Madame Tussaud

she is neither. “So what would you have me say?” she asks slowly.

My heart beats quickly. Even if the queen dislikes what I’ve done—and she won’t, I know she won’t, not when I’ve taken such pains to get the blue of her eyes just right— the fact that she has personally come to see her wax model will change everything. Our exhibition will be included in the finest guidebooks to Paris. We’ll earn a place in every Catalog of Amusements printed in France. But most important, we’ll be associated with Marie Antoinette. Even after all of the scandals that have attached themselves to her name, there is only good business to be had by entertaining Their Majesties. “Just tell her that you’ve been to the Salon de Cire. You have, haven’t you?”

“Of course.” Rose Bertin is not a woman to miss anything. Even a wax show on the Boulevard du Temple. “It was attractive.” She adds belatedly, “In its way.”

“So tell that to the queen. Tell her I’ve modeled the busts of Voltaire, Rousseau, Benjamin Franklin. Tell her there will be several of her. And you.”

Rose is silent. Then finally, she says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter 2

DECEMBER

21, 1788

What is the Third Estate? Everything.

—ABBE SIEYES, PAMPHLETEER

WHEN THE LETTER COMES, I AM SITTING UPSTAIRS IN MY uncle’s salon. Thirty wooden steps divide the world of the wax museum on the first floor of our home from the richly paneled rooms where we live upstairs. I have seen enough houses of showmen and performers to know that we are fortunate. We live like merchants, with sturdy mahogany furniture and good china for guests. But if not for Curtius’s association with the Prince de Conde when both men were young, none of this would be.

My uncle was living in Switzerland when the cousin of King Louis XV visited his shop and saw what Curtius could do with wax. Impressed, the prince brought him to Paris and commissioned an entire collection of miniatures. But these were not like any other miniatures. De Conde wanted nude replicas of the women in the hundreds of portraits he had saved; blond, brunette, and auburn conquests from all across Europe. When the prince began showing off his collection, Curtius’s reputation grew. Before long, my uncle found himself hosting one of the most popular salons in Paris from his new apartment on the Rue Saint-Honore. Of course, anyone—men, women, widowers, courtesans—may host their own salon, but who will come to enjoy the coffee and gossip depends entirely on the host’s influence and importance.

Tonight, in our house on the Boulevard du Temple, all of the familiar faces are here. Robespierre, with his blue silk stockings and neatly powdered wig. Camille Desmoulins, who goes by his forename and whose slight stutter seems strange in such a handsome man. Camille’s pretty fiancee, Lucile. Henri Charles, the ambitious young scientist who keeps a laboratory next door with his brother. The Duc d’Orleans, who is in constant disgrace with the king. And Jean-Paul Marat, with his feral eyes and unwashed clothes. I have repeatedly asked my uncle why he allows Marat to defile our home, and his answer is always the same. Like him, Marat is a Swiss physician, and they both share a fascination with optics and lighting. But I suspect the real reason Curtius allows him to dine with us is that they can talk about the old country together.

I have never been to Switzerland. Although my mother is Swiss, she was married to a soldier in Strasbourg. I remember nothing of him, but my brothers give out that he died from the wounds he received in the Seven Years’ War. When my mother was made a widow, she came to Paris looking for work and Curtius took her in as his housekeeper. But soon she became more to him than that, and though we call him uncle, Curtius is more like a father to us. We all—my brothers, who are in the Swiss Guard, the king’s elite corps of fighting men, and I— consider our family Swiss. So I am not averse to listening to Swiss tales. I simply wish they didn’t have to come from the reeking mouth of Marat.

As usual, he is sitting in the farthest corner of the room, silent, waiting for my mother to bring out the sausages and cabbage. He rarely speaks when Robespierre is here. He simply comes for the cooking and listens to the debates. Tonight, they are arguing about the Estates-General. The French have divided society into three separate orders. There is the First Estate, made up of the clergy. Then there is the Second Estate, made up of the nobility. And finally, there is the Third Estate, made up of common people like us. For the first time since 1614, the three estates are being called together to give advice to the monarchy. It is in such debt that only a miracle—or new taxes—will save them.

“And do you really think a m-meeting will change their minds?” Camille asks. His long hair is tied back in a simple leather band. He and his fiancee make an attractive pair, even if their cheeks are always hot with rage. They wish for a constitutional monarchy, like in England. Or even better, a republic like the one that has just been created in America. But I don’t see how this can ever come to pass. Camille pounds his fist against the table. “It’s all a charade! Those who are elected to represent our estate will be marched into a tiny room at Versailles and nothing will change! The clergy and the nobility will continue to be exempt from taxes—”

“While you will be left to pay for L’Autrichienne’s bonnets and poufs,” the Duc says. He enjoys sitting back with a glass of brandy and stirring an already heated pot. He has an unnatural hatred of Queen Marie Antoinette. Like many others, he refers to her insultingly as The Austrian. He smiles at Camille, knowing the fish has already been caught. “Why do you think that each estate has been given only one vote? To make sure nothing changes! The clergy and the nobility will vote together to preserve the current system, while the Third Estate will be left out in the cold.”

“Despite the fact that the Third Estate makes up most of this nation!” Camille shouts.

“Ninety-five percent,” the Duc puts in.

“So what can be done?” Robespierre asks levelly. He is a lawyer and has learned to control his voice. He never yells, but his timbre is arresting. The entire room listens.

The Duc makes a show of steepling his fingers in thought. “We must petition the king to allow each representative a vote. That is the only way the Third Estate can outvote the other two and prove that privilege is not a birthright.”

“We?” Henri asks. Henri and I were born in the same year, both in the month of December. But whereas I am artistic, and can tell any woman which color will make her appear young and which will bring out the circles beneath her eyes, Henri’s trade is science. He mistrusts the Duc’s intentions. He believes the Duc sees a turning in the tide and will swim whichever way the current takes him. “Aren’t you a part of that privileged estate?” he challenges.

“For now.” The Duc is not an attractive man. His lips are too small, his stomach too large, his legs too thin. He has inherited the Bourbon nose, prominent and hooked, the same as his cousin the king’s.

Lucile turns to me. “And you, Marie? What do you think?”

Everyone looks in my direction. What I think and what I am prepared to say are entirely different things. My uncle passes me a warning look. “I believe that I am better at judging art than politics.”

“Nonsense!” Lucile exclaims. She clenches her fists, and it’s a funny gesture for someone so petite. “Art is politics,” she proclaims. “Your museum is filled with political figures. Benjamin Franklin. Rousseau. Why include them if they are not important?”

“I only know what is important to the people,” I say carefully. “Our Salon reflects their desire for entertainment.”

“Ah,” my uncle cuts in swiftly. “The sausages and cabbage!”

My mother has appeared just in time with a tray laden with food, and when I get up to help her, I hear a knocking downstairs. I hurry to answer it and find a courtier dressed in the blue livery of the king. My God, has Rose Bertin done it? Has she convinced the queen to visit the Salon?

“Is Monsieur Curtius at home?”

“Yes,” I say hurriedly. “Follow me.”

I take him up the stairs, and when we reach the salon, the courtier clears his throat so that everyone can hear. “From Their Majesties, King Louis the Sixteenth and Queen Marie Antoinette.” My uncle rises, and the courtier