Madame Tussaud

Without the crush of people, the heavy stench of body odor has abated. In the moonlight, the palace is beautiful. A silvery sheen falls across the floors, as though I’m walking on water. Even the cold marble statues look alive. So much care and attention have been taken to make this the most beautiful palace on earth. And really, the price has not been terribly high. Yesterday, Madame Elisabeth told me that in the most extravagant times, the court’s yearly expenditures were only six percent of the national budget. And look at what that six percent has created! This is why the Americans rebelled. They never saw such majesty on their own soil. If they could have seen the rich tapestries and gilded halls that their taxes produced …

I reach the Hall of Mirrors, and the sight is more breathtaking at night than by day. Chandeliers illuminate the marble walls and gilded pilasters, and the entire room is like burnished amber. Only one other person has come to enjoy this vision of light and gold. She is standing in the middle of the hall, as if she is imagining, just as I am, the grand fetes that took place beneath these painted ceilings. As I approach, she does not turn to me. Probably, she is lost in her various dreams. But as I draw closer, I realize who she must be—the curve of her neck, the width of her shoulders, the sweep of her hair. I have sculpted this person.

Immediately, I stop walking. The queen is utterly alone. I think of all the courtiers who pressed around her when her fortunes were high, and now, without the music and the masquerades, she is surrounded only by ghosts. I am embarrassed to have interrupted such an intimate moment, but as I back away, the wooden floor creaks and the queen abruptly turns. I sink into my lowest curtsy.

“Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

She has remembered me. Of all the faces she has seen, she has remembered mine. “I did not mean to intrude,” I say. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I should not have come—”

“I am the one who should not be here. Only foolish old women wish to revisit the conquests of their youth.” She dabs quickly at her eyes, and I wonder if she’s been weeping. “My husband tells me you took Elisabeth to Saint-Sulpice. That was very kind of you.”

Not only has she remembered me, but she knows what I’ve been doing in Montreuil. “The entire nation is praying for the dauphin. He is the hope of France.”

“Yes,” she says vaguely, as if in a fog. “Yes,” she says more firmly. “He is.”

We stare at each other in the candlelight. She has lost weight since she came to the Boulevard du Temple. There are new angles in her face and less fullness beneath her jaw.

“It is a beautiful view out of that window.” She points down the hall, and a handkerchief flutters to the ground from her sleeve. I pick up the little square of silk and see that it’s embroidered with her coat of arms as well as her initials. The cloth is lighter than anything I’ve ever held. There is a small rip in the corner, and she sees that I have noticed it. I hold it out to her.

“Keep it.” She smiles. “Let it be a reminder that nothing in this world can last.”

“Even pain,” I reply.

This time, the smile reaches her eyes. “Yes, that’s true.”

When she is gone, I walk to the place where she was standing and look down the hall. There is nothing to see but golden parquet floors, stretching on to what seems like eternity. And in the gilded mirrors, instead of noblemen dancing the minuet, there is only me.

Chapter 12

APRIL

12, 1789

My blood boils in my veins against the so-called fathers of the country.

—JEAN-PAUL MARAT

“THE QUEEN’S HANDKERCHIEF?” MY MOTHER EXCLAIMS IN GERMAN. We are standing in the workshop, where Curtius has finished the body of the corpulent Marquis de Sade. Tomorrow, we will put the entire figure on display. She holds the silk square up to the afternoon light.

“We can use this,” my uncle announces. “It can be The Farewell Handkerchief!”

I reach out and take the handkerchief back. “This isn’t for exhibition.”

“But everything is for exhibition,” my mother says, puzzled.

“This is a present for Yachin,” I reply, surprising myself.

I go outside and find our barker. We are advertising the model of Sainte-Amaranthe today. I hold out the embroidered handkerchief, and he puts down his sign and wrinkles his nose. Then he runs his small fingers over the coat of arms and looks up at me with wide eyes. “The queen’s?”

I nod. “I met her in the Hall of Mirrors.”

He wraps his arms around my waist. “Thank you, Marie. Thank you, thank you! Wait until Maman sees this. I’ll keep it with me always. This is the best gift I have ever received!”

“You can show it to your mother now if you’d like.”

He is beside himself with joy. He rushes down the street so quickly that he nearly runs into the butcher.

“That was very kind of you.” Henri has been sitting on the steps, washing a basket full of glass vials. He has not bothered tying his long hair back, so it hangs in his face, curling about his lapels. “Did Her Majesty really give it to you?”

“Yes. It dropped from her sleeve and she told me to keep it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t want it for the Salon.”

“I … I couldn’t. We were in the Hall of Mirrors together,” I confide. “She was weeping.”

“The dauphin,” he says quietly.

I sit next to him on the stairs. His hands are colored with dye, probably from staining the samples he places beneath his microscope. Though spring is here, the air is still crisp. “Yes.” I say sadly. “His health is growing worse.”

ON THE TWENTY-EIGHTH of April, just as we are opening the Salon for business, Yachin comes running.

“Not enough exercise lately?” Curtius asks. He is painting the trim outside the window while I wash the steps.

Yachin holds his chest and gasps for breath. “Monsieur Reveillon,” he says, and breathes deep. “Monsieur Reveillon—they are attacking him!”

Curtius lays down his brush and I put aside the mop. “What do you mean?” my uncle asks.

“My mother heard it from the butcher that a group of men are marching toward his factory in the Porte Saint-Antoine. They intend to tear it down.”

I look to my uncle. “It has to be a mistake,” he says. He replaces the lid on the paint and stands. “Monsieur Reveillon is a good man. We’ve done business with him for fifteen years.” He disappears inside and returns with his coat.

“Where are you going?” I exclaim.

“To help Reveillon.”

“But what can you do?”

He doesn’t answer.

This morning, little business gets done. I sit with my mother at the caissier’s desk in the front of the Salon, and we watch the handsome Thuret clock, a gift from my uncle’s first patron. If a mob has reached Reveillon’s gates, what hope does Curtius have of helping him? What can he do but put himself in danger? My mother asks every customer what he’s heard. Nothing. Always nothing.

“Go to Henri,” she says, at last. “He is a showman. Gossip is his job.”

I go next door, but only to please her. Henri is sitting at his own caissier’s desk. Two women hover over him, showing him something. A snuffbox, I believe. One smells of orange blossom, the other of rose, and both are wearing hats over their towering poufs.

“Marie!” Henri says as soon as he sees me. “Did you hear?” He rises, and the women look disappointed.