Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

by Michelle Moran

  Curtius crooks his finger at me, and I follow him to the edge of the grass, where Jacques is tampering with his altimeter, away from all the noise and excitement. “A letter,” he says, taking an envelope from his jacket. “From the American ambassador, Gouverneur Morris, to George Washington.”

  He hands it to me, and I can see that it is not the original. “How did you get this?”

  “It was intercepted this morning and translated into French,” he tells me.

  It begins with a salutation and a brief note on how happy Gouverneur Morris is to be in Washington’s favor. Then he continues with the important news of the day:

  The king has at length, as you will have seen, accepted the new Constitution, and been in consequence liberated from his arrest. It is a general and almost universal conviction that this Constitution is inexecutable. The makers to a man condemn it.…

  You doubtless recollect that the now expiring Assembly was convened to arrange the finances, and you will perhaps be surprised to learn that after consuming church property to the amount of one hundred million sterling, they leave this department much worse than they found it.… The aristocrats who are gone and going in great numbers to join the refugee princes believe sincerely in a coalition of the powers of Europe to reinstate their sovereign in his ancient authorities.…

  The Prince de Condé has requested that all French gentlemen capable of actual service will immediately repair to the standard of royalty beyond the Rhine or rather on the banks of that river. To the troops mentioned in this note are added by the counterrevolutionists here 15,000 Hessians and 16,000 French refugees, so that exclusive of what the emperor may bring forward, they muster an army, on paper, of 100,000 men.

  A panic wells up inside me that is hard to suppress. “A hundred thousand men?”

  “This is not the end,” Curtius warns. “Gouverneur Morris was one of the authors of America’s Constitution. He doesn’t believe our Constitution has been written to last. If that is true, and an army is being mustered by the emperor on his sister’s behalf … We must be sure the royal family knows we are still with them. Visit Madame Élisabeth in the Tuileries soon. They are under guard, but I can arrange for a pass.”

  “What are we?” I ask, hopelessness in my voice. “Royalists? Revolutionaries?”

  “Survivalists,” he replies.

  Chapter 42

  NOVEMBER 29, 1791

  How many hearts are open to fraternity and sweet equality!

  —JOURNAL DE PARIS

  BUT IT IS NEARLY TWO MONTHS BEFORE CURTIUS CAN ARRANGE for a pass. And although the guards know me, they are extremely cautious. They search my basket, with its heavy blocks of wax and clay; then they pass around my caliper, conferring with one another as to whether the tool might be used for escape.

  “Do you understand what this new Constitution means?” the oldest guard asks.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s to be no bowing or scraping to the king or queen, and they are no longer to be called Your Majesty. You may now sit in their presence and keep your hat on your head. They are no different from you and me.”

  “I understand.”

  He nods for me to go on. Inside, the air is chill. Whoever has been put in charge of tending the fires has not been doing their duty. Or possibly, they were dismissed. The halls are nearly empty, and it’s strange to be passing through them alone. I feel small and cold beneath the half-lit chandeliers and tapestries. It’s like being on board an abandoned ship.

  “Marie.”

  I put my hand to my chest, and Johann laughs. “Did I frighten you?”

  “Where has everyone gone?” I ask him.

  “Most of the courtiers have been sent away, and those who could afford it have fled to Koblenz to be with the rest of the émigrés.” He lowers his voice. “All of the royal family’s closest friends are gone, including Angélique de Bombelles.”

  “She left Madame?”

  “The princesse instructed her to.”

  Johann follows me down the hall, and I notice that he is wearing a thicker cloak. “New?” I ask as we climb the stairs.

  He exhales so that I can see his breath. “For every guard in the Tuileries. How is Maman? Isabel and I are thinking of coming on Saturday evening. Is there anything we should bring?”

  “Paschal. That’s all Maman is really interested in. She asked yesterday about Edmund, but I told her I never see him. Is he—”

  “Still angry. I try not to see him either.”

  We reach the door to Madame Élisabeth’s salon. There are no ushers, so my brother opens the door for me and announces grandly, “Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

  It is a miserable scene inside. Madame Élisabeth is alone on her couch, buried beneath three blankets for warmth. Her greyhounds are huddled together, shivering visibly as they bury their noses in their paws. “Madame!” I exclaim. “It’s freezing in here.”

  “They won’t light the fires for me.”

  “This cannot continue. We must ask the guards for firewood,” I say.

  “You can ask, but they will tell you no.”

  I look down at the tiny, shivering dogs and reply, “We’ll see about that.” I go back into the hall, but Johann is gone. The first guard I find, I ask for firewood.

  “And who are you?” the young soldier asks. “Madame’s new servant?”

  “I am the owner of the Salon de Cire,” I reply, “along with my uncle, Curtius, who is a captain in your army.”

  A light flickers in his eyes. “You mean the wax modeler on the Boulevard du Temple?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are his sculptress?” The boy looks me up and down.

  “I am also his niece.”

  “I’ve always wondered about those figures,” he says. “How do you decide who to place inside your exhibition?”

  “We look for well-known patriots and celebrated servicemen.” I step closer to him. “Like yourself.”

  He laughs self-consciously. “Me?”

  “Do you know what it is to be immortal? To have your face seen by thousands of passersby?”

  His eyes go wide.

  “Perhaps you would like to come to the Salon, and I shall make a model of you.”

  “Really?”

  He cannot be more than fifteen or sixteen. What is he doing here, guarding the Tuileries? “Yes. And all I ask is a simple favor.”

  He backs away and scowls. “So there’s a price!”

  “Everything comes with a price,” I say evenly. “Especially fame. All I want is some firewood for Madame Élisabeth.”

  “I don’t know that I can get that,” he says. He names the guard who is in charge of it.

  “Can he be convinced?”

  “If there is a good reason.” He hesitates. “But how will I know if I’m to be a model?”

  “Because tomorrow you’ll come to the Salon de Cire and I shall make you famous.”

  Within the hour, there is a crackling fire. Madame Élisabeth is thanking me again and again for my kindness. “Look at them.” She indicates her dogs, who have curled up as close to the flames as possible. Even by the light of the fire, wrapped in an ermine cloak, she looks pale and cold.

  “The guard has promised to bring you wood every morning and evening.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That there might be a wax model in it for him. For a great deal of timber.”

  We both laugh, and I feel closer to her than I ever have before.

  “It was very good of you to come,” she says. “Most courtiers left after … after we fled. And those who haven’t escaped abroad are too frightened to come back. My brother has no one to attend his coucher. Neither does the queen. In the morning, when it’s time for her to dress, she is practically alone. And at night,” she confides, “I can hear her weeping.”

  I think on the tragic irony of this. For years, the queen tried to avoid the rigid ceremonies of the court, and now she desperately needs them back. She has disc
overed that without them, there is nothing to separate her from us.

  “It’s too cold for wax modeling today,” I tell her, “but I am happy to continue coming here.”

  “It would have to be on Wednesdays. The guards have forbidden us any entertainments on Fridays. That is the day the queen used to see her friends.”

  Wednesdays are busy days for the Salon. But I think of all of her unfinished saints and the loneliness she must feel her with only her dogs to keep her company, and I nod. “Certainly. I am sorry for all of this,” I begin.

  She sighs heavily. “I hear the National Assembly has renamed itself the Legislative Assembly. And that Robespierre has been made president of the Jacobin Club. I heard his portrait is hanging in the Paris Salon.”

  Citizens are suffering, there is no bread, and now coffee and sugar are scarce. But Robespierre’s portrait is displayed next to Curtius’s wax model of the dauphin. “He’s not a member of the Legislative Assembly,” I assure her. “His only power is as the president of the Jacobin Club.”

  “But the members of the Legislative Assembly will listen to him. Most of them are Jacobins as well, and their Club is hungry for war.”

  “Robespierre will never vote for that. If France were to be defeated, he knows it would return to a monarchy. Whatever gains might be had in winning, Robespierre would never put the Constitution at risk. He considers himself to be a man of great principles.”

  “Is that why they are calling him The Incorruptible?”

  No, I think. They are calling him The Incorruptible because that is what people wish to believe, and the people’s imagination has proven stronger than reality these past three years.

  Chapter 43

  APRIL 20, 1792

  Men of limited intelligence lack the imagination to be touched by inner suffering.

  —ÉLISABETH VIGÉE-LEBRUN, ROYAL PORTRAIT ARTIST

  IT IS ROBESPIERRE WHO BRINGS US THE NEWS. THE QUEEN’S brother Leopold II has also died, and the Jacobin Club has now voted for war on the emperor’s successor, Francis II.

  “Against the Holy Roman Emperor!” Robespierre is beside himself with grief. We offer him a place at our table, and he seats himself between Henri and Jacques. He holds his head in hands. “No one would listen to me,” he says. “No one would listen!”

  “Then we must hope the Legislative Assembly will vote differently,” Henri offers.

  “It’s too late!” Robespierre is distraught. “They have already voted.”

  “Does Curtius know this?” my mother asks. He is on duty and will not be home until midnight, perhaps later.

  “If he doesn’t, he will,” Robespierre says darkly. “All of France will know it when the emperor comes storming to Paris, to crush everything we have achieved! Now there will be enemies within as well as without. Foreign war as well as civil war.”

  “And where will the soldiers come from,” Henri asks, “to fight off an enemy a hundred thousand strong?”

  “Is it to be a conscripted army?” Jacques questions.

  “I don’t know,” Robespierre admits.

  I think of Edmund and Johann in the king’s service. Certainly, they will not be asked to fight. But what about men like Wolfgang and Curtius? This will be a war of brother against brother. And these foolish men of the Jacobin Club are betting everything on the peasants of the Holy Roman Empire rising up and joining forces with our revolutionaries. If they don’t rise, what then? We will be a leaderless nation with a misfit army taking on the greatest power in Europe.

  For days, this is all anyone talks about. Lafayette has been convinced to turn our army into a respectable fighting force the way he did with the Americans. It’s to be expected that there will be many prisoners of war, and the question of how to humanely dispatch them has been taken up by the Legislative Assembly.

  “A guillotine,” Robespierre informs us at our Tuesday salon.

  Lucile frowns. “And what exactly is a guillotine?” she asks.

  “I …” Robespierre hesitates. “Perhaps …” Lucile is seven months pregnant, and obviously this is not something he hopes for her to know. But she persists, and he is forced to explain. “It is a device built by Dr. Guillotin,” he says. “A wooden contraption that will make for a swift death whether the criminal is rich or poor.”

  Ah, so that is why the Assembly has adopted this. Whereas before, noblemen were beheaded with the ax and commoners were hanged, now there is to be equality in death as well as life.

  “But how does it work?” The scientist in Jacques wants to know.

  Robespierre shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “There are two high pieces of wood and a board in the middle where the criminal lies.”

  “Facedown?” Camille asks.

  “Yes.” Robespierre is not comfortable talking about death, I realize. “There is a blade at the top with a rope attached. When the executioner lets go of the rope, the blade comes down and the criminal is executed.”

  “Decapitation?” my mother cries.

  “Apparently so,” Jacques says.

  “Tomorrow,” Robespierre continues, “the guillotine will be erected outside the Hôtel de Ville at the Place de Grève. We are executing a criminal, and that is something every patriot should be concerned about. I hope you will all be there.”

  “At an execution?” I ask.

  “It is a matter of the nation’s security,” Robespierre replies.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Henri and Jacques join our family in hiring a coach bound for the Place de Grève. “I have never been to an execution,” I admit.

  “Never?” Jacques asks. “But they’re everywhere—”

  “Yes. And I’ve tried to avoid them.”

  “When the blade is about to fall,” Curtius promises, “you can look away.”

  “Who is the criminal?” my mother wants to know.

  “A killer named Pelletier,” Curtius replies. “He will be either very lucky or very unfortunate today.”

  I had not thought of this. What if this guillotine should fail? What if dying by the blade is slower and more painful than dying by the ax? This is a show staged to convince the populace that the war will be won and vengeance will be swift. But I do not want to see it. I don’t care how it may vouch for our patriotism or how many Jacobins will see us and know that we are friends. When the coach stops before the Place de Grève, my palms are damp.

  “Don’t worry,” Henri says. “There will be so many people, it will be impossible to see anything anyway.”

  But when Robespierre notices we have come, we are given places in front of the scaffold.

  “Have you ever seen so many tricolor cockades?” he asks eagerly. He is not expecting an answer, and I don’t give him one. Thousands of people have come to witness this first execution by guillotine. Some in the crowd are carrying children on their shoulders, and women are selling roses like they do outside of theaters. Every guardsman in Paris must be here today. I search for Wolfgang among the phalanx of soldiers dressed in blue and red.

  “Do you see him?” my mother asks.

  “No. But then he could be anywhere,” I tell her.

  The drums begin to roll, and an expectant hush falls over the square. The sound of hooves echoes over the cobblestones, and the guards clear the way for a pair of horses carrying a man in an open wagon. He is perhaps twenty-four, with a dirty face and a dark red shirt provided to him by the executioner. I wonder whether he killed out of self-defense or something more sinister.

  Someone in the crowd shouts, “There is the murderer!” and abuse assails him from every side. A woman throws a heavy stone at his head, and it misses by only the breadth of a hand. The guards around the scaffold begin to laugh. Tomorrow, many of them will be leaving for war, so today they’ll get their entertainment where they can.

  “I don’t want to see this.” I shake my head. Henri puts his arm around my shoulders. When Robespierre looks in our direction, I see the line along his jaw tighten.

  The victim is led onto t
he wooden scaffold. I can see he is surprised that the machine has been painted red. He looks up at the heavy blade, and if his hands were not bound behind his back, he would probably shield his eyes from the sun on the metal. The executioner leads him to the board, and Pelletier doesn’t fight as he’s instructed to lie down. He is facing the wicker basket that will receive his head, and his neck is held in place by a wooden lunette. After a few moments, he will never have another thought. Whatever hopes and dreams he once had will be finished. Although this is when I should be closing my eyes, I can’t look away as the drumroll intensifies and the executioner releases the rope.

  It is over in a second. The moment the blade falls, Pelletier’s head is separated from his body, and the spray of blood is disguised by the color of the guillotine. The executioner bends down to retrieve Pelletier’s severed head from the basket, but as he holds it by the hair for the crowds to see, there are angry cries.

  “Is that it?”

  “Bring back the wheel!” someone shouts.

  The executioner has done his job too well, and the audience isn’t satisfied. The gallows at least provided twitching and slow death by strangulation.

  “The people want what is good, but they do not always see it,” Robespierre says. It is a phrase of Rousseau’s. “They wish to see criminals punished,” he adds, excusing their behavior.

  Or they are simply barbarians, I think.

  The next day, it is guillotine madness. Customers flood into the Salon asking whether the guillotine Curtius has built for the window is available in miniature for purchase.

  “You would like to buy a miniature guillotine?” I repeat.

  A tall woman in a lavender gown giggles. Her curls hang in clusters on either side of her head, and her necklace is made up of a large Bastille rock with the word Liberté engraved in diamonds. “I would like it for my table,” she admits.

  Her companion adds, “Think how surprised guests would be if we brought it out to slice the cucumbers!”