Channel!”
“The king is only interested in novelty. My brother’s grants stopped the moment the king heard the Montgolfiers would beat us to launch.”
I have not heard this story. I look at Curtius, who seems equally surprised.
Henri continues, “Not all science can be for show. And if the king wishes to reward only the fastest performers, then that’s not a show I wish to be a part of.”
I had thought that pride kept Henri from asking the king for patronage. I didn’t realize it was his commitment to science. Experiments, like art, cannot be rushed, even for a king who wishes to plan a great fete around the launching of the first balloon. I put down my caliper and turn to Curtius, who has finished Lafayette’s measurements. Now all we have to do is make the sketches. “This won’t take long,” I tell the ambassador. “Half an hour,” I say.
But Jefferson passes his hand through the air. “Take as long as you wish. I am quite enjoying this visit.”
Curtius and I take out several sheets of paper and ink. We are sitting across from two of the finest thinkers in France, enjoying coffee and cakes. This is far more pleasant than the last time I drew a subject from life. I recall the pudgy eyes of the Marquis de Sade and shiver.
“I hope we aren’t distracting you from your work.” Curtius indicates a long roll of paper on Jefferson’s desk.
“The Declaration is finished,” Lafayette admits. “But it lacks …” He gestures with his hands. Unlike Jefferson, he is constantly in motion. Never still, never content. It will be difficult to draw him. “Something firm. Something about the future of this monarchy.”
“It is an argument between us,” Jefferson admits. “This document cannot be a declaration of independence.”
“I don’t see why,” Lafayette disagrees. “We must assert our freedoms as men! And we must make it clear that the will of the people is more important than the will of a king. Why do we need a monarch?” he demands. “The Americans have never needed one.”
“Because we were separated from our king by an entire ocean for more than two hundred years,” Jefferson replies, echoing what Henri said when Lafayette was a guest at our salon. “France is not America. You must give a starving man scraps first. An entire feast will kill him.”
Lafayette turns to Henri and Curtius. “We discussed this several weeks ago, but perhaps recent events have changed your mind. Are the people of France ready to govern themselves?”
Curtius considers carefully before answering. “What would happen to the king?”
“Imagine he is gone. Away. On vacation.”
“If it was a choice between following the Americans and following the English, I think a constitutional monarchy would be more prudent,” my uncle replies.
“I would have to agree,” says Henri. “How do we know the American experiment will succeed? It cost twenty thousand lives, and four years from now, what if their President Washington refuses to relinquish his robes of office and declares himself king?”
“You can’t believe that!” Lafayette is aghast. “America has ignited the torch of freedom. And that torch is now lighting up the world!”
“A republic is undoubtedly the way forth for mankind,” Jefferson agrees. “But will men be willing to govern themselves, or is it more convenient to hand the reins of power to someone who promises free bread and wine?” He tilts his head, and I try to capture his elegant persuasiveness on my paper. Now I understand why the Americans chose him to be their ambassador: they wish him to persuade us to grasp at liberty just as he persuaded the colonists to sever their ties with England.
When the clock chimes three, I put away my ink. Jefferson looks at me, surprised. “Done?” he asks.
“Yes. I have made three drawings each.”
“May we see?”
I hand him my papers.
“The eyes,” he says.
“Wait until you see the actual figure,” Henri promises. “It will be like looking at your double. There is no one like Marie in all of France.”
“To be fair, I had a very good instructor.” I smile at Curtius. “We should not keep these men any longer than we have.”
But Jefferson won’t hear of it. “Nonsense. You must stay and dine with us.”
Curtius and I look at each other. What will my mother think when we don’t come home? “My mother—” I begin, but the ambassador cuts me off.
“I will send my carriage for her and we shall all dine together.”
It is the merriest time I have had in many months. The table Jefferson keeps is astounding. Soups, roasted meats, omelets, cheese, a salad of beets, and cherries in brandy for dessert. I don’t know where he has come by all of these delicacies, but we are offered every kind of drink with our food as well. Jefferson is a connoisseur of wine and advises us on which vintage goes best with cheese and which should be reserved for salad and canapes.
We talk of the Estates-General and what will happen in two days’ time. Will the Declaration be ready? Will the king accept it? Will he agree to have a parliament that shares his power, and if not, how will the deputies of the Third Estate react? When we return to the Boulevard du Temple and climb the stairs to our rooms, we are more nervous than tired. Tomorrow, I will go back to Versailles, but I don’t see how I can pretend that everything is the same as it was last week.
Curtius stops me on the threshold of my chamber and says, “You did well tonight. Both the ambassador and the marquis were impressed.”
“Thanks to you.”
He grins. “Henri appeared quite impressed as well.”
I am thankful it’s dark and my uncle can’t see the flush on my cheeks. “Yes, he is very kind.”
“Perhaps he is interested in you,” Curtius offers.
“Henri?” I laugh. “Of course he’s interested in me. I live next door to him.”
“You are twenty-eight,” he reminds me gently.
Yes, twenty-eight, and what do I have to show for it? Thirty models, twenty-five busts, and a place as the princesse’s tutor at a time when people are more interested in Rousseau than in the king. Until the Salon de Cire is bringing in two hundred people a day, I will never be satisfied. There are more than six hundred thousand people in Paris, and only one and a half percent of them have visited our exhibition. But this new tableau of Jefferson and Lafayette will be a magnificent draw, especially with the Estates-General so close. There is so much to do, and already I am twenty-eight.
“It’s a good age for marriage,” Curtius continues.
“So are you trying to get rid of me?” I ask, half-joking.
“Of course not,” my uncle replies, offended. “You will always remain with the Salon.”
“And how will I do that if I am taking care of a husband and children?”
“It is an option,” is all he says.
But it is not an option for women like myself and Rose Bertin. Men want wives who are sweet and good with children, not women who plan and watch the accounts. What is it that Queen Elizabeth once said? “Better a beggar woman and single than married and queen.” Yes, I think so. Six years ago, the queen’s artist, Vigee-Lebrun, was made a member of the Academie Royale. If it can happen for her, it can happen for me.
APRIL
30, 1789
