Madame Tussaud

estates be abolished? My mother brings out fresh rolls and pate. It is a sign of our neighborly goodwill that we are willing to share our bread. I notice that Yachin eats enough for two. “Yachin,” his father, Abraham, scolds when he notices I am watching. He explains shamefacedly, “I think he is growing.”

“Let him eat.” I smile. “He works hard enough.”

Abraham nods, and Yachin reaches for another roll. “It was very kind of you to give him such a special token from the queen. My wife was tremendously proud. She took it to all of our neighbors in Saint-Martin.” This is the quartier where most of the city’s Jews are living. It is terribly poor. “My wife and I are loyal to the king, but we have great hopes for the Estates-General.” He strokes his long beard. It is a habit with him. “We want citizenship. As it is, we must register in Paris and renew our passeport every three months. The fees for this … Well, most Jews cannot afford them. But where else can we go?” He shakes his head. “At least in this country, we have the freedom to pray. There is a synagogue on the Rue Brisemiche. And there are shops that follow the dietary laws of Kashrut. We have built a community,” he tells me. “There is a hebra for the poor and the heder where my son can learn Hebrew. Eventually, the king must see reason. Look at what the Estates-General has accomplished: in one week, he has learned that the people have a voice. And if the deputies can speak out, then so can the Jews.”

“Is that what Zalkind Hourwitz is doing?” Henri asks. I had not known he was listening to our discussion.

Abraham looks across the table in surprise. “You read the Courrier?”

“And the Chronique. I try to read as many literary journals as I can.”

“Hourwitz has been sending his petitions for many months,” Abraham explains. “And he’s making some progress. Perhaps by this time next year …”

This is the kind of hope that is all over Paris. In the salons, in the streets, in the cafes that have overrun the Palais-Royal. Everyone is hoping for great things from the Estates-General.

At noon, Yachin returns to his place outside and our guests begin to leave. Only Henri stays, since he and Curtius are waiting to show me the new exhibit. We go downstairs, and when Curtius throws open the doors to the room, I gasp. It is an exact replica of Jefferson’s study, from the paintings on the wall to the mahogany desk. I touch the wooden shelves, where leather-bound books have been fitted between marble busts and potted plants. “How … how did you do this?”

“We had Jefferson’s help,” Henri admits. “He allowed us to return and sketch his study.”

I feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes. I don’t know why I should be so affected by this. But it’s the most beautiful room we have ever exhibited. The chairs, the wallpaper, the long leather couch with its clawed brass feet—it is all so exact. “Thank you, Henri,” I say. We shall continue to repay him by sending our customers to see his Invisible Girl, but I think of the experiments he might have had time for if not for this, and I am deeply moved. He must have spent hours here, possibly nights. I imagine his hair tied back from his face and the two lines between his brows deepening as they always do when he is hard at work. Truly, there has never been a better man than him. “You are far too kind to us.”

He makes a little bow. “It was my pleasure.”

“Now there is simply the matter of a few models to make,” my uncle says.

“Only Jefferson and Lafayette,” I reply.

“Didn’t you bring drawings of anyone else? What about Mirabeau?”

I fetch my bag and take out my sketches. There are half a dozen men. The hideous Mirabeau is among them, as well as the Duc d’Orleans.

“We should do all of these,” my uncle says. “Especially the Duc.”

I think of the way they shouted his name in the streets, and the worry on Madame Elisabeth’s pale face when I saw her. “What if we’re encouraging rebellion?” I ask. “What if by making a model of him we’re reinforcing the idea that he should be king? Edmund would say—”

“Forget what Edmund says,” Curtius exclaims, and he walks me to the Salon’s largest window. The entire Boulevard is spread before us. “People. And all of them are going about their business. If the Salon de Cire disappeared tomorrow, do you think that man would change his mind about polishing his boots? Or that woman would have chosen a different parasol? The events of this month are bigger than us. We are simply reporting them in the flesh.”

“Or wax,” Henri offers wryly.

“We aren’t changing minds,” Curtius says. “Think of the artist who paints a brewing storm. Is he responsible for the rain? You might say he has created a thing of beauty out of something filled with misery and danger.”

He is right. The Salon de Cire exists to report events as they are happening. Mistresses, murderers, newly made queens …

I spend the next three days in my workshop. When it’s time for me to return to Versailles, Curtius writes a letter filled with regret, stating that I will not be able to assist Madame Elisabeth again until June. I sign my name, and though I feel guilty, we are not like the princesse. We must maintain a business for a living. Madame’s twenty livres a day are all well and good, but how long will the position last? The Salon must come first. There are molds and sculptures and bodies to be made. There are teeth to be found and eyes to be painted.

There must be seven new models for the Salon de Cire by the time I return to Montreuil. Jefferson, Lafayette, Robespierre, Mirabeau, Necker, Danton, and the Duc d’Orleans. I try to imagine Robespierre’s face when he returns to find himself in wax. He will be beside himself with glee, I think. He will probably want to take the model home.

I begin by sculpting the Duc, thinking to do the unpleasant tasks first. Though in clay he’s not so offensive. His lips don’t sneer, and his eyes don’t narrow into derisive slits. In fact, when I’m finished, he’s rather pleasing to look at. Not a handsome man. But pleasant.

Mirabeau, however, is just as loathsome in clay as in the flesh. I include the pitted scars left by the smallpox, and the protrusions on his nose and lips from syphilis. The prostitutes call it the Italian disease, though I suspect it can be caught from anyone, really.

It is a far more joyous task when I begin to sculpt Jefferson. He and Lafayette have similar noses. Aquiline, strong. Though their jaws are different. One square, the other round. I close my eyes and think to myself, I could sculpt Jefferson from memory.

Of all the models, Georges Danton’s proves the most difficult, but he has become a popular assemblyman, and there is no choice but to use the extra wax and sculpt this giant of a man. I have laid eyes on him only once, but to see him at the podium in the Hotel des Menus is to never forget him. He has the body of a mill worker rather than a lawyer. His hands, chest, even his shoulders, are larger than any man I’ve ever modeled. But it’s his heavy brow that distinguishes him the most, and it will probably be Danton whom our customers are most impressed with.

THREE WEEKS LATER, when all seven models are finished, Curtius sends Yachin to help me dress the figures. He sorts through the chests of clothes we’ve collected, looking for something suitable for Robespierre.

“What about this?” he holds up a pair of tattered stockings.

“I said Robespierre, not Marat.” I brush Mirabeau’s hair away from his face and wonder if preparing a model of Marat could truly be any worse than this.

Yachin holds up an embroidered coat and silk cravat, and I nod. We used them for a model of the Comte d’Artois several years ago. “When do you think we will have the unveiling?” he asks.

“On Friday,” I tell him. That gives us three days to arrange the models and prepare the rooms. Plus, create a window display that features the Estates-General. “If you can find a pair of blue stockings in that chest, it might work.”

He brings his discoveries over to me and perches on a bench to watch while I sort through his pile.

“It was a pleasure to see your father again,” I say. “How is his business?”

“Well. Or better than before. Suddenly, everyone wants to use our printers. My father says most of his requests are for libelles attacking the monarchy. I have read what some of these papers say about the queen and her friends. They accuse her of …” His voice drops low. “Well, they aren’t kind.”

I put down the brush. The hair on Mirabeau’s model is as precise as it’s ever going to be. “Does your father print them?”

“He won’t have it. He tells them to find someone else. That he has a family to consider. Who will take care of