I gaze up at the paintings by Boucher and wonder if he could have ever imagined a time when his Four Virtues would be looking down on commoners rummaging through Her Majesty’s chamber.
THE GUARDSMEN HAVE left the chests of Madame Élisabeth’s things in the corner of our workshop, and since their arrival, half the neighborhood has been to see what’s inside. The tailor is fond of the princesse’s shoes, which I packed for their beauty, despite the fact that they were not on the list. Letters, journals, a leather box for paintbrushes—everything is here when Lafayette comes for the second time in three days. The royal family has settled into the Tuileries, and Rose and I have been summoned to deliver the possessions we’ve salvaged. He waits at the door of the Salon while I give Curtius my last-minute instructions.
“I think we turn the first room into a tableau of Great Patriots. The second room, perhaps something with the Jacobin Club.” That’s all they’re talking about in the Palais-Royal. Robespierre has joined, as well as Louis-Philippe, the teenage son of the Duc d’Orléans, who is now living abroad. “I don’t have any ideas for the third.”
“Something with the National Guard,” Curtius says.
I kiss my mother good-bye, and she makes me promise to return with details about everything—the king, the queen, and the condition of the Tuileries, which hasn’t been used since Louis XIV built his Palace of Versailles. Lafayette helps me into a carriage where Rose is already waiting. When he shuts the door and the horses take off, she exhales deeply. “They are barbarians. All of them!” She flicks opens her fan and begins to wave it compulsively.
For an October morning, it’s oppressively hot.
“She’s done her best! At all times, she’s only given her best.” Sweat has broken out on her upper lip, and she fans it away with sharp flicks. “She ruled the world of fashion. And there will never be anyone like her. Remember when fire burned through the Opéra? We named her red dress incendie de l’Opéra, and every woman from Paris to London had to have it. Even the Duchess of Devonshire! That will never happen again.”
I’m not sure whom Rose feels sorriest for. Herself, because her creations will never be showcased on the world’s stage again, or the queen, who has lost the power to do so.
“There has always been power in fashion,” she continues. “Even this”—she indicates the cockade on her breast—“is power.” She passes me a cockade from Le Grand Mogol. “Take it,” she says. “You will need it to get into the palace. No one’s allowed inside without the tricolor.”
I pin it to my fichu. “Thank you,” I say, and Rose looks out the window. We’re approaching the Tuileries on the right bank of the Seine, and it’s difficult to imagine the royal family living in this abandoned place. It was built more than two hundred years ago by Catherine de’ Medici when her husband, King Henry II, died. “So what will you do now?” I ask.
“Cater to other women with fashion sense. And if they all leave Paris, then I shall close Le Grand Mogol and follow them to London. The queen has been the making of me, and I will never forget that. But if she’s too foolish to plan her escape, I am not.”
I think of Henri’s plea that we leave. Philip Astley is already gone, and many of the actors on the Boulevard du Temple have packed their chests and sailed across the Channel.
“Madame Élisabeth tells me it’s not her but the king.”
“Then she should have left without him,” Rose declares pitilessly. “She’s too loyal, and that’s what has brought us here.”
The carriages stop before the Tuileries Palace. Lafayette brings us to the entrance, and after a few words with the guards, we are taken inside. I had expected cobwebs and stone, yet fresh morning light falls through the windows and illuminates an exquisite scene. “Look at the floors and the paintings,” I say.
Rose makes a face. “It’s not Versailles.”
We are taken to the second floor, where there are courtiers hurrying about their business and workers moving heavy pieces of furniture. Somewhere in these halls my brothers are on patrol with the National Guard. “How many people are here?” Rose asks.
“About five hundred,” Lafayette replies.
It’s a drastic reduction in courtiers and staff, but perhaps now the people will see that the royal family is not spending their money dressing up their servants and attending soirees.
We reach Madame Élisabeth’s new salon, and a pair of ushers open the doors for me. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz,” one of the men announces, and it’s astounding to see how the customs of Versailles have been adapted for this place. The doors swing shut behind me, and Madame Élisabeth exclaims, “Marie!”
“Madame.” I sink into my lowest curtsy, but she takes my arms and pulls me up.
“You’ve come,” she says, and when I search her eyes, they are full of surprise. “I can’t believe you’ve come.” Six groomed greyhounds dance about her feet.
“Of course, Madame. And all of the items on your list were packed.”
“Thank you, Marie. You have no … you have no idea what it means.” She looks down at my basket, and her eyes fill with tears.
“Plus a few things that weren’t on the list,” I say.
She pulls back the silk covering and sees it is everything she’ll need to continue her modeling—wax, clay, plaster, glass eyes, a bag full of hair, and all the tools of the trade. When the guards at the entrance saw this, their brows shot up on their foreheads, but Lafayette explained who I was and what purpose this would serve. Yet it’s not the wax tools that she reaches for. It’s the mask I kept as a memento from her birthday, when she guessed who I was in my red gown and simple ribbon. She holds it up to the light—a reminder of better, happier times—and now the tears come fresh.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry, Madame. It’s supposed to be a reminder,” I say. “Things may change. You may see me in a tricolor cockade, or you may have had to leave Montreuil for Paris, but that doesn’t alter who we are. This”—I look around the room, which may not be Montreuil but is still very beautiful—“it’s only a mask.”
She puts down the basket and takes my hand. “God has blessed me with your friendship,” she whispers. She tells me how the queen has been forced to wear tricolor dresses made by Madame Éloffe. “If we go outside in the gardens, the people shout insults. So we stay inside and entertain ourselves with music and needlework. But God works in mysterious ways. I have never seen Marie-Thérèse so happy. It’s only been two days, but there’s already a change.”
It’s hard for me to imagine Madame Royale wearing anything but a scowl, but perhaps now that her mother is a prisoner, there is nothing else for the queen to do but lavish attention on her children. Perhaps this is what an eleven-year-old child needs. “And the court?” I ask.
“Some friends have abandoned us.” Madame Élisabeth twists the ends of her fichu in her hands. “I suppose that’s to be expected. But the Princesse de Lamballe will remain as Superintendent of the Household. And my brother, the Comte de Provence, has been dining with us every night.”
“The one who suggested you remain in Versailles?”
Madame Élisabeth hears the criticism in my voice. “He could never have imagined this …”
“And you will stay in the Tuileries?”
“Until my brother decides otherwise.” She lowers her voice. “He still calls the French his good little people,” she confides, and I can see how this distresses her. “He doesn’t see that we’re at the beck and call of the National Assembly. These rooms, these furnishings, they could be taken away tomorrow. The queen’s dear friend Axel von Fersen has been very good to us. He’s sold his house in order to buy something closer to the Tuileries, and if anyone can, it will be Fersen who convinces the king to plan our escape.”
“His Majesty trusts him that much?”
“The three of them are very close,” she replies. “But my brother … he has a difficult time making decisions.… I know it’s a great deal to ask, Marie, but perhaps we can work togethe
r on Fridays? There isn’t a workshop yet. But I can have one set up. And I can still pay you. They haven’t taken away our inheritance.” She adds in a whisper, “Yet.”
Chapter 35
OCTOBER 20, 1789
In the arts the way in which an idea is rendered, and the manner in which it is expressed, is much more important than the idea itself.
—JACQUES-LOUIS DAVID
NOW THAT THE ROYAL FAMILY IS IN PARIS, THE NATIONAL Assembly has moved from the Hôtel des Menus in Versailles to the archbishop’s palace on the Île Saint-Louis. Hundreds of deputies have flooded the city looking for residences close to the Seine, and only Robespierre has chosen some dingy third-floor apartment in the Rue de Saintonge.
“He’s had eighteen livres a day since he was made deputy,” I say. “I should think he could afford a place on the first floor.”
“That’s Robespierre. He’ll live on soup and water if it means saving two sous,” my uncle says. He hands me a coat for the new figure of Lafayette. The National Guard and Great Patriots of France are now complete. All that remains to be done are the figures for The Jacobin Club. “It will be a busy salon tonight. If Robespierre is here, everyone will want to come and hear the news.”
He’s right. That evening, friends arrive whom we haven’t seen in months. Even the artist Jacques-Louis David makes an appearance so that he can bask in Robespierre’s presence. His wife, Marguerite, is dressed in a red bonnet that does nothing for her complexion and a white chemise gown that billows around her legs like a loose curtain. “Marie!” she exclaims and embraces me as if we’re the closest of friends. “Did you know that the National Assembly was talking about what we did for weeks? We could be as famous as Rousseau someday. Did you see the articles in the newspaper?”
“No,” I lie. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”
She opens her purse and takes out a clipping. “There we are,” she says eagerly. “Well, not you. But that one there”—she points to a picture of a beautiful woman in Roman dress—“that’s supposed to be me.”
I raise my brows. “How can you tell?”
“Well, obviously … It looks like me.” She puts the clipping away, then takes a seat between her husband and Lucile. Good. Let them listen to her chatter.
“Robespierre!” A tremendous shout echoes in the salon the moment he arrives. He’s come dressed in a striped nankeen coat of olive green, a matching waistcoat, and a yellow cravat. He must be the last person in Paris still wearing a wig. Camille bounds from his chair and puts his arm around his former schoolmate.
“The voice of the Revolution!” Camille declares. “Three cheers for Robespierre!” Camille steers him to the place of honor at our table, and we listen, riveted, while Robespierre recounts his battles in the National Assembly. And there are many battles to be waged. Who are the true citizens of France? Can they be Austrians who’ve lived here for twenty years? What about Germans? Or better yet, Jews? And who will be given the right to vote?
“I warned the Assembly,” Robespierre says, “that equality is to liberty as the sun is to life. But will they listen? No. They have given the right to vote to active citizens”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“and that is it.”
“So women are to be excluded?” Lucile exclaims.
“As well as any male citizen who doesn’t pay enough taxes under the new laws. An annual sum equal to three days of labor.”
“But that must be half the male population!” Camille shouts angrily.
“Tell that to the Assembly.”
“And the National Guard?” Camille demands. “Have they changed the qualifications?”
“Why do the qualifications need to be changed?” Curtius asks.
Robespierre levels him with his strange green eyes. “Because limiting eligibility to active citizens does not promote equality.”
“So you want equality at any cost?” Henri challenges. “How does that work, allowing noncitizens to join your army?”
“That’s a dangerous proposition,” Curtius warns. “Right now, National Guardsmen have no incentive to pillage or loot. They have money of their own and they earn a small salary. What happens when poor, uneducated men have weapons and authority? You have chaos.”
“Or equality,” Robespierre replies. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?” He looks around the room. “Isn’t that what this Revolution is all about?”
A cheer goes up inside our salon.
“Wait. W-w-where is Marat?” Camille searches the room. “He never misses a Tuesday.”
I look to Curtius, since it’s better that he explain, and everyone follows suit.
“He was arrested on the eighth,” my uncle says, “and sentenced to a month.”
“For what?” Camille cries.
“Inciting rebellion.”
“His paper is no more incendiary than mine!”
There is a tense silence in the room. Then Robespierre says, “We must be careful. These are dangerous times to be a patriot. Who are our friends?” His voice drops low. “But more important, who are our enemies? There are royalists waiting around every corner to slit our throats, men who want to trample our freedoms and raise the king back to his position of supreme authority!”
Is Robespierre kidding? The king is at the mercy of the National Assembly.
“Even our friends at the Jacobin Club are not entirely to be trusted,” Robespierre reveals. “There are hypocrites and corrupted hearts among them. But there is a meeting tonight of great importance. Everyone in this room should come.”
He rises, and Curtius is the first to stand with him.
“We need every good man we can find,” Robespierre says. He looks down at Lucile. “And we also need honorable women in this war. It’s not over. Not until freedom and equality are words engraved into every citizen’s heart!”
More than twenty of us follow him out the door into the evening air. We begin the twenty-minute walk to the former convent of Saint-Jacques, where the Jacobin Club holds its meetings.
“Robespierre!” a woman cries. She lifts her skirts and runs across the street.
Robespierre shrinks away as if she’s a viper. “What are you doing here?”
“You haven’t been to see me. I’ve been writing you letters every day. Every day,” she repeats, and her voice rises. “Why don’t you come to me anymore?”
Even in the dim light of sunset, I can see the color rising in Robespierre’s face. “We are finished,” he says briskly.
“But why?”
He turns his back on her, and our group keeps walking. It’s terrible to see, and the woman can’t accept this. “I’ll do anything,” she cries. “Maximilien, you love me!” She has called him by his first name. “You told me you loved me!”
“Keep walking,” Robespierre says through clenched teeth.
“Don’t leave!” she screams and falls on her knees. Such public humiliation is too much to bear. I turn my face away, and when we round the corner, her voice is drowned out by the sounds of the carriages. I look at Robespierre, who is flushed with embarrassment. I had no idea that Rousseau’s most avid believer and disciple kept a woman in Paris. She must be a terrible inconvenience to him now that he preaches about hypocrisy and corruption.
We reach the Rue Saint-Honoré and enter the old monastery. We pass through the damp, candlelit rooms into the great hall, where the monks once dined.
“The Jacobins are our next exhibit,” I whisper to Henri.
He looks at me askance. Hundreds of candles are burning in tall candelabra, casting a golden light across the old walls and wooden floors. In the public galleries, where there are just as many women as men, all are proudly wearing tricolor cockades. Only Club members, like Camille and Robespierre, are allowed to sit in the center of the hall. I motion for Curtius to sit next to me so that we can discuss which members would make the best models, and he points to a figure in the center of the hall. “Anne-Joseph Théroigne.”
She’s dressed in the uniform of the National
Guard, with pants and a vest and a jaunty black hat that rests on top of a head of full, dark hair. She’s my age, perhaps a little younger, and her eyes dart about the room, as if eager for someone to challenge her right to sit among the men.
“She asked to join the Club when it was meeting in Versailles, and they honored her request to become a member after hearing what she did on the fifth,” Curtius tells me. I learn she rode bareback alongside the poissardes, spurring them onward in their march toward Versailles. When they arrived, she took a pistol and fired it in the air, encouraging the men to join their female counterparts in beating down the gates. “She was part Amazon,” he admits, “part Helen of Troy in her beauty.”
I look across the hall at her again. The speaker has taken his place at the podium, and she sits forward in her seat. She’s certainly one we’ll want to model. But before I can take out a quill to sketch, I’m distracted by the words of the speaker.
“For as long as anyone in this room can remember, what institution has grown richer while the poor have grown poorer?”
“The monarchy!” someone shouts.
“We all know about the monarchy. But what else?” When no one answers he thunders, “The Church! We must deliver the Church the same fatal blow we will deliver to the aristocrats who bleed this nation. Not next year, not next week, but today!”
The Club members rise to their feet in applause, and most people in the galleries stand as well. But Henri and I remain seated. “Who does he think feeds the poor?” I exclaim. “Where does he think women go who are cast out because they’re pregnant or unwanted? These men aren’t content to just destroy the monarchy. They want to destroy God and charity as well.”
“And I think I know what will take its place,” Henri replies.
The National Assembly.
Chapter 36
DECEMBER 25, 1789