Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution (5 page)

Now, Rose’s skin truly is pale. “I had no idea,” she whispers, but I notice that none of her women look surprised. They shop for their own goods, just as I do, and they have seen these men in their bloodied aprons. “It is the same with the hair,” I continue. “We can use a wig, or we can insert human hairs into the scalp one at a time. But for you, it will be a wig. We’ll want to be sure we get your
pouf
just right.”

“And the eyes?” I can see that she is afraid I will tell her that these, too, will be real.

“Those will be glass. The body,” I add before she can ask, “will be fashioned by my uncle, using the clothes you have so kindly donated.”

“And how long will all of this take?”

“Several weeks.”

“But Her Majesty will be here by then! How will I know if I approve?”

“Do you like what you see in the mirror?”

She glances above my head, where the reflection of a heavy woman in pearls looks back at her. “It is acceptable.”

“Then the model will be acceptable as well.”

Chapter 4

J
ANUARY
30, 1789

I am terrified of being bored
.

—M
ARIE
A
NTOINETTE TO
A
USTRIAN
A
MBASSADOR
C
OMTE DE
M
ERCY D’
A
RGENTEAU

T
HERE ARE A HUNDRED THINGS STILL TO DO IN THE
S
ALON DE
Cire before Their Majesties arrive in just a few hours. We must remove the figure of Benjamin Franklin and replace it with one of Necker, the king’s Minister of Finance. And the recumbent model of Madame du Barry, the beautiful mistress of King Louis XV, must be hidden away. When Marie Antoinette first arrived in France, it was no great secret that she and her father-in-law’s mistress had not become friends. No Hapsburg princesse could legitimize a woman of unguarded morals. If du Barry had possessed any sense, she would have seen that she was the mistress of the past while Antoinette was the princesse of the future. When Louis died, Antoinette had du Barry banished. It certainly will not do to remind the queen of her rival for her father-in-law’s affections. So I hire two young boys from the street to help me carry the model into the workshop.

They look, mesmerized, at the sleeping figure of du Barry on her blue and white couch. Her back is arched and one arm is raised, suggesting complete and utter abandonment—either to sleep or to pleasure. Her golden curls tumble loosely over her pink taffeta gown, and her long neck is exposed to the viewer.

“From here to the workshop.” I point to a closed door across the exhibition. “I’ll give you five sous each.” With a loaf of bread at fifteen sous and daily wages for the average worker at twenty, it’s a fair price for a moment’s work.

The boys position themselves on either side of the couch and lift the sleeping woman. I walk in front of them, guiding them past the various tableaux, then open the wooden door to the workshop and inhale the familiar scents of oil paints and clay. As they enter, their eyes go wide. It is a wonderland of gadgets and artistry. Like in the secret rooms behind the curtain of a theater, there is everything that a person might need to re-create himself. Dresses and hats, walking sticks and gloves, chairs, couches, tables, lamps, and the half-finished heads of a dozen figures. Tools and supplies are strewn across the floor where Curtius and I left them last night: calipers, chisels, bags of clay, even sacks of horsehair. I can see the boys wish to stay and explore, but I pay them ten sous, and as soon as they are gone, I cover the figure of du Barry with a sheet. I surround it with heavy bags of plaster so there is no chance that anyone will ask to see what’s beneath. But as I am dragging the last bag across the room, it tears, and the plaster trails along the floor.

When my mother sees the mess, she exclaims in her native German,
“Mein Gott!”

“I will clean it up,” I promise.

“But they will be here at any moment!” she cries.

My mother goes into a frenzy of cleaning, tossing the tools into various baskets without any concern for where they belong. At this late hour, it doesn’t matter, and I follow behind her, sweeping the plaster from the floor.

“Where is Curtius?” she demands. “Tell him to come in here and help us!”

“He can’t,” I reply in German. “He’s giving instructions to Yachin.”

Our barker, a young Jewish boy from Austria, is standing outside with the sign I painted for him this morning. It reads,
THE SALON DE CIRE WILL BE CLOSED TODAY IN HONOR OF THEIR MAJESTIES’ ARRIVAL
. I have instructed him to shout it at every passerby. The boy has thought on his own to start telling the crowd that the tickets will be only twelve sous for those who wish to walk in Her Majesty’s footsteps. Of course, the tickets are always twelve sous.

“We must get dressed,” my mother says suddenly.

“But the king. Shouldn’t we add—”

“It’s too late! Do you want the queen to see you like this?”

I laugh, since it is completely unthinkable that anyone should be presented to the queen in an apron. We have spent three days searching among the shops in the Place de Grève for proper attire. It is everything that we get this right. Our Salon may deceive the eye—stucco for marble and gilt instead of gold—but there is no disguising dress. We must look as well turned out as the queen’s ladies, even if it costs us a fortune.

In my mother’s room, I change into a tight-waisted dress. Curtius has bought me a silk fichu for the occasion. It is trimmed in lace, and as I pin it to my bodice, I stand in front of the mirror and admire its effect across my shoulders. While most of Paris is without firewood or bread, our museum takes in three hundred sous a day. It’s enough to ensure that there is always meat on our table and luxuries such as this.

“What do you think?” my mother asks. She has put on the most expensive gown she has ever owned. Although she has already passed fifty, she giggles like a girl. “Am I silly?”

“No.” And I am being honest. “You are beautiful.” The gown is embroidered with tiny pearls, and the bodice has been sewn with gems. It has cost my uncle nearly two hundred livres, and now I can see how du Barry could spend two thousand on a lavish court gown. “Just look at you.” I turn my mother toward the mirror. The dress makes her positively youthful. “You could be forty,” I tell her.

She laughs out loud. “Maybe forty-nine.” She smiles at me in the mirror, then reaches out to take my hand. “I am so lucky in my children,” she whispers. “Three sons in the Swiss Guard, and a beautiful daughter with her own occupation. You will never have to marry for money. You will never have to depend on anyone but yourself.” This is important to my mother, whose marriage was for convenience, not love. She raises her eyes to an image of Christ above her bed. “All of Curtius’s hopes are in you,” she says. “You have made this happen today.”

“We have all made it happen. The Salon could not continue without everyone’s hard work.” It takes enormous skill to coordinate and run an exhibition. I cannot imagine how Curtius ever did it alone. I have seen his record books from before I was born, and they are appalling. Tickets sold for reduced prices to friends, free tickets to various members of the nobility. It is a wonder he made any money at all. We argued last night about whether we should charge the royal family an entrance fee. He wanted to let them in free, as if the new gowns for the models had all come cheap, and I wanted to charge a fee. But my mother insisted that we be gracious subjects, and grace means allowing the royal family inside without a price. I squeeze her hand in mine.

“Sound the trumpets,” she announces grandly.

Downstairs in the Salon, Rose Bertin and Henri Charles have already arrived. I notice that Rose has a wider smile for Henri than she has ever had for me. Perhaps it is because he looks particularly handsome today. His long hair has been dressed
à catogan
and tied with a blue ribbon that matches his coat. The tassels of his walking stick are also blue, like his silk
culottes
, and the long tails of his coat have been richly embroidered. It is the first I have seen him take such care with his appearance. Truly, someone as impressive and intelligent as Henri should be petitioning the king for a place at court. He could serve in the king’s workshop or, better, live by the king’s grants. I think of all the brilliant things he could create with enough money and time.

As soon as Henri sees me, he breaks off conversation with Rose and points to the crowds waiting outside. “Have you seen what’s happening?”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Tomorrow, the Salon will be shoulder to shoulder!”

He hesitates, and I realize that he is being critical.

“You clean up quite well,” Rose remarks. “If you ever wish to make an appearance at court, you could be dazzling in my green robe
à la française
. To match your eyes.”

She is as ruthless a saleswoman as I am. “If I come into an unknown inheritance,” I say, “I will be sure to visit you.”

There is the sound of a coach and eight outside, then of women crying, “The queen! It is His Majesty and the queen!” Despite what’s been printed about her in the
libelles
, accusing her of every kind of immorality, they are excited to see her. I feel a great surge of relief. Henri is wrong. This is exactly the kind of publicity we want. I take my mother’s arm, and we rush to the door.

“Curtsy,” Rose reminds sharply from behind me. “Curtsy!”

I sink into my lowest curtsy, and when I come up, it is real. The King and Queen of France are before me, dressed in expensive silk and ermine cloaks. The cries of the people are shut out as members of the king’s guard hurry to close the doors. None of my three brothers are among the men. Their jobs are to guard the king’s chamber, not to accompany the royal family on trips to Paris. It’s a pity, since we see them so rarely.

“Welcome to the Salon de Cire,” my uncle says.

A servant steps forward to make the introductions. There is Madame Élisabeth, the king’s youngest sister. She is twenty-four and has the cream and rose complexion of a girl in her teens. There is the royal family’s eldest child, Marie-Thérèse, whom the court addresses as Madame Royale. Her dark eyes and hair are a striking contrast to her younger brothers’. I smile at the frail, sickly dauphin, who is borne on a litter by two men. Though he is seven years old—the middle child—he looks all of four or five. He shares the same fair hair and blue eyes as his four-year-old brother, Louis-Charles. The youngest boy is dressed in a little sailor’s outfit: a fitted blue jacket with matching trousers.

“Papa, Maman
, that’s you!” Louis-Charles points across the entrance to the horseshoe table where the wax figures of the king and queen are eating. From the stools arranged for the duchesses to the high-backed chairs for the king and queen, it is as close as any tableau can come to real life.

“Very good,” the queen compliments her youngest son. Then she turns to the dauphin. “Do you know what that scene is meant to be?”

The dauphin struggles to a sitting position. He looks around, not with the quick, dismissive glance of a child who has been given every luxury, but with the slow, curious gaze of a boy who is eager to learn. His eyes go first to the faux marble columns dividing the tableaux, then to the paintings hanging on the walls, which give the impression that the viewer has entered a woman’s private salon. “It must be the Grand Couvert.”

“Exactly!” the queen exclaims. She clearly takes pride in teaching her children.

“Can we go inside?” the dauphin asks. “Where do we pay?”

Curtius laughs. “Today, the entertainment comes free. And if Their Majesties will permit, my niece and I shall take them on a tour.”

We leave the entrance hall, and I notice that the king moves with a limp. In my wax model of him, he is not nearly so short and obese. I imagine he will be pleased with what I’ve done. The queen, however, is more graceful than any model can convey. It is true what they say about her—that she glides instead of walks. Though there is a thickness beneath her chin and she is not as lithe as she once was, there is no mistaking the body of a dancer. Aside from her cloak, she has dressed modestly for this outing. It’s a shame, since I can remember attending her Grand Couvert, the weekly ritual when the king and queen are seen to eat in public, and I know how dazzling Marie Antoinette can be. When I saw the queen at her Sunday dinner, her dress was blue velvet trimmed in white fur, and the white satin stomacher matched her plumed headdress. But today, she is dressed in a gown of puce. She has used the smallest soupçon of rouge to enliven her cheeks, and her hair has been only lightly powdered. I notice that her necklace is of pearls, not diamonds, as are the rings on her fingers.

Her sister-in-law Madame Élisabeth is dressed far more elegantly, in rich brown silk and beige taffeta. Her ermine muff has been embroidered in gold, while the same lavish trim has been used for her gown. Like his sister, King Louis has made no attempt to alter his dress to appease the populace. There are diamond buckles on his shoes, and the fashionable walking stick he is carrying is encrusted with jewels. Even so, there is very little of kingly majesty about him. In different clothes, he might be a peasant. As we enter the exhibition, he stops in front of the first painting. Because he is nearsighted, he must approach the canvas until his nose is nearly touching the paint.