Madame Tussaud

The marquise is extraordinarily tall, and it is unfortunate that she has chosen to wear one of the queen’s fashionable poufs. On such a long face, it would have been better if she had simply powdered her own hair. I cannot determine how old she is. I could believe any number of ages, since she has not taken care to stay out of the sun, and wrinkles line her forehead and mouth. “A pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

“Please, it is just Marie,” I repeat and make a small curtsy.

She smiles thinly, and I wonder if I have done right. “I hear you have come to tutor our Elisabeth in wax modeling. She tells me you have an extraordinary gift.”

“Then Madame Elisabeth gives me too much credit,” I say. “I’ve simply come to teach her what little I know.”

“Such humility! I have seen Marie’s wax exhibition,” Madame Elisabeth replies, “and I promise you, I do not give her too much credit.” She links arms with the marquise; they make an odd pair: one blond and short, the other dark and tall. “Shall we show her Montreuil?”

I am given a tour of the grounds, beginning with the cheerful orangerie, painted white and gold as if to remind people of its purpose. The workers bow to us as we pass, and a gardener hurries to open the heavy white doors. “Madame,” he says reverently.

Madame Elisabeth smiles. “Thank you, Antoine.”

She knows his name, and I wonder if she is as familiar with everyone in Montreuil.

“Ah.” There is the warm, spring scent of orange blossoms in the air, and Madame Elisabeth inhales deeply. “It will be a good harvest this year,” she tells Antoine.

“Without doubt. Madame has a way with plants.”

As we step inside, I can see that the orangerie is for more than growing citrus. Besides the orange trees, whose shiny leaves and white blossoms catch the light of the sun, there are roses in every color. Jasmine and wisteria climb from ceramic pots to cover the ground. It is a riot of color and fragrances.

“This is de Bombelles’s favorite tree,” Madame Elisabeth says. “She planted it last year, and look how it’s grown.”

It is tall and thin, like its owner. I am guessing from its leaves that it will produce limes. “These must take a great deal of time and care,” I say.

The Marquise de Bombelles nods seriously. “We come here every morning to check on our fruits. This is a working farm.” We exit the orangerie and enter the dairy. “Madame Elisabeth helps to milk the cows and plants the crops herself.”

I turn to the king’s sister to see if this is true. I cannot imagine a princesse of France wishing to dirty her hands with such things.

“We do it for the villagers,” Madame Elisabeth explains. “They are in great want. The milk from this dairy can feed two hundred families every month. And the fruit keeps the local children healthy.”

I am surprised. “And they know this generosity comes from you?”

She looks puzzled. “Yes. I distribute the food myself.”

Yet the vicious libellistes would have the world believe that the king’s family shuts itself away in velvet rooms. During all of his time in our salon, I have never once heard the Duc mention the princesse’s generosity. I think of his self-satisfied grin when Robespierre and Camille rage against the monarchy, and how he sits back and swirls his brandy when Marat asks him what should be done about our king.

We step inside the sprawling chateau of Montreuil. Everywhere, there is religious art. Images of Christ and his virgin mother, and of the saints in their suffering. If not for the cheerful colors on the wall and the large bouquets at every table, it might be the interior of a convent.

“This is to be your room,” Madame Elisabeth says, showing me a first-floor chamber that is many times the size of mine at home. It is apple green with rich furnishings, and the windows face the handsome orangerie. I am entranced, listening to the birdsong and smelling the earthy fragrance.

“It’s enchanting, isn’t it?” Madame Elisabeth asks. She crosses the room and opens a pair of doors on the far side. “And this shall be our workshop,” she says.

We step inside, and the Marquise de Bombelles watches my expression. Windows stretch from ceiling to floor, letting in an abundance of natural light. A dozen cabinets have been arranged along the far wall, and each has been carefully labeled: paints, canvases, wax, plaster, tools, brushes. A specially designed counter in the middle of the room stands prepared for whatever takes Madame’s fancy. Immediately, I am imagining ways in which we can improve our workshop at home.

“What do you think?” Madame Elisabeth asks with sincerity. “Will it do?”

It is any artist’s dream. If it were Henri asking, or Curtius, I’d laugh. Instead, I school my features into an expression of great earnestness. “Yes, Madame, I think it will do nicely.”

She claps her hands. “Then we will begin tomorrow. Ten o’clock.” She looks at the Marquise de Bombelles. “Shall we give her the tour of Versailles?”

I am holding my breath, practically willing yes into the Marquise de Bombelles’s head. “It is already noon,” she says hesitantly, studying the clock. “If we take our dinner later than four, we will not be on time for vespers.”

I feel my heart sink.

“What if it’s just a quick drive?” Madame Elisabeth asks, though of course she needs no one’s approval.

I can see that the Marquise de Bombelles is caught between pleasing the princesse and routine. Life in Montreuil is well scheduled, and now I have come and interrupted it all.

“Oh, let’s go!” Madame Elisabeth decides. “We haven’t been to the palace in days. How often am I able to show another artist the splendor of Versailles?”

I try not to look too triumphant.

THE GLASS berline that takes us to the palace is lined in velvet. Its rich silk cushions are embroidered with gold, and the horses are as richly dressed as the king’s Swiss Guards, with white plumes that bob and sway in the breeze. I wish my mother could see me, sitting across from Madame Elisabeth and the Marquise de Bombelles as if I had been born and bred to court. We are chatting about the royal family’s paintings, and the art they have collected in Versailles since Louis XIV made this his home. I now realize how small our collection of paintings appeared to him, like visiting a rustic cottage when all you’ve known are chateaux.

I have not seen the palace in over a decade. I was sixteen when Curtius took me to sketch the Grand Couvert for a tableau. Although I can remember everything about the queen—down to the color of the ribbon in her hair—I recall very little about the work of the architect Louis Le Vau and the landscape architect Andre Le Notre except that it was magnificent. Now, as the carriage rounds the bend, the Palace of Versailles comes into view, and I am overwhelmed.

Perhaps I gasp, because Madame Elisabeth says, “It’s like a fairy-tale palace, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I breathe. At one time, when Louis XIII had determined to build his hunting lodge on this spot, the ground was marshy and unsuitable for living. But now! Now our Bourbon kings have tamed the wild, replacing the wetland with garden terraces and perfumed groves. Down Grand Avenue, bronze nymphets rise from the polished marble of a sprawling fountain. Like a giant mirror, the still waters reflect the entire length of the chateau. There could never be a more beautiful palace in all the world. No wonder the Duc d’Orleans covets his cousin’s crown.

The Swiss Guards recognize the princesse’s carriage, and we are allowed to pass directly into the Marble Courtyard. As we alight from the coach, courtiers are already crowding the upper windows of the palace, pointing and whispering behind their hands. I look down at my skirts, then at my shoes, to be certain I haven’t covered them in mud. What are they staring at? I look at the Marquise de Bombelles, who says archly, “Welcome to Versailles.”

“Ignore them,” Madame Elisabeth suggests.

“Are they staring at me?”

“Of course. You’re with us,” the marquise says as we walk toward the palace. “They want to know who you are and if you’re someone they should be plotting against.”

“They are simply ambitious,” Madame Elisabeth says with far more kindness than my brothers would have. “They all want grander and better privileges.”