of paper on the desk. It is covered in writing and so thick that it must be at least ten meters in length when it’s fully unrolled. The marquis sees the direction of my gaze and says quietly, “My masterpiece. I call it The One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom.”

  I can see the muscles working in Henri’s jaw, and Curtius is frowning over his caliper. He thinks he has taken the measurements wrong—that the marquis’s eyes cannot be so close together. “A very interesting title,” I say.

  “For an immensely interesting story. Would you like a peek?”

  I should say no. Nothing good can come of seeing the contents of a story entitled The 120 Days of Sodom. But I scribble the last of Curtius’s measurements, then motion for Curtius and Henri to sit beside me. They pull up their chairs, and Henri whispers, “Why do you want to see this?”

  “It will be offensive,” my uncle warns.

  But I want to see the truth of this man. I want to know what lurks behind those close-set eyes, what sort of devilry humans are capable of.

  The marquis crosses the room and unfurls the manuscript across his long desk. He has drawn pictures on separate pieces of paper to accompany the story.

  “What sort of perversion is this?” Curtius asks, aghast.

  “Oh, every kind,” the marquis says with pride.

  There are images of urination, whippings, cross-dressing, and anal sex with boys who are clearly being forced into submission. Girls are chained naked to walls while the flames of lighted candles are applied to their nipples. Excrement is everywhere, as if no fantasy can be fulfilled without this.

  “I’ve had enough,” Curtius says.

  “But you haven’t even seen my favorite!” he exclaims and unveils an image of a girl being scalped while her attackers fondle her genitals and breasts. Beneath the picture the Marquis de Sade has written, “How delicious to corrupt, to stifle all semblances of virtue and religion in that young heart.”

  I put on my showman’s mask, determined not to give him what he wants. “I hope you know you have not corrupted me.”

  “But I’ve surprised you.”

  “No. Nothing surprises me about human depravity.”

  “These are not just dreams. I enacted them in the Château de Coste.”

  Behind us, de Launay clears his throat. I had forgotten he was there.

  “I run a show on the Boulevard du Temple, Monsieur. What you have created,” I say, and I wave my hand, indicating the pictures and the manuscript, “is theater. No more real than my Cavern of Great Thieves.”

  “It happened,” he says hotly.

  “Perhaps. But now it’s over, and the actor must return to his room and face the truth that for all of the masks, and all of the applause, there is only him. Your performance couldn’t last, and now that it’s done, all that’s left is your own company. Do you
enjoy it?”

  The marquis is silent. Now I am the one who has surprised him.

  “NO LADY SHOULD ever have to see—”

  “I am not a lady. I am the daughter of a common soldier,” I tell Henri from the comfort of the carriage de Launay has secured for us. “Everyone has secrets. His are simply darker. And it makes me a better artist.”

  Henri shakes his head. “You are a puzzle.”

  “It’s an insight into the man,” Curtius explains. “Art is not like science. It’s a product of emotion. It makes the viewer feel something. Jealousy, awe—”

  “Revulsion,” I say. “Now that I know who he is, what he is, I know how to sculpt him.”

  We ride the rest of the way in silence, watching the rain fall slantways onto the dirty streets. I know he doesn’t understand, but when Henri sees the wax model—the set of the eyes, the tension in the mouth—he will know.

  When we reach the Boulevard du Temple, Curtius hurries into the warmth of the Salon while I stop with Henri beneath the awning of his shop. “I know you didn’t wish to go. You went for me, and I’m incredibly grateful.”

  “How do these interviews not give you nightmares?” he asks. “Doesn’t it make you sad to hear such stories?”

  I have to think, because no one has ever asked me this before. “I don’t believe in Rousseau’s philosophy,” I say, “if that’s what you mean.”

  Henri laughs. “The natural goodness of man? Well, only fools like Robespierre and Marat believe that.”

  “And the king.”

  Henri smiles briefly but doesn’t reply.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” I say. “The Duc may be bringing a guest to our salon.”

  “The American?” Henri asks. “Thomas Jefferson?”

  Now that would be something. Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, beginning the war with England. A model of him would do very well. “No. The Marquis de Lafayette.”

  “I didn’t realize they were friends.”

  I step forward, so close that I can smell rain in his hair. “Curtius says that they are. I don’t know what it means for France.”

  “Probably that the Duc sees himself at the head of rebellion which will demand an end to the monarchy,” Henri replies.

  “And how would that serve him? Without the monarchy, he has lost all privilege. He will go from being the Duc D’Orléans to being simply Monsieur Philippe.”

  “Not if he can convince the people that he should be king instead. A new kind of king, who will grant them the same rights as the English.”

  “It’s what he’s aiming for, isn’t it?” I ask. Henri has said this before, but it’s hard to believe that the man who sits to dinner with us is a traitor. I have never known a traitor.

  “Yes.”

  “So why doesn’t King Louis stop it?”

  “He’s trying. That’s why he’s called the Estates-General. If he grants the French the same rights as the English, what will the Duc have to shout against?”

  “But the English have a constitutional monarchy!” I exclaim.

  “And that may be the compromise he will have to come to if he doesn’t wish to lose the crown to his cousin.”

  “Then you agree with the rights the people are demanding?”

  “I believe the nobility and the clergy should be taxed,” Henri says cautiously, “just as we are. Do you know what you send to the king every year?”

  I know exactly. “A third of our income.”

  “And what does he do with it? The streets of Paris are crumbling, the hospitals are in ruins.… The Americans are right: there should not be taxation unless the people consent to it. And it should be fair, which means the nobility and clergy should be taxed as well. The dîme, the taille—the nobility don’t have to pay any of these—not to mention the péage and the gabelle. The Duc has found a way of riling the people. With the Third Estate’s rage behind him …”

  We look at each other in silence. “Perhaps Lafayette will help,” I say finally. “He is greatly esteemed.”

  “He’ll only be of help if he has the ear of the king. His friendship with the Duc is worrisome.”

  “Well, if he comes, I shall ask to make a model of him.”

  “All the country may fall to pieces,” Henri observes archly, “but at least Lafayette will be preserved in wax.”

  I am shocked he would say such a thing. “I care deeply for France.”

  Henri smiles. “And your accounts.”

  I STOKE THE fire in the workshop and place my boots as near as I dare without burning them.

  “You really want the table this close to the fire?” Yachin confirms.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “That’s good.” I must use these daylight hours to sculpt. Without sufficient candles, the models need to be made while the sun is up.

  Yachin puts the table down, then crosses his arms over his chest. “Now will you tell me about the marquis?”

  “He was terrible,” I say. “An absolute monster.”

  Yachin gasps. “Really?”

  I nod. “He likes to eat little boys.”

  “Oh, stop it! Just tell me the truth.”

  “The truth,” I say soberly, “is that he is a very old man who did horrible things in his life.”

  Yachin’s eyes go wide. “Like what?”

  “Like taking little boys and girls by force. You understand what that means?”

  He nods silently.

  “He liked to kidnap innocent children, then beat them until they ran away or died.”

  “A feier zol im trefen,” he whispers in Yiddish, then translates for me. “The marquis deserves to meet with fire. And you are going to sculpt him?”

  “Yes. People are cruel at heart,” I explain, “so cruelty fascinates them. Secretly, they fear that if not for their good upbringing or their religion, they might have turned out to be the marquis.”

  “Do you think if I stopped going to temple that would happen to me?”

  “I do,” I say with mock earnestness. “I think you would develop a craving for human flesh and suddenly want to eat small children!” I lunge forward, and he dashes away, shrieking.

  Chapter 10

  APRIL 7, 1789

  There are natural and imprescriptible rights which an entire nation has no right to violate.

  —MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE

  THE DUC HAS BROUGHT A GUEST! I RUSH FROM THE WINDOW into the kitchen, where my mother is preparing our best roast with onions. “He’s here!” I exclaim.

  “The Marquis de Lafayette?”

  “It has to be him. He was in the Duc’s carriage. He’s dressed in a blue silk waistcoat and is carrying a walking stick, exactly like his paintings.”

  I can hear my uncle’s voice on the stairs, explaining what we do for a living. “There are over fifty figures now, and we are always adding.”

  My mother rushes to take off her apron and swipes at a curl that has escaped from her bonnet. I take her arm, and we appear in the salon together. The room has been lit as if there is no shortage of candles. We will have to ration harder after tonight, but it is worth the cost. Everyone has come: Marat, Robespierre, Camille, Lucile. Henri has brought Jacques. The Duc makes the introductions to his guest, and I have never seen him so charming.

  “And this,” he says at last, “is Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

  Lafayette graces me with a smile. He has an oval face with a prominent nose and trusting eyes. He would make an easy model. “It is an honor to meet you,” he says. “Your uncle tells me that you are the artist behind many of the sculptures downstairs, including the one of Benjamin Franklin.”

  “It is true.” I guide him to a chair. I know my duty as host, and I seat him between my uncle and the Duc. “I had the fortune of meeting Monsieur Franklin several times.”

  “It is a very good likeness. You even managed to capture the eyes.”

  “I am sure Marie could make a model of you,” my uncle adds swiftly. “There would be no greater honor
for our exhibition.”

  “I am staying with the American ambassador, Thomas Jefferson, on the Champs-Élysées. Come anytime. Just send word ahead to make sure I will be there.”

  I bow my head gratefully. “It would be the crowning glory of our exhibition.”

  “And speaking of c-c-crowns …” Camille raises his glass. His recent loss in the elections does not seem to have changed him. His spirits are high, and his cheeks are flushed. “To America,” he exclaims, “where every head is equal.”

  “To America!” We all raise our glasses. Lafayette tells us he believes there is a future for members of the Third Estate who wish to participate in governing France. In fact, when the Estates-General meets next month, he plans to propose a constitutional monarchy, like they have in England. Everyone at the table applauds him for this, especially Camille and Marat. I notice that Henri and his brother are not so enthusiastic.

  “I—I am going to write about this,” Camille vows. “I m-m-may have lost the election, but I have not lost my paper and ink!”

  Once again there is wild applause, and Lucile turns to me. “He is going to be a journalist,” she whispers. “Perhaps he will be the voice of the Third Estate.”

  “And there is money in that?” I ask her.

  “Do you know how many different pamphlets were distributed yesterday at the Palais-Royal? Ninety-two. And all of them calling upon the patriots of our country to rise up and demand an end to these taxes!”

  My mother looks blankly at me. Patriots is a word she does not understand. It is the first time I have heard the word used like this—to describe anyone in favor of replacing the king, of rendering him powerless.

  “There are some businessmen,” the Duc warns, “who are not on the side of the patriots.” The cut of his new wig does no favors for him. It serves to accentuate the length of his nose and the sagging jowls he shares with his cousin. The Duc leans forward. “Members of the Third Estate who have forgotten their roots.”