Chapter 30
JULY 22, 1789
Tremble, tyrants, your reign must end!
—ANONYMOUS THREAT TO MARIE ANTOINETTE
IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN. JUST AS HENRI PREDICTED, JUST AS I have dreamed over and over again in my nightmares. Camille comes running into the Salon, pushing past patrons so he can make his way to the caissier’s desk. Before he can say it, I know what’s happening. “It’s a mob!” he exclaims. Lucile is behind him in a muslin gown and a wide straw hat. Her dark curls are askew, and her cheeks are pink.
“They’re coming from the Hôtel de Ville,” she says swiftly. “They are making their way to the Boulevard to find Mesdames Foulon and Berthier.”
Immediately, the people in line begin to talk. Where is the mob? Are they in danger? Should they leave?
“It is nothing to worry about,” Curtius announces. “No reason to abandon your entertainment.” To Yachin, he says, “Mind the caissier’s desk.”
The rest of us follow him into the workshop. He closes the door, and Camille explains.
It began with a rumor that Joseph-François Foulon, the king’s new Minister of Finance, told the starving people of France to eat hay. “And you believe that?” my uncle questions, but Camille shrugs. Either way, he says, the people believed it. And as soon as Foulon heard the rumor, he understood the danger he was in and escaped to the country. But a thousand citizens marched into the village where Foulon was hiding and dragged him back to Paris. The eighty-year-old man was hitched to a cart and told to pull the wagon to the Hôtel de Ville. Someone tied a bale of hay onto his back and crowned his head and neck with thistles. “How do you like hay now?” they shouted.
Tears are rolling down my mother’s cheeks, and she wipes them away with the back of her hand. Foulon lives only a few blocks away, in the house his father built. As the king’s Finance Minister, he might have bought a château. But he has never forgotten his roots on the Boulevard, and there has never been a kindlier, more considerate man. When my mother was sick with fever seven years ago, he found the court doctor, and within a week she was better. Without the care of that good physician, who knows?
“When Foulon finally reached the Hôtel de Ville,” Camille says, “the mob hung him from a lamppost.”
My mother cries out. She can’t hear any more of this.
“Go,” Curtius says gently. “Sit with Yachin.”
We watch her leave, and Camille continues, “When he was dead, the mobs decapitated him. Then they went for his son-in-law, Berthier de Sauvigny. They wanted him because he’s the Intendant of Paris.” That’s right. An administrator for the king. “So they marched to Compiègne and dragged him from his bed. They made him kiss Foulon’s severed head, then dragged him through the streets and beat him as he went. When he could no longer stand, they hung him from the nearest lamppost as well.”
I look at Curtius, whose jaw is clenched. “What about the National Guard?” he demands.
“Members of the National Guard were there.”
“They were part of it?” he exclaims. This is anarchy. When the men who are supposed to protect French citizens are killing them instead, how can there be peace?
“Yes,” Camille confirms. “And now they are bringing Berthier’s head to his wife.”
“No!” Curtius shouts, and Camille steps backward.
“It’s already done,” Lucile says nervously. “They were on their way while we were running to you.”
“So why did you come? Why didn’t you go for Lafayette, or a closer captain of the National Guard?”
“Because now they’re coming here,” Lucile replies, “and they want a wax model.”
I am going to faint.
“Marie.” Lucile rushes to my side and lowers me onto a stool.
“I won’t do it,” I swear. “They can’t make me do it!”
“I will do it,” Curtius says calmly.
“Why?” I scream. “Why should any of us have to?”
“Because the mob is looking for blood,” Curtius replies. “What did Berthier do except serve the king? What did his wife do except marry an honorable man who was willing to provide? If we refuse their request—”
“Then you could be next,” Lucile says fearfully.
The four of us are silent. This is a nightmare. No, it is worse than my nightmares, because we know Foulon and Berthier. We have eaten with them. We have watched Berthier’s children.
“I will make sure the country hears of your service,” Camille says quietly. “In tomorrow’s paper—”
Curtius and I glare at him.
When the mob comes, they are carrying torches and pikes. We close the Salon, and Curtius goes to work. I will not stay to watch.
Instead, I go with my mother to the home of Madame Berthier, where a crowd has already gathered. The night is warm, and the women who are huddled on her doorstep wear light muslin gowns and simple hats. “Madame Berthier has passed to God,” someone says, and the women make the sign of the cross.
“Did they kill her?” my mother asks.
“In a manner of speaking,” the same woman replies. I recognize her face: the thinness of her lips and her close-set eyes. She is someone’s wife. The baker’s? The tailor’s? “When she saw the cruel fate they dealt to her husband, her heart gave out. There was nothing they could do to wake her. She has joined him in heaven.”
We cross the threshold into the parlor, where a priest is intoning the last words of a psalm. The room smells of lavender powder and sage. The body of Madame Berthier is laid on a couch, and candles illuminate her youthful face. A pink cushion rests beneath her head—a perfect match for her gown and the ribbon in her hair. Did she know when she was dressing that this would be the last gown she’d ever wear? Would she have chosen something different if she had known? My mother says a prayer at the foot of the couch, and I kneel beside her, but my lips won’t move. Yesterday, Madame Berthier was alive. Laughing. Breathing. Choosing between hats. I want to stop these morbid thoughts from coming, but my mind won’t be silent. She was only thirty-three years old.
When we return to the Salon, the mobs are gone. Upstairs, Curtius is with Henri and Jacques, and the three of them are drinking. They stand as soon as they see us, and Curtius takes my mother in his arms. She is weeping, telling him about Madame Berthier. How young she was. How kind. How unfortunate. Henri takes me to his chest, but the tears won’t come. Instead, there is fear. What happens next time if Curtius isn’t here and there is only me?
The next morning, Lafayette resigns his command of the National Guard. But without Lafayette, there will be men roaming the streets and murdering, looting, raping with impunity. Even the king will not be safe. For all the Third Estate’s dreams of casting off the monarchy, it was the monarchy and its order that kept us safe. Camille writes about the day when not a single soldier can be seen in the streets. If that day comes, it will arrive with murder and rape at its back. Even the National Assembly can see this, and they beg Lafayette to return.
Reluctantly, Lafayette agrees. Perhaps they showed him Loustalot’s article in today’s Révolutions de Paris. A lawyer, like Camille and Robespierre, Loustalot has found his calling with this Revolution. Curtius hid the paper from me, but when he wasn’t looking I read the account of Foulon’s death. How they stuffed his mouth with hay and dragged his body over the cobblestones. But worse was Loustalot’s account of Berthier’s end: “Already Berthier is no more; his head is nothing more than a mutilated stump separated from his body. A man, O gods, a man, a barbarian tears out his heart from his palpitating viscera. How can I say this? He is avenging himself on a monster …” This is what freedom from the monarchy has brought us. The freedom to kill without consequence. I continue reading
His hands dripping with blood, he goes to offer the heart, still steaming, under the eyes of the men of peace assembled in this august tribunal of humanity. What a horrible scene! Tyrants, cast your eyes on this terrible and revolting spectacle. Shudder and see how yo
u and yours will be treated. This body, so delicate and so refined, bathed in perfumes, is horribly dragged in the mud and over the cobblestones. Despots and ministers, what terrible lessons! Would you have believed the French could have such energy! No, no, your reign is over.… Frenchmen, exterminate your tyrants! Your hatred is revolting, frightful … but you will, at last, be free.
Chapter 31
SEPTEMBER 7, 1789
I believe in the cutting off of heads.
—JEAN-PAUL MARAT
EVERY MAN WITH A LACK OF INCOME AND A TALENT FOR words now believes himself to be a journalist. In Loustalot’s Révolutions de Paris, we have been reading about the August Decrees, in which the National Assembly has abolished feudalism. There are to be no more special privileges for the aristocracy. All citizens, from whatever class or birth, are now eligible for any civil or military office, and tithes have been done away with. How the Church will continue without its source of revenue is anyone’s guess. Perhaps the French will find it in their hearts to be generous, since it’s the churches that run the hospitals and the poorhouses. In Camille’s weekly paper, Histoire des Révolutions, he has been writing about the adoption of Lafayette’s Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen. And now, Marat is writing as well.
He bursts into the Salon on Monday afternoon, frightening our patrons with his wild eyes and unwashed clothes. They step away from the caissier’s desk as he holds up a paper.
“L’Ami du Peuple,” I read the title aloud. Friend of the People.
“It’s going to be a daily,” he says. “I want you to include it in your exhibition. You can place it in your tableau of the National Assembly, or hang it on the wall, or even arrange it in front of Robespierre.”
“I’m not sure it would go in any of those places,” I say tersely. “We have enough accessories as it is.”
He looks behind me. “Where is Curtius?”
“I’m the one who determines what goes in each tableau.”
He lowers the paper, and his eyes meet mine. “No one writes like I do. Camille, Loustalot, Audouin, Fréron … They coat the truth with sugary words in their fear of offending. But I don’t care whom I offend! This paper is the voice of the people. I am the voice of the people!” he shouts. I am about to ask him to leave when he adds, “And you are their eyes. To be a part of your Salon will legitimize me. Everyone in Paris comes to your exhibition. Please. Just help me this once.”
I take the paper and look over its contents. Part reporting, but mostly encouragement for the Third Estate to stand strong.
“Please,” he repeats. “I have found my calling.”
“I’ll put it in the tableau with Robespierre.”
Marat’s eyes go wide. “I won’t forget your kindness,” he says swiftly. “The people will know that you are a true patriot!” He is about to leave when something occurs to him. “Will you be going to Versailles tonight?”
This morning, Marguerite David came to the Salon. We are not friends, or even acquaintances, but her husband is the painter Jacques-Louis David, and Curtius has purchased art from him. She wanted to know if I would join an extraordinary delegation. Eleven women, mostly artists’ wives, are going to appear before the National Assembly to present their jewels. “It will be celebrated in every newspaper in France,” she said. “Women giving up their jewels for the good of the patrie.”
I told her that a family like ours collected wax, not sapphires.
“Then it would mean a great deal if you could be in the audience. You have made a name for yourself. The Assembly would be surprised not to see you among so many important female artists.” When she saw me hesitating, she added frankly, “These are the men who make decisions now. No one cares that you were visited once by the king.”
I clenched my jaw, and when my mother saw that I was going to refuse, she agreed on my behalf.
Marguerite David smiled. “That’s wonderful news. We would like you to dress entirely in white. We are going as Roman wives. Muslin gowns and light fichus. We want to remind the country of a time in Europe’s history when men created a republic.”
I almost replied, And that republic died when Julius Caesar made himself emperor. When people are desperate, their republics don’t last. They vote themselves a king. But instead my mother said, “We will see you in Versailles.”
Now I look into Marat’s eager face and want to ask if this performance will bring back Foulon and Madame Berthier. Will it put bread in the bakeries? Flour in the mills?
“Yes, we are going,” my mother says. “We would never miss such a patriotic gathering.”
Even my mother has learned the right words.
“YOU HAVE BECOME hard,” my mother says as we are dressing. “God has a plan.” She turns from the mirror to look at me. “Do you question it?”
I think of Madame Élisabeth with her one hundred saints. Certainly, she doesn’t question God’s plan.
“When God wishes me to be with His angels,” she says, “He will summon me as well. And you. And Curtius. We are all going to die. It’s what you do before that call that makes the difference.”
“And do you think God would be pleased with what we’re doing tonight?”
My mother makes a dismissive noise. “God cares for people, not kingdoms. So we are sitting in the audience of the National Assembly. Do you think He cares about such petty things? You have a talent, Marie. A talent given to you by God—”
“And Curtius.”
“But first God. Look at how you have served Him with it. A hundred saints. A hundred!”
“We have only completed three.”
She gives me a long look. “There is no shame in what we do.”
We meet Henri and Curtius in the carriage downstairs, and as the coach drives away, I sit back and look at them in the sunset. They’re exquisite, really. In silk culottes and large tricolor cockades, they might belong to the halls of Versailles or the chambers of the National Assembly. Henri has decorated his walking stick with red ribbon—a color the women are now crassly calling sang de Foulon, or Foulon’s blood—and the buckles on his shoes gleam in the low light.
“That gown suits you well,” he compliments me.
I look down at my white dress and pearl necklace. “Gifts from Curtius,” I say.
“Well, your uncle has very fine taste.” He smiles at my mother, who blushes.
“So when do you become part of our family?” my mother asks.
Everyone looks to me. She’s done this on purpose, I think, because there’s no escaping from a moving carriage and I will have to answer. “We would like to wait for Curtius to leave the National Guard,” I reply.
“You are twenty-eight,” my mother says archly. “And who knows when he may leave the Guard?”
“It won’t be long,” Curtius promises. He pats my mother’s knee. “This is the price you pay for having a talented daughter.”
She wants grandchildren, I know. It’s not enough that Johann has Paschal. They are too many hours away. But still, I feel irritation at her intrusion.
We arrive behind a small delegation of women carrying chests weighted with gold and purses filled with jewels. A buzz of excitement fills the hall of the National Assembly. As directed, the women are dressed entirely in white, and the men have come with shoe buckles that read, LONG LIVE THE NATION and LIBERTY. Because we’ve painted this hall inside the Salon, it has become as familiar to me as the Palais-Royal. The president’s podium, the bright chandeliers, the heavy tapestries. But in truth, it’s been four months since I was here with Rose.
I search among the women for her distinctive figure, but she hasn’t come. Not surprising, really. While she’s made concessions to the Third Estate and its Revolution, she is betting that the queen will triumph. My uncle, however, has brought a purse filled with five hundred livres. Even Henri has come with a bribe. Of course, none of us are calling it that. Instead, we are to call it a charitable donation. We are taken to the front of the hall, where the families o
f other artists are seated on long benches. Curtius recognizes Jacques-Louis David and makes a point of sitting with him.
“Old friends?” Henri asks.
“David was made a member of the Académie Royale eight years ago,” I whisper. “He has a great deal of influence.”
“I thought the Académie would be made up of royalists,” Henri says, surprised.
“Even the world of art is changing.”
“Is this bench available, Citizeness?”
It is Lafayette. He is dressed as Commander in Chief of the National Guard, with white gloves and a dark blue coat. He has brought his wife and children with him. “Adrienne, I would like you to meet the sculptress Marie Grosholtz, and the scientist Henri Charles. On the other side of Henri are Marie’s mother and the artist Philippe Curtius.”
“The wax modeler?” Adrienne is clearly impressed.
“Yes. But it was Marie who sculpted my model.”
“I would like to see your Salon someday,” she says to me.
“You are welcome at any time.”
“This is my son, George Washington,” Lafayette continues, “and my daughters, Anastasie and Virginie.”
All three children have the same red hair as their father. They greet us politely, even the youngest, who cannot be more than six or seven. What a beautiful family. And two of them have been named for Lafayette’s time in America. I remember the story of Lafayette’s youth, how he left his wife while she was pregnant with their second child to help the Americans fight against the British. And now he’s Commander in Chief of the National Guard, with the dual responsibility of keeping the peace in France and keeping the royal family safe.
Lafayette takes his seat next to me, and we listen as the Assembly’s president calls forth the eleven women who have come with their jewels. It is a carefully orchestrated masque and will be reported in every paper tomorrow as reminiscent of Rome’s glorious republic, a time when women eschewed fashion for simplicity and jewels for honor.
Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution Page 24