Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

  “It means I’m on the side that pays the bills. And right now, aristocrats are the only ones with any money. But I’m not a fool.” She leads me into her workshop, where two dozen women are sitting at separate desks. Their heads bob up and down in greeting, but they don’t stop sewing. “Show Citizeness Grosholtz what you’re doing, Annette.”

  A young woman holds up a white muslin cap edged with a beautiful tricolor ribbon. “A bonnet à la Nation,” she says.

  We go on to the next desk, and Rose gestures for the second woman to show us what she’s doing.

  “A necklace.” The girl holds up a long golden chain. From the end of it dangles a smooth gray stone with the word Liberté written in diamonds.

  “That’s a rock from the Bastille,” Rose explains. “So you see? I am ready for anything.”

  We return to the shop, where the summery scents of sandalwood and jasmine fill the light space and she is still selling gloves à la mode de Provence. I pick up a pair and inhale. The leather has been perfumed with orange blossom. Three hundred sous. I place them back in the basket. “So what should our models be wearing?”

  “That all depends. Which models are we talking about?”

  “Madame du Barry.”

  “I would take off the wig and show her natural hair.”

  I groan. That will take forever. Perhaps we can find a long blond wig instead.

  “Get rid of panniers,” she continues. “Wide dresses are finished.”

  “They are?”

  “Done.”

  “But last week—”

  “Was last week! The Bastille has fallen. And the king has visited the National Assembly without a single minister by his side to say that he’ll be withdrawing his soldiers. He arrived in the Hôtel des Menus completely unannounced. And he went on foot.”

  My God. It’s all but an abdication.

  “Only his brothers were with him. Artois and Provence. The three of them stood in the National Assembly and agreed to call back the royal troops. They’re bringing the king to the Hôtel de Ville to address the Assembly there. It isn’t by choice.”

  “It’s the end of the Bourbons,” I say. My gaze falls on her black cockade.

  But Rose isn’t disturbed. “So long as the queen has her family to call on, it’s never the end. Her brother is the Holy Roman Emperor.”

  “So you think he’ll come to her aid?”

  “He’s been fighting his own war with the Turks. But there’s talk of it in the palace. It’s all they have left to hope for,” she admits. “Until then, I would dress du Barry in a light chemise gown with a lace fichu. And your male models will want black felt hats with tricolor cockades.”

  “I thought you were promoting the black and white cockade?”

  “To my customers. Your customers are a different sort.” Rose Bertin would dress the Devil if there was money in it for her.

  But then am I so different?

  The rest of the morning is spent in modeling the faces of Elie and Hulin. This Revolution has cost us several thousand sous. Although I’ve heard that actors have it worse. They’re being told which performances they’re allowed to put on, and Pierre Beaumarchais’s play The Marriage of Figaro is the Assembly’s favorite. Up and down the Boulevard du Temple and at the Palais-Royal, this same comedy is playing. And when Figaro takes the stage and declares, “Nobility, wealth, rank, office—all of that makes you very proud! But what have you done to deserve these blessings?” the entire crowd cheers. Even the Opéra Royal, which was nearly burned down, has been allowed to reopen so it can play Mozart’s operatic rendition of The Marriage of Figaro. I find it ironic that it was the queen’s brother Emperor Joseph II who commissioned the play to be turned into an opera.

  At four in the afternoon, a carriage arrives outside. “Robespierre!” I hear my uncle exclaim.

  The rest of Paris is discarding the fashions of the ancien régime, but Robespierre is dressed in blue silk culottes and a powdered wig. From his embroidered waistcoat to his striped nankeen jacket, he is the very picture of what newspapers are calling a muscadin, or scented fop. And because he stands only a little over five feet tall, some clever shoemaker has convinced him to add higher heels to shoes that already have platforms. He greets my uncle with a dignified nod. A smile is too casual for Assemblyman Robespierre. “Citizen Curtius,” he says with exaggerated politeness. “I hear you have performed this country a mighty service.”

  I leave the wax bust of Hulin and stand next to my uncle, who says, “It was my pleasure to help in any way I could.”

  “There will be recognition of your service,” Robespierre assures him. “The National Assembly is drawing up certificates for all nine hundred Vanquishers of the Bastille. We don’t want the citizens of France to forget the sacrifice you made, or the significance of that day. There are enemies lurking around every corner,” he says. “Men—even women—who wish to strangle these feats of liberty in their cradles and return this country to its recent days of tyranny.” He sounds like Camille, only paranoid. “I have just come from the Hôtel de Ville,” he says, “where the king told the crowds that he is proud of what the National Assembly has accomplished. But when he returns tonight to his palace, what do you think he is going to do?”

  “Write to his brother-in-law for help,” Curtius guesses.

  “Exactly!” Robespierre pushes his glasses back with his thumb. “That’s exactly what I told the National Assembly. We are in danger.” His voice drops low. “So long as the king is wearing his crown, this country is only one army away from returning to despotism. Rousseau believed in equality. And there can never be equality so long as there are nobles.” He looks around, seeing the heads of de Launay and de Flesselles for the first time. “Is this for a new tableau?”

  “The Conquest of the Bastille,” Curtius replies.

  “I hear you’ve become quite popular.” He is obviously waiting for an invitation. He wants to see the model we’ve made of him. He wants to stand in front of our most popular tableau and enjoy the fact that he, a poor lawyer from Arras, is now a major speaker in the National Assembly.

  “Would you like to look around?” my uncle offers. “There’s one tableau in particular I think you’ll enjoy.”

  Robespierre lets us take him from room to room, and for each tableau he gives us his commentary. Jefferson’s Study? “Would be much improved if you removed the bust of Lafayette. Any man who commands other men to kill cannot be trusted.” Sleeping Beauty? “A disgrace to this nation! Madame du Barry,” he adds with disgust, though I notice his eyes rest on her chest, “should be sent from this country and never allowed to return.” The Grand Couvert. The Queen’s Chamber. Parisian Beauties. The Foreign Envoys. All of these have something Robespierre would change. It’s unbearable, really. How do the other assemblymen stand him?

  “And now, our most popular room,” Curtius says, and I wonder if Robespierre will have improvements for this. We step into a re-creation of the National Assembly holding a meeting in the Hôtel des Menus. There are models of the Duc d’Orléans, Mirabeau, and Danton, who took part in yesterday’s assault on the Bastille. And, of course, there is Robespierre.

  Suddenly, our guest is silent. He crosses the room and stands in front of himself. What must it feel like to see your double in wax? He studies the wide feline face, the green spectacles, the short powdered wig. For a moment, I think he’s going to offer a critique. Then he turns and says, “I am honored.”

  Curtius smiles at me, as if to say, There. He is not such a barbarian after all.

  “To stand here,” Robespierre says, “and see my likeness among so many of the good and great …” He puts his hand over his heart. “It is almost more than I can take. In his Discourse, Rousseau wrote that the arts and sciences have never served mankind, born as they are of vanity and pride. But this …” He casts his gaze around the room, from the walls painted to look like public galleries to the bench where the Duc d’Orléans is seated. “This is inspiring. Work lik
e this will remind the citizens of France what we are fighting for, what we are struggling to achieve. Congratulations, Curtius and Marie.” My uncle humors him with a little bow. “I am impressed.”

  We return to the workshop and my uncle’s miniature Bastilles. “If you would like to take one with you back to Versailles,” he offers, “I can have it wrapped.”

  “That would be very generous,” Robespierre says. “I see you are modeling Jacob Elie and Pierre-Augustin Hulin. Have you considered including the former Comte de Lorges?”

  I look at Curtius to see if he’s heard of him, but his face is blank.

  “There is no man in France who better symbolizes the cruelties of the Bastille,” Robespierre tells us. “He was thrown into prison on a lettre de cachet and remained there for thirty years. When they stormed the fortress, he hobbled through the gates with the only thing in the world left to him—his cane.”

  “How do you know this?” Curtius asks. “I was there. I didn’t see an old man.”

  “He was last to be freed. I met with him this afternoon, and his zeal for life is undiminished. I have already spoken with Camille. By tomorrow, there won’t be citizen in Paris who doesn’t know his story. I can send Citizen Lorges here this evening and you can model him.”

  My uncle looks to me. “Can a model be done by Saturday?”

  There are already five models to finish. De Flesselles and de Launay will both need to be painted, while Elie, Hulin, and the mayor, Bailly, are all in want of hair. We shall simply use wigs; hair can come later. “I can sculpt him if you finish it while I’m gone.”

  Curtius turns back to Robespierre. “Send him here tonight.”

  “It would be an honor,” my uncle replies.

  Robespierre smiles. “I am going to see where this unfortunate man was kept. Would you like to accompany me to the Bastille?”

  But before we can go, Robespierre stands in front of the mirror adjusting his wig, straightening his cravat, cleaning his spectacles, and polishing his shoes. When we finally leave the Salon, everyone recognizes him on the streets. They greet him the way they should be greeting the king, stopping in their tracks, even bowing.

  When we reach the Bastille, Robespierre stands back. Even after the battle, it’s an impressive sight. Eight towers block out the summer’s sky, each seventy feet high and five feet wide. Constructed during the Hundred Years’ War, it’s been a prison for more than three centuries. Now, I suppose, it will become a shrine.

  The three of us cross the moat into the fortress’s interior, and half a dozen men rush toward us to offer their services. Robespierre nods in the youngest man’s direction. “Can you show us around this bastion of horror?”

  “It would be an honor, Citizen Robespierre. My name is Victor.”

  Robespierre smiles at the aptness of this. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Victor, who can be only sixteen or seventeen, tells us his brother has been here, imprisoned on a lettre de cachet for writing a pamphlet encouraging rebellion.

  “You come from a family of patriots, then?”

  Victor shrugs. “He wished to better his reputation.”

  Robespierre frowns, and Victor explains. “Every writer knows that the way to lasting fame is to be sent to the Bastille. My brother did it; the Abbé Morellet did it.”

  “Are you saying they purposely angered the monarchy,” Curtius asks, “just so they could be imprisoned here?”

  “Of course! A few months in the Bastille,” Victor says cheerfully, “and that’s all the credibility you’ll ever need. You haven’t read the Abbé Morellet? ‘I saw literary glory illuminate the walls of my prison,’ ” he quotes. “ ‘Once persecuted I would be much better known and my time in the Bastille would make my fortune.’ ”

  “For someone who is clearly educated,” Robespierre says, “I’m surprised you’re giving tours of the Bastille.” I can see from the tightness along his jaw that he means this as an insult. But with so many hangers-on walking behind us in the shadow of a famous assemblyman, he doesn’t dare say anything overtly rude.

  “What can you do in times like these?” Victor replies. “Even my brother has trouble keeping his family in food. It would have been better if he had stayed here. He ate boiled chicken and roasted beef,” Victor remembers. “With Crassane pears and grapes for dessert. But it was the coffee …” He shakes his head at the memory. “My brother gave me a cup of the Moka coffee—you couldn’t get better at the Palais-Royal.”

  “Shall we begin the tour?” Robespierre asks sharply.

  Victor stops walking. “We can start with this.” He points to the ground, where a mass of rubble is being cleared by a team of workers. “This was the gatekeeper’s lodge,” he says, “where anyone who wished to visit the prisoners had to stop and check in. Sometimes, the men would be playing cards. Over there, that’s de Launay’s vegetable garden. He planted it so the cooks could make soups.”

  Curtius looks at me, and I steady myself on his arm. It was only yesterday that de Launay was alive. His friends, his family, the men who depended on him—could they have imagined it would end this way? That his vegetable garden would be trampled underfoot by men who would paint him as a tyrant?

  We enter the fortress, and Robespierre’s dark mood deepens. I remember the shock of coming here for the first time myself. Where were the chains, the torture racks, the wheel? We pass through several prisoners’ rooms. In each chamber is a bed with long green curtains, pillows for resting, and a large black stove. In some of the cells there are bowls on the floor, obviously meant for cats or dogs. “The prisoners were allowed to keep pets?” Robespierre asks.

  “Certainly. My brother had his dog, and a friend of his kept two male cats.”

  “Where are the cachots?” Robespierre demands. “I want to see the dungeons.” He wants desperate men confined in the dark with rats and vermin, scratching their names into dank walls with their fingernails.

  Victor looks to Curtius and me, as if we can explain the reality of the Bastille to him. Instead, we descend into the dungeons, and here, Robespierre finds what he’s looking for. A printing press becomes a rack for torture, metal armor becomes a terrible iron corset. There is no convincing Robespierre otherwise. It’s a trait in him I’ve never seen before, and Victor is stunned.

  “Did you want to see the billiards room?” he asks.

  Robespierre straightens his cravat. “No. I think we have seen enough horror for one day.”

  As we climb the stairs, we reach a section that is covered in moss. My foot slips, and Robespierre grabs my arm. “Thank you.” I gasp, then look down. “My God, I could have killed myself.”

  “And we wouldn’t want to lose a beautiful patriot like you.” His eyes lock on mine, and immediately, Curtius is there to say, “That would certainly be a tragedy. And Henri would be exceptionally disappointed.”

  Robespierre is surprised. “You are engaged to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not married?”

  “No. The needs of the Salon must come first.”

  Immediately, I realize I shouldn’t have said this. Robespierre’s eyes grow wide and full of approval. He clasps my hand and when we return to the daylight, he sees that he has an audience and declares, “Man was born free, and he is everywhere in chains. One man thinks himself the master of others but remains more of a slave than they.”

  The people begin to clap, and one man says, “Rousseau.”

  Robespierre nods. “Every man and woman here today would do well to read the philosopher’s works.”

  “Which do you think is more important?” someone asks. “Rousseau’s novel Émile or The Social Contract?”

  “That’s like asking to choose between the daffodil and the rose. Both are beautiful creations.”

  The people around us begin to laugh. There is nothing Robespierre can say that would disappoint them. “And what do you think should happen to the Bastille?”

  “I believe that a monument to tyranny, su
ch as this,” he exclaims, “must be utterly destroyed!”

  Chapter 28

  JULY 16, 1789

  My brother, the Comte, is the most enlightened of advisers. His judgment on men and things is seldom mistaken.

  —MEMOIRS OF MADAME ÉLISABETH

  AS THE CARRIAGE PULLS UP TO MADAME ÉLISABETH’S CHTEAU, I look at the brightly painted shutters, the rolling hills, and the sculpted trees in their pale marble urns. The air has a light, wild smell that belongs only to Montreuil and Versailles. The hills don’t care that there is no bread in Paris. The flowers still bloom whether the Bastille stands or falls. I can see now why the queen built her expensive Hameau. There, nothing else exists. The cows will welcome her whether or not she’s beloved in France. The water mill will keep churning even if the people have forgotten about their dauphin. All of the world’s troubles cease to exist in Nature. The bees, the flowers, the trickling stream, they simply carry on.

  I step from the carriage, and the Marquise de Bombelles comes out to greet me. I search behind her for the pack of greyhounds and the golden figure of Madame Élisabeth.

  “The princesse is at Versailles,” she tells me. She is even thinner, gaunt. These weeks have changed her. “She would like us to begin in the workshop without her.” As we enter the workshop and put on our aprons, she confides in me, “It is a disaster. Two nights ago the king asked the Duc de Liancourt if Paris was in revolt. Liancourt told him it is no revolt. It is a Revolution.” She studies me from across the worktable. “We listen to the servants whispering in the halls and beg the guards for information. Is it really a Revolution?” she asks me.

  “Yes,” I say quietly. “The National Assembly is pushing for a constitutional monarchy.” I think of Lafayette and Robespierre. “Some would like to do away with the monarchy altogether and replace it with a Constitution, like they have in America.”

  Her hands begin to tremble. “All he’s ever wanted is the best for his people. And Madame Élisabeth …” She shakes her head. “She will be beside herself.”