doesn’t care. I am hoping you have more sense.”

As we watch the carriage roll away, bound for the Palace of Versailles, we hear Wolfgang’s and Johann’s cheerful voices carried on the night air. But I am silently arguing with my eldest brother. There are images of the queen in every corner of Paris. What separates ours from all other images is the illusion of flesh. The tantalizing curve of the queen’s neck, the softness of her hand, the painted toenails peeking out from beneath her lacy shift. The people want to see this. We are simply giving them what they want. Where is the harm in that?

Chapter 8

APRIL

2, 1789

The court lost no time in going a la mode. Every woman became a lesbian and a whore.

—ANONYMOUS LIBELLISTE

EVERYONE HAS COME TO SEE ME OFF, FROM OUR TAILOR AND Yachin to the chandler down the street. As I make my farewells to all these people, I remember why this is so important. I may be spending four days of my week in Montreuil, but my absence will only reinforce to the public that our models are worthy of the royal family’s notice. A freshly painted sign in the window now reads, NEW MODELS COMING SOON FROM MADEMOISELLE GROSHOLTZ, PERSONAL TUTOR AT VERSAILLES. I read it again, simply because it doesn’t seem real.

“Will you bring something back for me from the palace?” Yachin asks.

I laugh. “Like what?”

“How about playing cards?”

“What? Shall I steal a deck from the queen?”

“Okay, a pair of dice.”

“And how am I supposed to come across dice?” When his eagerness flags, I promise him, “I’ll see what I can do.”

My mother is looking increasingly worried. She thinks I won’t feed myself in Versailles. While everyone is chatting pleasantly, she takes me to one side. “Please, just remember to eat. No model is so important that you should skip dinner.”

“I will eat like a princesse,” I swear. “Or at least, the tutor of one.” But she doesn’t believe me. “Look at Johann,” I tell her. “Going to Versailles hasn’t done him any harm.”

“He is not you,” she says in German. “He does not become so busy that he forgets to eat.”

This is true. I doubt Johann has ever forgotten a meal. Whereas being a guard has kept Edmund fit, Johann has clearly indulged in the rich foods provided in the Grand Commune. He has the round, fat face of a German now, which pleases my mother.

“I will promise to eat,” I tell her, “if you promise to watch Curtius. Don’t let him give away tickets for free. If it’s the Empress of Russia herself, she pays.”

My mother heaves an exasperated sigh. “I will do what I can.”

“Forbid him from giving anything away.” I take her hands. “This is a business.”

She kisses my cheek. “Viel Gluck,” she says warmly. “Give your brothers my love.”

I make the rest of my personal good-byes. I hug Curtius, then tell Henri that I will miss his rational talk of politics and science. And to Yachin I say, “I want to know if drunken theatergoers are still pissing in the urns.” Our new plants have become favorite places for uncouth men to relieve themselves.

“I’ll send a message,” he swears. He has been given a good education at his temple. Unlike many children, he can read and write. Then he adds, “If you find perfume, I would be happy to have that as well.”

“Have some manners,” Henri chastens, but the boy only grins.

I make my way through the crowd to the waiting berline. The luggage has been tied to the roof by the driver, and Curtius helps me into the coach. Already I feel different. Like a woman of some consequence. Curtius presses his lips to my hand, and I can see in his eyes that he is proud, which is important to me. I want him to know that I shall never disappoint him.

“Remember the honors,” he says, recalling the lessons I’ve had these two months. What he is truly saying is to mind myself at court.

“I will. If you finish the model of Emilie Sainte-Amaranthe, and make a second one for the Salon. You will, won’t you?”

“There is nothing to worry about, Marie.” As the carriage rolls away, he calls, “Auf Wiedersehen!”

I look through the window and study the faces—most happy, some resentful—crowding the steps of the Salon de Cire. Then I sit back against the cushions of the expensive berline and wonder how much it cost my uncle to hire. It is a coach for four, and I am the only one inside. But it is for the greater good of the Salon, I remind myself. I am like a farmer who feeds his cow the best hay for the time when it will make his own dinner. I will not disgrace my brothers at Montreuil. And however secluded Madame Elisabeth may be, I will find a way of using this position to our advantage.

I stare out the window at the lines outside every bakery. Countless shops, which once teemed with women in lace-trimmed bonnets, have gone out of business. Dirty sans-culottes—men who cannot afford knee-length trousers with stockings—sit on the steps of these empty shops and roll dice. Their long pants hang around their ankles, unhemmed and trailing in the dirt. My mother believes this is God’s work. That last summer’s driving rain and hailstones destroyed France’s crops because of God’s sharp disapproval. But of what? Our Austrian queen? What has she done that a dozen mistresses have not? Our king? He pursues his hobbies of lock making and building the way previous kings bought horses and bedded women. No, I cannot agree with my mother’s reasoning. Nature has done this, and Nature will repair it. Already there are leaves on the trees.

By the time we reach the golden gates of Montreuil in the southeast of Versailles, I have put the hardships of Paris out of mind. I am here! It is real, and before me stretch the vast, manicured lawns of Princesse Elisabeth’s chateau. The king’s liveried guards stand at the gates. They are dressed in blue, with white silk stockings and silver lace at their cuffs. Their hair is powdered and worn in tails tied back with silver buckles. The carriage rolls abruptly to a stop.

“She is to be driven up to the porch,” I hear the guard say.

As the gates are thrown open and the berline passes through, I smooth the material of my blue gown with my palms. When the chateau comes into view, I am surprised. It is more rustic than majestic: a two-storied home nestled in the trees and painted a becoming hue of pink. The shutters have all been thrown open, and flowers spill from boxes on every window. I expected to be greeted by one of the dames du palais, but it is Madame Elisabeth herself who is standing beneath the colonnaded porch. She is dressed in a chestnut-colored gown of rich satin, and her thick blond hair is heavily powdered. She is twenty-five to the queen’s thirty-three, and in the fresh spring light, this difference is significant. I had not noticed it at the Salon, but as I descend from the carriage and approach the steps, I am surprised by how young Madame Elisabeth looks. The plumpness in her cheeks is rather becoming, and they are red without the aid of any rouge. Immediately, I descend into the curtsy I have practiced and wait for Madame to speak.

“Welcome to Versailles, Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Was it a pleasant ride?”

“Very pleasant, Madame.” Behind me, half a dozen servants are taking my baskets from the top of the berline and whisking them inside. “The wildflowers are bursting with color,” I tell her. “The countryside looks like an artist’s palette.”

“Do you paint then, Mademoiselle Grosholtz?”

“Please, just Marie,” I say humbly. “Yes. It is a necessary skill for wax modeling.”

“Then we have something in common already.” She turns and motions to a woman who has appeared in the doorway. “Marie, please meet the Marquise de Bombelles.”

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