Madame Tussaud

“Yes,” the marquise adds bitterly, “such as the right to the candles.”

To light them? To snuff them out?

“Every evening,” she explains, “all of the candles in the palace are replaced.”

“Even if they’re unused?” I ask.

“That is the tradition,” Madame Elisabeth says gently.

The marquise looks at me, and I know at once she disagrees with this practice. “Only a few courtiers are allowed to collect them,” she says. “And the ones who do may make fifty thousand livres a year at the market.”

My God. That is ten times what we collect at the Salon de Cire, even in our best years. That is more than most noble families take in anywhere in France. No wonder the men and women here are scratching at each other’s eyes.

“And the clothes,” the marquise says, as we approach the doors. “Nothing the queen wears may ever be worn twice. So who is to get those taffeta dresses and silk riding habits? She must have five new pairs of shoes every week. If she doesn’t want them …”

“The dames order them anyway,” Madame Elisabeth finishes. “There is certainly waste.”

“Which is exactly how the courtiers want it!” the Marquise de Bombelles exclaims, suddenly passionate. “They are wolves, prowling around the henhouse. And when the hens are gone, they will blame the farmer that there were not enough hens and eat him, too!”

“So I should not expect a warm reception,” I say, trying to make light of it.

Madame Elisabeth puts her gloved hand on my arm. “It’s not anything to worry about, Marie. That is the true gift of Montreuil. We can stroll these grounds, then escape to tranquillity whenever we wish.” We have reached the chateau, and Madame Elisabeth says proudly, “My brother’s palace.”

A pair of guards open the doors, bowing as we enter. I am inside the Palace of Versailles, being led through the halls by the sister of the king. I take in everything. The wide murals, the gold-framed paintings, the Savonnerie carpets and rich velvet drapes. I must memorize the magnificent features of Versailles the way I memorize a person’s face. When I return to the Salon de Cire, we will re-create a different room each month!

Madame Elisabeth narrates as we walk, ignoring the bows of courtiers who stop talking as we pass to look longingly in our direction. They are like beggars, but there are no scraps to be had from her. It is not at all like I remember. I didn’t realize how many people were allowed to crowd these halls. Some of them are courtiers, but many, I can tell, are hangers-on. Others wear clothes that are ill-worn, and I am certain they have not bathed in many months. Their scent lingers heavily in the air, and even the violet powder and orange blossom pomade used by the courtiers cannot disguise it. They are looking for a handout, much like everyone else. How do my brothers keep the royal family safe when anyone may enter the grounds? I am shocked to see uncivilized men relieving themselves in the vases. I see feral cats and stray dogs marking territory and making deposits. Madame Elisabeth and the marquise fan themselves for air, and I do the same.

I am shown salons dedicated to the Greek gods Hercules and Mercury. Because I am an artist, like the female painter Vigee-Lebrun, who has painted many images of the queen, I am shown inside chambers that would otherwise be closed to me. Everywhere, there is art and references to the greater days of mankind, when men built temples of marble so high they kissed the brow of heaven. I commit it all to memory, from the Salon of Apollo, which served as the throne room for the Sun King himself, to the white-and-gold baroque chapel where Louis XVI wed our queen. Then I am taken to the Hall of Mirrors, and everything that has come before is suddenly erased in the face of such beauty. I stop walking.

“It is my favorite as well,” the princesse confides. She passes a triumphant look to the marquise.

The entire length of one side of the hall is lined with mirrors, seventeen mirrors so large that at night the light of the chandeliers must be reflected indefinitely. I can imagine the polished parquet floors gleaming beneath the candlelight like a lake. Like the wide sea of courtiers preening and posing in front of the mirrors, I am unable to keep from stealing a quick glance. I want to know what it looks like to be promenading through the palace with the king’s sister on one side and a marquise on the other. The rich fabrics of our gowns are reflected back to us in the glass. Everyone is watching, and the sharp clicks of courtier heels suddenly fall silent as they stop to bow before the princesse. I imagine the tableau I could create of this scene: The Princesse on Her Promenade!

But the hall is teeming with a hundred possibilities. There is The Courtier in White, a man dressed entirely in one color, from his silk stockings to the plumes in his hat. And The Man with Diamond Buckles, whose shoes reflect dazzlingly in the glass. I want to know these men’s names. I want to study their faces and re-create them in the privacy of my workshop at home. Imagine the fortune we could bring in if we could reconstruct the Hall of Mirrors inside our exhibition! But the high, frescoed ceiling alone would take a lifetime to imitate, even if we hired the best painters from the Palais-Royal. Still, it’s a thought I will tuck away. If Henri can create the illusion of magic, why can’t we create the illusion of a palace?

In front of everyone, Madame Elisabeth touches my arm and guides me toward a view of the gardens. The hall also possesses seventeen arched windows opposite its seventeen mirrors. Symmetry truly is the essence of beauty, not only in architecture but also in people. My most beautiful subjects have faces that are perfectly symmetrical. You can give me a group of people’s measurements, and without seeing them I can predict which man is the most handsome and which woman the most attractive. I told this once to Henri. When he refused to believe me, I asked him to use my caliper to take the measurements of two friends. He was to choose one of exceptional beauty, and one that Nature had overlooked. I forbade him from telling me which was which, and when I chose correctly, Henri was forced to admit that measurements never lie. I do not have a symmetrical face.

Dozens of women are walking the garden paths outside, and Madame Elisabeth says, “Those are the queen’s dames du palais.”

“Unfortunately,” the marquise breaks in, “we don’t have time to wander outside today.”

I turn to Madame Elisabeth, to see if the princesse might overrule her, but this time she nods. “Yes, we would not want to be late for vespers.”

I look back at the women laughing intimately behind their wide, jeweled fans. What’s the point of being at Versailles if my only view will be the orangerie outside of Montreuil? Madame Elisabeth smiles at me, and immediately I feel guilty for thinking this.

“Did you enjoy your tour?” she asks.

“There could not be a more splendid palace anywhere in existence.”

“Except in the kingdom of heaven.” Madame Elisabeth touches the cross at her neck. “Do you ever imagine what it will be like there?”

“I’m afraid my thoughts are more of this earth,” I admit.

“I imagine it always. The angels, the music, the gilded halls and crystal staircases …”

As we leave, each door is opened for us by a servant in blue and white silks. I wonder why the princesse would wish for heaven with all of this at her disposal. But perhaps there will be things mortals cannot imagine. Perhaps in heaven, I think rebelliously, the halls will not stink of urine.

I bring my square handkerchief to my nose again and see that Madame Elisabeth and the marquise have done the same. For all the beauty of the chateau, a stench has followed us throughout the halls, and here it is the worst. It is terrible, really. If I were better acquainted with Madame Elisabeth, I would ask why the king doesn’t insist that his private residence be private.

We leave the palace and ride back to Montreuil, arriving in time for vespers. Because Madame Elisabeth is sister to the king, she has been granted the privilege of her own private chapel. As the bell tolls four, everyone working in the small chateau gathers inside. There are at least two dozen of us, but I am the only one directed to the same pew as Madame Elisabeth. It is the place of honor for the newest guest, and I do not expect I will be seated here tomorrow. But today, I am at the side of Madame, praying with the greatest woman in the land after the queen herself.

While the priest sings Deus in adjutorium meum intende, I think of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. It is a few blocks from our Salon on the Boulevard du Temple, and certainly France’s greatest house of God. Everyone of means attends Mass there on Sunday, and it is a place I can study the nobility for as long as I please. I have modeled duchesses based on what I’ve seen of them in Notre-Dame. I’ve had men exclaim in utter astonishment at how well I’ve captured them in wax and ask how it was possible for a likeness to be so close when