APRIL
7, 1789
—MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE
THE DUC HAS BROUGHT A GUEST! I RUSH FROM THE WINDOW into the kitchen, where my mother is preparing our best roast with onions. “He’s here!” I exclaim.
“The Marquis de Lafayette?”
“It
I can hear my uncle’s voice on the stairs, explaining what we do for a living. “There are over fifty figures now, and we are always adding.”
My mother rushes to take off her apron and swipes at a curl that has escaped from her bonnet. I take her arm, and we appear in the salon together. The room has been lit as if there is no shortage of candles. We will have to ration harder after tonight, but it is worth the cost. Everyone has come: Marat, Robespierre, Camille, Lucile. Henri has brought Jacques. The Duc makes the introductions to his guest, and I have never seen him so charming.
“And this,” he says at last, “is Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”
Lafayette graces me with a smile. He has an oval face with a prominent nose and trusting eyes. He would make an easy model. “It is an honor to meet you,” he says. “Your uncle tells me that you are the artist behind many of the sculptures downstairs, including the one of Benjamin Franklin.”
“It is true.” I guide him to a chair. I know my duty as host, and I seat him between my uncle and the Duc. “I had the fortune of meeting Monsieur Franklin several times.”
“It is a very good likeness. You even managed to capture the eyes.”
“I am sure Marie could make a model of you,” my uncle adds swiftly. “There would be no greater honor for our exhibition.”
“I am staying with the American ambassador, Thomas Jefferson, on the Champs-Elysees. Come anytime. Just send word ahead to make sure I will be there.”
I bow my head gratefully. “It would be the crowning glory of our exhibition.”
“And speaking of c-c-crowns …” Camille raises his glass. His recent loss in the elections does not seem to have changed him. His spirits are high, and his cheeks are flushed. “To America,” he exclaims, “where every head is equal.”
“To America!” We all raise our glasses. Lafayette tells us he believes there is a future for members of the Third Estate who wish to participate in governing France. In fact, when the Estates-General meets next month, he plans to propose a constitutional monarchy, like they have in England. Everyone at the table applauds him for this, especially Camille and Marat. I notice that Henri and his brother are not so enthusiastic.
“I—I am going to write about this,” Camille vows. “I m-m-may have lost the election, but I have not lost my paper and ink!”
Once again there is wild applause, and Lucile turns to me. “He is going to be a journalist,” she whispers. “Perhaps he will be the voice of the Third Estate.”
“And there is money in that?” I ask her.
“Do you know how many different pamphlets were distributed yesterday at the Palais-Royal? Ninety-two. And all of them calling upon the patriots of our country to rise up and demand an end to these taxes!”
My mother looks blankly at me.
“There are some businessmen,” the Duc warns, “who are not on the side of the patriots.” The cut of his new wig does no favors for him. It serves to accentuate the length of his nose and the sagging jowls he shares with his cousin. The Duc leans forward. “Members of the Third Estate who have forgotten their roots.”
“Don’t be coy,” Marat says. “Who are they? We shall make them see the light.”
“We cannot afford a Third Estate that is fractured,” Robespierre says. “Members of our class are either with us or against us.”
“I believe the manufacturer Reveillon is not a man of the people,” the Duc says.
“Reveillon has been a good friend to us,” Henri challenges.
His brother adds, “He allowed Montgolfier to launch the first hot-air balloon in his own garden.”
“That was six years ago,” Marat retorts.
“Well, six
“Why do you believe that Reveillon is not a man of the people?” Lafayette asks.
“Simply look at what he makes,” the Duc d’Orleans says. “Luxury wallpaper—for the king!”
“That does not make him a traitor to his class,” Lafayette replies.
“He refused to sell me paper because I am not part of
So this is the Duc’s real grievance. He has been slighted.
Marat puts down his glass of wine. “Then this man is no friend to the Third Estate.”
A handful of others who are not friends of the people are mentioned. I see now why my uncle has continued to invite these men to our home. They will talk in this salon or someone else’s, and if it’s here, we are less likely to be considered enemies. We have made a handsome living by modeling the royal family. I am teaching the king’s sister at Versailles. No one should be more suspect as an enemy of the Third Estate than us.
I listen to the men argue and wonder: Will Parisians stop buying hats from milliners who are known to give steep discounts to the nobility? Will they stop frequenting the shops of women like Rose Bertin? Perhaps Curtius has been right. If we’re not careful, we will find ourselves without patrons. Today, we reign over the Boulevard du Temple. But tomorrow … I must finish the bust of the Marquis de Sade as quickly as possible, and make a point of glimpsing Necker at Versailles so I will be able to see how our bust of him needs to be updated. Heavier jowls, perhaps. Deeper wrinkles between his brows. Certainly lighter hair.
When the evening is finished, my mother leads our guests down the stairs, but Henri and Lafayette pause at the door.
“You keep interesting friends,” Lafayette tells Curtius. “These are the men who will shape the future of France. It happened for the Americans.”
“They were separated from their king by an ocean,” Henri replies. “We are separated from our rulers by five leagues. It’s not the same.”
“I am not suggesting an American-style Revolution. I would never want to see bloodshed in these streets. A constitutional monarchy would be a good compromise.”
“One that cost thousands of lives when the English proposed it a hundred years ago,” Henri warns.
“Yes, but they were barbarians. This is eighteenth-century France.” Lafayette sees me behind my uncle and smiles. “The Champs-Elysees,” he says kindly. “Anytime you wish.”
I watch him leave. There is no doubt he is a great man to be admired. But in his desire for a constitutional monarchy, I believe that he is wrong.
APRIL
9, 1789
—THOMAS PAINE
I TIE THE RIBBONS OF MY HAT BENEATH MY CHIN AND THINK TO myself,
