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.
APRIL
2, 1789
—ANONYMOUS
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.”
She kisses my cheek.
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
“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,
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
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
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
“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
“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.”