Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

by Michelle Moran

  “Or better yet, the bread, now that the harvest is coming!”

  The pair of them laugh.

  “It would be at least thirty livres-assignats,” I warn them.

  Lavender dismisses my concern with a wave. “It would be worth it to see their faces!” she gushes.

  When he returns home, I ask Curtius what he thinks.

  “If our customers want guillotines, then that’s what they’ll get. I can take this week off and teach Yachin how to assemble them.”

  The next morning, the pair of them are out in the courtyard, sanding toy guillotines to amuse the rich.

  Chapter 44

  JUNE 19, 1792

  The rest of the world lives on in vain

  And roars, calling us to fight.

  —EXCERPT FROM THE SONG “LA MARSEILLAISE”

  ALL ACROSS EUROPE, WORD IS SPREADING THAT TWO-THIRDS of France’s officers have fled rather than take their chances against the Holy Roman Empire. In the city of Lille, soldiers murdered their own general for losing a battle against the Austrians. But Jacques Brissot, the new president of the Legislative Assembly, has a plan to spread liberty throughout Europe at whatever the cost, however many men must die.

  “Liberty cannot come without a price!” Camille exclaims at our Tuesday salon.

  Robespierre rises from his seat. “Last week you were against the war, but now that Georges Danton is shouting about freeing oppressed people abroad, suddenly you’re ready to risk everything we’ve worked for?”

  Lucile puts her hand on Camille’s arm. “Why don’t we let Wolfgang speak?”

  Everyone turns to my brother in his captain’s uniform and red cravat. Neither he nor Curtius has been sent abroad, but that may change.

  “So what do the guardsmen think?” Robespierre asks. “Not what you want us to believe they think, but what they’re actually saying.”

  “That there is hope,” Wolfgang replies cautiously, “but only because three heroes of the American War have been made generals and sent off to fight.” Lafayette has gone to Reims, while Rochambeau is in Belgium and Luckner is in Alsace. “I’m not sure how many men believe this war is winnable.”

  Curtius agrees. “With the Prussians sending Austria their troops, it will be only a matter of time before they invade. The king has vetoed a proposal that would post twenty thousand guardsmen all around Paris. Why do you think this is?”

  “To clear the way for the Austrians,” Camille exclaims, “as they come marching in!”

  “We should send the queen to a convent and try the king for treachery,” Robespierre suggests. The Duc d’Orléans, who has only recently rejoined our salon, gives the loudest cheer.

  The next morning, when I reach the Tuileries, I am shocked to find the king and queen whispering with Madame Élisabeth in her workshop. Immediately, I turn away to give them privacy, but as I reach for the door the queen exclaims, “Please, stay.” She is dressed in black for the death of her second brother, Emperor Leopold, and I admire her nerve to wear mourning clothes despite the express orders of the Assembly.

  Although it is not permitted anymore, I curtsy. There are no guards to see me.

  “We are talking about the commotion outside,” Madame Élisabeth says, stepping away from the windows where, clearly, something is happening below.

  “I didn’t see any commotion,” I tell her, and the three of them exchange looks.

  “Nothing?” the king questions. “No men making for the palace?”

  “Or groups of women in red caps?” the queen worries. This is the new fashion in Paris. Red Phrygian caps like the hats worn in ancient Rome as a sign of liberty. True patriots are now sporting everything Roman. Men’s hair is straight and unpowdered, like that of Brutus, who was the killer of a tyrant. And women wear long chemise dresses in white like the Vestal Virgins, the keepers of Rome’s flame. In the Jacobin Club, there are as many busts of Romans as there are of Frenchmen.

  “No,” I tell them. “Nothing like that. The streets have been calm.”

  But there is clearly a storm brewing below. The queen looks nervously over her shoulder at the shuttered windows, and the king explains, “They want to plant a liberty tree in the middle of the royal gardens.”

  I don’t understand. “Who does, Your Majesty?”

  “A group of agitated citizens—”

  “A mob!” the queen exclaims. Her color is high, and even though she is using a fan to conceal it, she is clearly sweating. “They are enraged at being denied the chance to plant their tree in the last garden of France where monarchy still grows.”

  “You saw nothing on your way to the Tuileries?” the princesse confirms.

  “Madame, if there is anyone coming—” But my words are cut off by the sound of a gate crashing against its post and someone crying, “God save the king! They’re storming the Tuileries!”

  The four of us rush to the windows, and Madame Élisabeth opens the shutters. Across the courtyard, thousands of angry men armed with sabers and pikes are making for the palace. Many are shouting, “Death to the royals!”

  “They are going to kill us!” the queen cries.

  The doors of the workshop swing open, and a dozen Swiss Guards hurry inside. Both Edmund and the Baron de Besenval are among them, but Edmund does his best not to look at me. Even as a child, my oldest brother was unyielding. He will not change now. “Your Majesties!” the baron cries, breaking the ban on using honorifics. “Hide yourselves at once.”

  “In separate rooms,” adds Edmund. “If His Majesty will agree, we will take him now to the Salon de l’Oeil-de-Boeuf.”

  The king has tears in his eyes. “It is better this way,” he tells his wife and sister. They embrace him, and their parting is swift. The mobs are so close that I can distinguish the words of “La Marseillaise,” a song Parisians have adopted as their war cry.

  “What about my son?” the queen asks. “He is all alone—”

  “We have already made arrangements for him,” the baron says.

  “And my daughter?”

  “She is in the salon.”

  The room is cleared, and I am left alone with the baron. He watches me, and I wonder if I am to be punished for my brother’s transgressions. All it would take is a brief comment to the mobs, a whisper that I am a royalist or an aristocratic sympathizer. “You are Curtius’s daughter,” he says.

  I swallow quickly. “Actually, his niece.”

  He doesn’t move. There is nothing threatening in his face. If anything, there is a deep sadness in his eyes. Perhaps he has realized that if he dies today, he will never see his only grandchild. “Leave through the servants’ entrance. Down the back stairs next to the kitchens,” he instructs. “Go. Quickly!”

  I take the stairs two at a time, and when I reach the kitchens, I am part of a long line of escaping servants. Everyone is silent, intent on the task at hand. We must get out the door and then run. Heavy footsteps echo on the stairs above our heads. The mob is inside the palace.

  Twenty more people and I will be through the door. I glance around the kitchen, at the baskets of warm bread ready to be served up to the royal family. No one has decided to take it. On a center table, a pile of silk napkins has been left unfolded, and a tray of silver forks has been abandoned. There are so many forks. What does the royal family do with all of these? If members of the mob make their way here, this will all be stolen.

  “Go!” Someone pushes me forward. “Go!”

  My turn has come. I do as I’m instructed and run. I don’t look back, and I am ashamed to say that, as I follow the other servants across the courtyard and through the gates, I don’t think of Edmund or Johann. I have no idea if I am being pursued. I lose myself in the alleys of Paris and don’t stop until I have reached the Boulevard du Temple.

  “What’s happening?” Yachin cries when he sees me. Women do not run. It is undignified.

  I stop to catch my breath. “I will tell you inside.”

  In the Salon, crowds have gather
ed around my uncle’s tableau of Nicolas Luckner at the guillotine, which I refused to make. The customers are shocked when they catch sight of me. When I glimpse myself in the mirror, I can see why. My bonnet is gone and my cheeks are red. My hair is hanging loosely over my shoulders, and I have lost my fichu somewhere in the city.

  “Mein Gott!” my mother exclaims. “What is this?”

  I tell her the news, and when I finish, there is a crowd around the caissier’s desk.

  “What about Edmund and Johann?” Yachin worries.

  My mother looks to me, but there is nothing I can offer.

  It is the longest ten hours of our lives. While customers laugh over Madame du Barry and question whether my uncle’s guillotine might work, we sit at the caissier’s desk and wait for news. When the door opens at nine and it is Johann who comes through, my mother begins to weep.

  “Johann!” she cries. She searches his body for cuts or wounds, and when she sees that he is sound, she takes him to her chest.

  “Are they alive?” I whisper.

  Johann separates himself from my mother. “Yes.” He recounts what happened after I fled, and although I’m aware of customers listening, I am too engrossed to send them away.

  “There wasn’t a room in the palace they didn’t enter. When they found the king, they threatened him with pistols, and as God is my witness I thought they would shoot. But he was eloquent. For the first time in his life, the king knew what to say. He said he was the father of our country and a believer in liberty. That he would protect the Constitution until his dying breath and that the Austrians would never make their way into Paris. Then the mob forced a liberty cap on his head. It was shameful,” he admits. “It was embarrassing.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, when Lafayette hears what has transpired in the Tuileries, he is beside himself with rage. He returns to Paris and calls for the destruction of the Jacobin Club, whose members participated in the storming of the Tuileries. In Tuesday’s salon, that is all we hear about.

  “Liberty cannot coexist with men like Lafayette,” Robespierre threatens.

  “So what do you propose?” the Duc wants to know.

  Robespierre is thoughtful for a moment. “That death be brought to all traitors.”

  Chapter 45

  JULY 6, 1792

  You are young, Camille Desmoulins, candor is on your lips … but you are often fooled by that very candor.

  —JACQUES-PIERRE BRISSOT, REVOLUTIONARY LEADER

  FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MORE THAN THREE MONTHS, GOOD news is delivered to our doorstep. Camille has come to tell us that Lucile has survived childbirth and a healthy son, Horace, has been delivered. We are all overjoyed for him. Despite our vast differences in politics, he is a good man at heart. And for all of Lucile’s impassioned speeches, she has only wanted a better future for France.

  “I know you are b-b-busy with the Salon,” Camille says. He is so excited that his stutter has returned. “But I was wondering if you might come to our ap-p-partment and sketch my son. We would like to have a wax model done of him.”

  It is not an unusual request. If parents can afford it, many times they will want wax sculptures of their infants. Particularly if the children are stillborn.

  I gather my papers while Camille goes next door to give Henri the news. When I step outside, he is trying to convince Henri to leave his caissier’s desk to visit Horace and Lucile. “Why not?” I encourage him. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Are you suggesting I close the exhibition early and risk profit?”

  I grin. “Of course not. Your assistant can stay here. That’s what he’s for.”

  The three of us make our way through the streets. On every lamppost is a red and blue sign encouraging young men to enlist in the army. One of the posters catches Camille’s eye, and the color rises on his neck. “We are losing this war!” he says angrily. Several passersby turn to look at us. “I have a son to take care of, and the Austro-Prussian army is advancing. Every National Guardsman has been ordered to protect Paris, but with what weapons?” he asks. “With what cannon?”

  “Is there any news from the fronts?” Henri asks cautiously.

  It is not wise to appear too eager for word, especially if it is dire. The Assembly has ordered the closure of every theater, and our exhibits must show our patriotism in new ways: every model must wear a bonnet rouge, which the commoners are calling a liberty cap, and shoes that lace instead of buckle. Men’s knee breeches have been replaced with long striped pants, and women’s skirts must be white, red, and blue. Poor Madame du Barry, in her beautiful court dress, has been reduced to skirts à la circassienne, as if she’s wrapped herself in a tricolor flag. Only Robespierre, who stands at the Jacobin podium and preaches against hypocrisy, is allowed to retain his silk culottes and powdered wig.

  “The news is not good,” Camille replies as we reach his apartment. “The Comte de Provence and the Comte d’Artois have joined forces with the Austrians and are commanding an army of émigrés.” He stops on the stairs. “Please do not mention any of this to Lucile.”

  Inside of Camille’s beautifully decorated salon, more than two dozen people are celebrating. There are spirits, wine, and bowls of tobacco for the men who are lighting up pipes. Lucile reclines in a chaise lounge at the center of the room, and the infant Horace is at her breast. The image is so striking that I ask Camille if he would like mother and son sculpted together.

  “What do you think?” he asks Lucile. “A wax b-b-bust of mother and child?”

  She looks lovingly into her little son’s face. “Why not?” she asks tenderly. “Then we can keep this moment forever.”

  Camille finds me a chair, and while I take out my paper and ink, he introduces Henri to his friends. “Congratulations,” I tell Lucile.

  She beams up at me with a mother’s pride. “It was all done so quickly. Everyone told me to expect labor pains for twenty-four hours, but it was over before it even began.”

  “You are fortunate,” I say, beginning to sketch. She did not gain much weight in her pregnancy. She appears much the same, with her dark hair falling around her shoulders and her sharp eyes darting about the room.

  “Well, soon it will be you.” She runs her finger down her son’s little nose, and her expression changes. “Do you think we have done right in naming him Horace Camille?” She searches the room. “His godfather is to be Robespierre, but he hasn’t come. Perhaps he is angry?”

  “It has nothing to do with the name,” I promise her.

  “Is it politics then?”

  I look across the salon at Camille, who has his arm around Henri’s shoulders and is laughing. He specifically asked us not to speak about war. This is supposed to be a happy day, a time of new life, not of loss and death. “Yes,” I reply. “Politics.”

  “You can tell me,” she says. “I’m not a delicate flower just because I’ve become a mother.”

  Now I am caught between the truth and my promise. Finally, I say, “They have a difference of opinion on the war.”

  Lucile leans back against the couch and groans. “It is always this way with Robespierre. You are either with him or against him, a traitor to the country or a defender of liberty. There is no in between. And he never forgets an indignity or a slight.”

  I nod quietly and do not say anything.

  “Now that Camille can live on my dowry, he has dedicated himself to the Jacobin Club. He is no longer a journalist, and I think this makes Robespierre envious,” she confides.

  In place of Camille’s paper, a dozen new journals have sprung up, including Robespierre’s weekly La Défenseur de la Constitution. The bloodred cover symbolizes the bloodshed that liberty and equality require. I can imagine Robespierre being jealous now that Camille has both the money and the time to dedicate himself exclusively to politics, while he must still work for his living.

  “This feud cannot continue,” Lucile says. “Camille and Robespierre have known each other since they were children. Marie, will you do a
favor for me?”

  I put down my sketch and wait for her to go on.

  “Will you deliver something to Robespierre?”

  “Without your husband knowing?” I ask.

  “It would only be a letter. I could write it now, and it would make peace between them.”

  “I have no idea where he lives,” I confess.

  “With Maurice Duplay. He is a cabinetmaker in the Rue Saint-Honoré. His wife and daughters take care of Robespierre.” She looks at Camille while I wonder what sort of care Robespierre needs. “Please,” she begs. “You can say you are leaving to find new paper or ink.”

  I nod, and while she puts Horace in his bassinet to write, I finish the sketch. When she is done, she folds the paper neatly in half. “It isn’t far, only a few doors from the Jacobin Club.” She gives me the address: 366 Rue Saint-Honoré. “Thank you, Marie.”

  “He doesn’t want to make this peace on his own?” I ask.

  “He is fire and brimstone. I fell in love with that, but sometimes it blinds him.”

  I cross the room full of warmongers and politicians from the Jacobin Club to whisper where I’m going into Henri’s ear. “You don’t have to come with me,” I say. He gives me a wry look, and I have to suppress a laugh.

  Outside, the sky is a brilliant blue, and women are fanning themselves in the heat. “Summer is my favorite time of year,” Henri admits. “There’s nothing better than sitting on the porch and counting the stars.”

  “You told me winter was the best time for stargazing.”

  He squeezes my arm. “In winter,” he explains, “the sky is clear and the air is dry. But in summer, you have the benefit of not freezing to death.”

  We reach the Duplay house and stop in front of a small, cluttered courtyard filled with wood-making tools and a narrow saw pit. We knock on the door, and a young woman answers. She has long dark hair and striking green eyes. I would guess her age to be twenty-four or twenty-five. “My father is not at home,” she says.