corrupted me.”
“But I’ve surprised you.”
“No. Nothing surprises me about human depravity.”
“These are not just dreams. I enacted them in the Chateau de Coste.”
Behind us, de Launay clears his throat. I had forgotten he was there.
“I run a show on the Boulevard du Temple, Monsieur. What you have created,” I say, and I wave my hand, indicating the pictures and the manuscript, “is theater. No more real than my Cavern of Great Thieves.”
“It happened,” he says hotly.
“Perhaps. But now it’s over, and the actor must return to his room and face the truth that for all of the masks, and all of the applause, there is only him. Your performance couldn’t last, and now that it’s done, all that’s left is your own company. Do you enjoy it?”
The marquis is silent. Now I am the one who has surprised him.
“NO LADY SHOULD ever have to see—”
“I am not a lady. I am the daughter of a common soldier,” I tell Henri from the comfort of the carriage de Launay has secured for us. “Everyone has secrets. His are simply darker. And it makes me a better artist.”
Henri shakes his head. “You are a puzzle.”
“It’s an insight into the man,” Curtius explains. “Art is not like science. It’s a product of emotion. It makes the viewer feel something. Jealousy, awe—”
“Revulsion,” I say. “Now that I know who he is,
We ride the rest of the way in silence, watching the rain fall slantways onto the dirty streets. I know he doesn’t understand, but when Henri sees the wax model—the set of the eyes, the tension in the mouth—he will know.
When we reach the Boulevard du Temple, Curtius hurries into the warmth of the Salon while I stop with Henri beneath the awning of his shop. “I know you didn’t wish to go. You went for me, and I’m incredibly grateful.”
“How do these interviews not give you nightmares?” he asks. “Doesn’t it make you sad to hear such stories?”
I have to think, because no one has ever asked me this before. “I don’t believe in Rousseau’s philosophy,” I say, “if that’s what you mean.”
Henri laughs. “The natural goodness of man? Well, only fools like Robespierre and Marat believe that.”
“And the king.”
Henri smiles briefly but doesn’t reply.
“I will see you tomorrow,” I say. “The Duc may be bringing a guest to our salon.”
“The American?” Henri asks. “Thomas Jefferson?”
Now that would be something. Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, beginning the war with England. A model of him would do very well. “No. The Marquis de Lafayette.”
“I didn’t realize they were friends.”
I step forward, so close that I can smell rain in his hair. “Curtius says that they are. I don’t know what it means for France.”
“Probably that the Duc sees himself at the head of rebellion which will demand an end to the monarchy,” Henri replies.
“And how would that serve him? Without the monarchy, he has lost all privilege. He will go from being the Duc D’Orleans to being simply Monsieur Philippe.”
“Not if he can convince the people that he should be king instead. A new kind of king, who will grant them the same rights as the English.”
“It’s what he’s aiming for, isn’t it?” I ask. Henri has said this before, but it’s hard to believe that the man who sits to dinner with us is a traitor. I have never known a traitor.
“Yes.”
“So why doesn’t King Louis stop it?”
“He’s trying. That’s why he’s called the Estates-General. If he grants the French the same rights as the English, what will the Duc have to shout against?”
“But the English have a constitutional monarchy!” I exclaim.
“And that may be the compromise he will have to come to if he doesn’t wish to lose the crown to his cousin.”
“Then you agree with the rights the people are demanding?”
“I believe the nobility and the clergy should be taxed,” Henri says cautiously, “just as we are. Do you know what you send to the king every year?”
I know exactly. “A third of our income.”
“And what does he do with it? The streets of Paris are crumbling, the hospitals are in ruins.… The Americans are right: there should not be taxation unless the
We look at each other in silence. “Perhaps Lafayette will help,” I say finally. “He is greatly esteemed.”
“He’ll only be of help if he has the ear of the king. His friendship with the Duc is worrisome.”
“Well, if he comes, I shall ask to make a model of him.”
“All the country may fall to pieces,” Henri observes archly, “but at least Lafayette will be preserved in wax.”
I am shocked he would say such a thing. “I care deeply for France.”
Henri smiles. “And your accounts.”
I STOKE THE fire in the workshop and place my boots as near as I dare without burning them.
“You really want the table this close to the fire?” Yachin confirms.
“Yes,” I tell him. “That’s good.” I must use these daylight hours to sculpt. Without sufficient candles, the models need to be made while the sun is up.
Yachin puts the table down, then crosses his arms over his chest.
“He was terrible,” I say. “An absolute monster.”
Yachin gasps. “Really?”
I nod. “He likes to eat little boys.”
“Oh, stop it! Just tell me the truth.”
“The truth,” I say soberly, “is that he is a very old man who did horrible things in his life.”
Yachin’s eyes go wide. “Like what?”
“Like taking little boys and girls by force. You understand what that means?”
He nods silently.
“He liked to kidnap innocent children, then beat them until they ran away or died.”
“Yes. People are cruel at heart,” I explain, “so cruelty fascinates them. Secretly, they fear that if not for their good upbringing or their religion, they might have turned out to be the marquis.”
“Do you think if I stopped going to temple that would happen to me?”
“I do,” I say with mock earnestness. “I think you would develop a craving for human flesh and suddenly want to eat small children!” I lunge forward, and he dashes away, shrieking.
