Madame Tussaud

the crowds. “You see?” she exclaims. “That’s how it’s done.”

We are standing so close to the altar now that I can see the individual fleurs-de-lis embroidered into the gold and purple cloth draping the chancel. The king and queen will preside over the roll call of the bailliages before leading a procession through the streets of Versailles to the Church of Saint-Louis. There are so many people that it’s impossible to see anything but the space in front of me. Somewhere in the crowd, Marat and Camille are watching, while Robespierre is sitting with the members of the Third Estate.

The clock strikes nine, and as the trumpets begin to sound, the entire congregation turns. But there is nothing to see. No sign of the royal family or the men who will take the velvet seats beneath them. “The dauphin was ill this morning,” Rose whispers to me. “I had to dress Her Majesty while she was tending to him.”

But as the time passes and the twelve hundred representatives begin to shift in their seats, I hear women say, “The queen is probably searching for another gown” and “Perhaps she forgot what day it was.” When the man next to us posits, “Perhaps she is asking her lover for one last baiser before she goes,” Rose Bertin answers him loudly, “She is with the dauphin, who is ill and may die.”

This shames those around us into silence, but it is another hour before the royal couple arrive, preceded by a fanfare of trumpets and fifes. As soon as they appear, there is a collective gasp. The king and queen have come dressed as the true regents of France. From head to toe the king gleams with diamonds. In the cold light of the chancel, they shine like raindrops. Rose points to the gem in King Louis’s hat. “The Regent Diamond, the largest in the world.” Which means the queen must be wearing the world’s second largest. It sparkles from her hair, and smaller gems catch at the light from the bodice of her gown.

“There’s no necklace,” I say, and Rose sniffs her response, as if to reply, Little surprise, given the scandal of the Diamond Necklace Affair. But the queen is still shimmering, a silver snowflake to the king’s bright gold. And behind her comes Madame Elisabeth, dressed in the most exquisite gown I have ever seen her wear.

As the royal family approach, the congregation of Notre-Dame bows. First the clergy, then the nobility, then the Third Estate. Only the members of the Third Estate aren’t bowing. They are standing! Over six hundred men are standing with their hats on their heads and their legs unmoving.

“They’re refusing!” Rose grips my arm. “They’re all refusing.”

The nobility look to the clergy in confusion. Is this a sin? The king is the manifestation of God’s will, the blessed leader. I can see shock register in the queen’s eyes. Then the king takes his place to the right of the choir screen while the queen and her ladies take their seats to the left. The performance must go on, whether or not the dauphin is ill, whether or not the king wishes it so.

Beneath the altar, on long velvet benches, are the king’s most important men: the Comte d’Artois, the Comte de Provence, the Swiss-born Minister of Finance, Jacques Necker. They are all pretending that this terrible snub has not happened. But up close, I can see that the queen is strained. She must be thinking about her son, wishing that she could be with him instead of here.

Two by two, the representatives of the First and Second Estates approach the king. They bow first to him, and then to the queen. The roll-call ceremony is long and boring, but everyone is waiting to see what will happen when the Third Estate’s members are called. When the first representative’s name is announced, I am sure my heart stops. But the first man bows, and then the second. The queen exhales visibly, and Rose relaxes her grip on my arm.

“Now that they stand before God’s altar,” someone says, “they aren’t too proud to show their respect.”

When it is all finished, I wonder if perhaps I haven’t dreamed that first slight. The trumpeters begin to play, joined by harpists and men on fifes. Then Rose and I pour into the streets with the rest of the assembly. After two days of rain, the sun has made its way through the clouds, gilding the courtiers in their embroidered stockings and the clerics in their golden robes. The men of the Swiss Guard have lined the road from the Church of Notre-Dame to the Church of Saint-Louis, and they stand at attention like a row of toy soldiers. It is useless to look for my brothers. There are hundreds of guards, and ten times as many people.

“We can stand here for the procession,” Rose says, “but as soon as it’s over, we must be the first into Saint- Louis. I want to see the Princesse de Lamballe’s gown. I didn’t design it.”

“Perhaps the court is attempting to find less expensive marchandes?”

“If the princesse wishes to use inferior cloth, then that is her decision. Vendors at the Palais are selling burlap sacks cheap. Perhaps she’d like to wear that.” Rose will see the gown, inspect it, and tomorrow she will know the name of the marchande who sold it and for exactly how much. It is what I would do if I learned of a rival modeler in Paris.

The trumpeters herald the start of the procession, and the three estates begin their walk to the Church of Saint-Louis, where they will all attend Mass. I’ve brought paper and ink, but there’s nothing of this procession I’m likely to forget. Next to the king, the queen and Madame Elisabeth look dazzling in their jewels. Behind this glittering trio, the king’s brothers and their wives carry a canopy over the holy Eucharist. Following them are the members of the clergy in their long cassocks and wide, square bonnets. Then come the nobility, who have all put on their hats, plumed like those of the courtiers of Henri IV. It’s like stepping back in time nearly two hundred years. The silks … the brocades …

Rose sighs. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

I wish Henri and the rest of my family could be here for this. I wish all of France could see the pomp and majesty of our monarchy. There are two hundred and ninety-one nobles, three hundred clergy, and six hundred and ten members of the Third Estate. But for every representative, there are five times as many people lining the roads. Though the applause is deafening, no one shouts, “Long live the king!”

“There is Lafayette,” Rose says breathlessly. “And Duquesnoy!” She is pointing out the important nobles as they go by. Then she grabs my arm. “The Duc d’Orleans!”

“I don’t see him.” The nobles have already passed. Now the Third Estate has come into view, dressed in black coats and black tricorn hats.

She points wildly to a large man walking among the commoners, and for a moment, I feel sick. “He changed!” I exclaim. “That’s not what he was wearing in Notre-Dame.” As the crowd realizes what’s happening, there is thunderous applause. The Duc d’Orleans, a cousin of the king who should be walking among the nobility, has dressed in plain black and is marching with the Third Estate.

Women begin waving their handkerchiefs in the air, and though the crowd was silent when the king passed by, someone shouts, “Long live the Duc d’Orleans!” The cry is taken up all along the roads, and as the cheers grow louder, the Duc bows his head, a humble subject showing his solidarity with the people.

I think of Madame Elisabeth, walking beside her brother. What must she feel—what must any of the royals feel—to hear their subjects calling for the Duc instead of the king? The Duc has turned this entire occasion into his own masquerade, a devious fraud to manipulate the people’s passions.

“And look who else is marching with the Third.” Rose points. “The Comte de Mirabeau!”

Everyone has heard of the hideous and pockmarked comte, who took a beautiful young heiress and forced her into marriage. After seeing her in the marketplace, he bribed one of the girl’s servants into letting him visit her chamber. Then, while she was sleeping, he slipped into her bed and swore to the household that he was her lover. What could her father do? Her engagement to another man was canceled and a marriage to Mirabeau was arranged to save her honor.

“I have heard,” Rose says, “that Mirabeau corresponds with the Marquis de Sade.”

“It doesn’t surprise me. They are both despicable men.”

The cheers for the Duc d’Orleans have died down, and as the procession passes, we follow the estates into the Church of Saint-Louis. The candles flicker in the darkened sanctuary, illuminating the paintings and ancient tapestries. But it’s the queen’s dress, as pale and silvery as the moon, that is even more dazzling in this light.

There is a tense silence as the congregation waits for Henri de La Fare to give God’s blessing on the Estates-General. As the thirty-seven-year-old bishop from Nancy reaches the pulpit, there is something in his face that makes me wary.

“Behold,” he begins, “the King and Queen of Extravagance!” He points to the queen and Louis XVI, but the king has nodded off. Only those who are close to the altar can see. The bishop gives an entire sermon chastising the royal couple for their expenditures. He compares Marie Antoinette’s gowns to the tattered rags belonging to the