Madame Tussaud

APRIL

29, 1789

The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.

—THOMAS JEFFERSON

WE HAVE ARRANGED AN AUDIENCE WITH THE MARQUIS DE Lafayette, and we are to meet him in Thomas Jefferson’s home on the corner of Rue des Champs-Elysees! Curtius knows what Henri thinks of Jefferson, who is not only a political philosopher and ambassador but an inventor as well. As soon as the offer to come with us is made, Henri is finding his walking stick and hat.

As our carriage rolls away, I look back at the sign advertising The Auricular Communications of the Invisible Girl. “And you’re sure you want to come with us?” I ask.

“What?” Henri puts on a look of mock offense. “Am I such bad company?”

I feel my cheeks warm. “No. But your exhibit. Who is watching it for you?”

“My apprentice. I’m training him to take over every afternoon.”

“But he might let his friends in at a discount,” I warn. “Or worse, for free.”

Curtius laughs. “You see what I have to deal with?”

But Henri’s look is endearing. “Marie is a hard businesswoman is all. You are extremely fortunate to have her.”

He smiles at me, and for the first time, I am at a loss for words. They are both waiting for me to say something. “Thom-Thomas Jefferson,” I say swiftly. “You said once that he’s the most interesting man in America. Why?”

My uncle stares at me. He wants me to address Henri’s compliment. But what did it mean? He can’t be interested in me. Neither of us has ever pursued any courtship. We are married to our work. Though, when I look at him, my pulse quickens. And when I see the smile lines around his eyes, I know that his words are sincere.

“Jefferson is a great intellect,” Henri replies, and I am thankful that the awkward moment has passed. “The man can speak six languages, and it’s said he learned Gaelic simply so that he could read The Poems of Ossian in their original. He’s a naturalist, and an accomplished architect as well. He designed his own estate and named it Monticello.”

I laugh nervously. “Is there anything he doesn’t do?”

“Fight. He’s a thinker, not a soldier.”

I almost say, “Like you.” But instead I reply, “How funny that they should become fast friends. Lafayette, who went to war in the Americas when he was just nineteen, and Thomas Jefferson.”

“They share a love of liberty,” Curtius tells me. “And they’ve known each other for more than a decade.” The carriage comes to a stop before a two-storied house that towers above its neighbors. Few homes in Paris are as tall or elegant as this. An expansive English garden in front is lush and bright, as if dampness and rain have never touched this corner of the Champs-Elysees. Topiary figures are dotted among the flowering plants, and the pretty pink heads of peonies bob and bow to us in the gentle breeze.

“Magnificent,” Curtius says.

As we descend from the carriage, Henri holds out his hand to me. When I take it, his fingers close intimately over mine. I look into his face, but his eyes are fixed on Thomas Jefferson’s home. A pretty girl with long hair comes out to meet us. Though her skin is porcelain, her eyes are dark and her cheekbones high. She is an octoroon, I think. Seven-eighths white and one-eighth African. The angles of her face are sharp. She has a symmetry, I realize, almost as perfect as that of Emilie Sainte-Amaranthe. She would be beautiful to sketch, and I wonder what she’s doing here. She cannot possibly be a maid. Her clothes are too fine. “Welcome to the Hotel de Langeac,” she says in greeting. “Are you the wax modelers?”

Curtius lifts up the leather carrying case with my tools as evidence.

“Very good,” she replies. Now that we are close, I see she is older than I first thought. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen. “The marquis and the ambassador are eager to see you.”

When we have paid the coachman, we are shown inside the imposing home with its oval rooms and commanding views. “Did Jefferson design this himself?” Henri asks.

“Yes and no,” the young woman says. “This house was designed by the architect Chalgrin, but the ambassador has made many changes.”

We pass beneath a ceiling painted with an image of Apollo in his chariot. When the young woman sees the direction of my gaze, she says, “Jean-Simon Berthelemy.”

“We have a painting of his in our exhibition,” Curtius says. “Not this size, of course. This … this is tremendous.”

“The ambassador likes his home to make an impression.”

“How many rooms are in here?” I ask.

“Twenty-four,” she says with pride. She takes us upstairs, and we stop at a pair of open doors leading into a salon. The oval room has been transformed into a library, with wooden bookshelves and a mahogany desk. A large bay window looks out over the manicured garden, where men in simple trousers are planting seeds. “Monsieur Lafayette,” the young woman announces. “Your guests have arrived.”

The men working at the desk both rise. I recognize the marquis at once, but I have never seen a portrait of Thomas Jefferson. He is very tall and slenderly built, with thick auburn hair and blue eyes. Though Lafayette is thirty-two and the ambassador is forty-six, the two men could be brothers. Their coloring, their height, their way of standing … Even before Jefferson moves, I can see that he carries himself well. And like Lafayette’s, his clothing is immaculate. French culottes with an embroidered waistcoat and a white cravat.

“Ah, thank you, Sally,” Jefferson says, then turns to the marquis, who makes the introductions. Curtius and Henri are presented to the ambassador as scientists and showmen, while I am introduced as a sculptress of rare talent.

“Curtius and Marie have been making wax models on the Boulevard du Temple for more than twenty years,” Lafayette explains. “We are going to be a part of their exhibit on liberty.”

Jefferson asks how the models will be created, and Curtius tells him that we have come prepared for every possibility. There are plaster bandages to make a live mask—which would take an hour—or paper and ink to sketch the men at their leisure. Jefferson looks at Lafayette, as if to say that it is up to him.

Lafayette hesitates, and Curtius says swiftly, “My niece, Marie, will sketch you. All we need are a few measurements.”

“Shall we stand or sit?” Jefferson asks.

“If it would please the ambassador,” Curtius replies, “we would like you to sit.”

They return to their chairs at the mahogany desk, and Jefferson turns to Henri. “Lafayette tells me that you are the man behind the hydrogen balloon.”

“He gives me too much credit,” Henri replies humbly, while Curtius and I take out the caliper. “My brother and I worked with the Roberts brothers. It was a joint effort.”

“But a spectacular one,” Jefferson says. He recounts how Benjamin Franklin returned to America with the story of a flying balloon. “And no one would believe it when he told them it flew with hydrogen, not air.”

“It took years of experimentation,” Henri admits, as Curtius and I begin the measurements. “My brother and I have a laboratory on the Boulevard du Temple. Benjamin Franklin inspired him to study physics.”

“They knew each other?” Jefferson asks.

“They did. Now Jacques has hopes of becoming a professor of physics at the Conservatoire des Arts et Metiers.”

“And you?” Jefferson sits back and crosses his legs while I take the measurements of his jaw. He is an elegant man. I imagine that as a widower he must be very popular in Paris.

Henri smiles ruefully. “I simply hope to have enough time to finish my experiments with nitrogen. We are not independently wealthy. Our money must come from other work.”

Lafayette frowns. “Not patronage from the king?”

“The king supported my brother’s experiments. Then the Montgolfier brothers launched their balloon filled with air two months before ours.” He shrugs. “We weren’t the first.”

“But it’s hydrogen they’re using now,” Jefferson protests. “It’s how Blanchard and Jeffries crossed the English