a heavy linen shift that will be changed into a revealing gauze nightgown tomorrow. Meanwhile, the wax Rose is holding a
The queen approaches her seated figure with awe. Unlike the previous models, with their horsehair bodies, this one has been made entirely of wax, from her Hapsburg lip to her painted toes. “You are responsible for this?” the queen asks.
I can see that Henri is nervous, but there is nothing to be ashamed of. “Yes,” I reply.
“And who thought of this?” the king questions.
“I did,” I say, before Curtius can answer. “I wished to show Her Majesty as she truly is, full of grace and beauty even before she is dressed in her robes
The queen smiles, and then her daughter speaks. “I think it is improper.”
“There is nothing improper,” the king overrules. “The queen is covered, and the act of dressing is a part of life.”
“What about her feet?” Madame Royale sticks out her lower lip, an unattractive gesture on any child, but particularly on her. Hands on her hips, she feels obliged to add, “Madame Campan says—”
“It is quite fine,” the queen says impatiently. “Dr. Curtius, Mademoiselle Grosholtz, you have an exceptional museum.”
My uncle leads the royal family to the last stop on our tour. “The Curiosity Shop,” he says, and both princes clap their hands in delight. Filling the shelves are miniature wax models of all the figures in our museum. There are little wax kings and tiny wax princes. There are also models of houses and theaters. On the highest shelves are the wax figures for adults. When the queen’s brother Emperor Joseph II came to visit, he bought two miniatures of Venus in the nude. The princes want to see and touch everything, while Madame Royale stands back, surveying the shop from the entrance.
“You are welcome to take whatever you wish,” Curtius says.
“Only one figure,” the king adds. “Everything in moderation.”
The princes choose wax soldiers, and Madame Royale takes an image of a sleeping cat.
My mother appears with our best china bowl, covered with a square napkin of silk. “For Her Majesty.” She curtsies very low. “May she enjoy it in the best of health.” She holds it out for the queen, and one of the Swiss Guards who have been following us steps forward to take it.
“I am deeply grateful, Madame Grosholtz. We shall not soon forget this trip.”
Outside, the royal carriage is waiting for its charges. The sleek horses and liveried guards look like something from another world on the bleak Boulevard du Temple. We watch as the royal family is escorted into their gold and velvet coach, and when they are gone, we return to the Salon. My mother goes upstairs to our private quarters, and I’m grateful that Henri helps Curtius move the tableau of the sleeping du Barry back into its empty space. Rose, however, is standing in front of her waxen image.
“I would like to be thinner,” she says critically.
“And I would like to be more buxom,” I reply.
She stares at me, then breaks into laughter. “Very well, Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Very well.”
FEBRUARY
3, 1789
–JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU
IT IS THE GREATEST SUCCESS WE HAVE EVER HAD. DESPITE THE pouring rain, the line for our Salon has stretched to the Rue Saint-Honore for nearly three days. It is as if all of Paris has heard that the king and queen have visited our waxworks, and no one wants to miss the chance to see what the royals themselves have laid eyes on. While I have rushed to complete a new model of young Louis-Charles for display, there is no need to sculpt his older brother. The dauphin’s sickness has kept him small and thin; he has hardly aged at all. I hope the court physicians are watching him closely. It will destroy the queen to lose two children in such a short time.
I am about to tell our barker, Yachin, to come in from the rain when Curtius stops me at the door. “Let him shout,” he says. He is smiling. All of his effort in teaching me as a child was not in vain. Someday, he can retire from the Salon knowing that his life’s work will not be shoved away in some attic; that I will do whatever is required to keep our waxworks in the public eye. “Let the line grow.”
“We can’t possibly accommodate so many customers! There are at least three hundred people out there.” I have done the calculations. “Even if we let in twenty an hour—”
“We’ll give anyone who doesn’t make it inside a front-of-line ticket for tomorrow.”
Of course. It’s brilliant. And then it occurs to me. “What about a helping of
We grin at each other. He and I could sell ice to the Empress of Russia, and in the salon that evening, while Robespierre is announcing that he and Camille have passed the first round of elections to nominate the deputies to the Estates-General, I am thinking of how tomorrow we will have Yachin shout that the queen’s
“Mademoiselle Grosholtz?” Robespierre repeats. “I asked what the king said when he came face-to-face with the bust of Rousseau.”
This is an obsession of Robespierre’s. A week doesn’t pass without him questioning us over what Rousseau was like when he visited: how he dressed, what he ate, and where he went to play chess when he wasn’t playing in our salon. “The king asked if the man was as brilliant as his writing,” I tell him.
Robespierre sits back as if I have slapped him. “The king has
“Nothing!” the Duc exclaims. “My cousin has always been an impostor.”
“And the queen?” Robespierre demands. “What did the queen have to say?”
I wish I had another answer for him, since I know how this will reflect on Her Majesty, but I don’t lie. “She asked if he dressed like an Armenian.”
Robespierre looks triumphantly around the room, pausing to nod meaningfully to Camille and my uncle. “What have I told you?” He has neglected his food, and while everyone else eats, he pushes back his chair. “Vanity! And while our countrymen are starving, she is decorating herself with diamond aigrettes! Did she mention,” he asks rhetorically, “that his Armenian robes would bar him from attending her Grand Couvert? That he would be laughed at in her gilded halls at Versailles?” My mother and I exchange looks across the table. “Do you think she cares that we are suffering from the worst harvest in living memory? That candles are to be had only by the wealthy and flour by the even wealthier?”
“Of course not. It’s a plot!” Marat interjects, speaking for the first time tonight. Because he never bothers to swallow before he speaks, we can all see his sharp teeth covered in food. Marat narrows his eyes, and now he truly looks like a feral animal. “The monarchy knows its way of life is in peril, so they plan to starve the populace into subservience!”
“You don’t really believe that?” Henri asks, aghast. “The monarchy could easily deploy the army to smother any rebellious acts.”
“Not in the Palais-Royal!” Marat shouts.
The Palais-Royal is owned by the Duc. Once it was a vast garden shaded by chestnut trees, but eight years ago the Duc had the trees chopped down to make way for a sprawling shopping arcade. Anything can be found in the Palais-Royal: Madeira wine, English shoes, Indian coffee, exotic women. Until last year, we rented one of the
