Madame Tussaud

us if my father is arrested? I haven’t even become a Bar Mitzvah. Mine will come next month, and there’s to be a fine meal in my honor.”

I can see that Yachin is already thinking of this meal, and I offer him some of the bread and sausage my mother left on the table.

“Don’t you want it for yourself?”

“I’m not a growing young man.”

“But the bread.” He hesitates. “It must have been expensive.”

Yes. And the newspapers are saying that the wheat we’ve been given from America is infested with insects. There is going to be starvation if something isn’t done. The king has resorted to begging the English for flour, but their House of Commons has flatly refused, saying that this is God’s justice for supporting the Americans in their war. “Don’t worry.” I smile. “Just eat.”

While Yachin is quiet for a moment, I go to the model of Jefferson. The clothing he’s chosen for the American looks exactly like something the ambassador would wear. Silk culottes with a waistcoat of striped velvet. I place my hand briefly on his chest. Unlike with the model of Madame du Barry, there’s no gentle rise and fall. But for a moment I imagine that this strong, sculpted man is Henri, waiting for me to tie his cravat.

Chapter 20

MAY

29, 1789

This hardworking German [Philippe Curtius] produces colored wax heads of such quality that one could imagine that they are alive.

—MAYEUR DE SAINT-PAUL, EXCERPT FROM TOURIST BROCHURE

“MEET THE DEPUTIES OF THE ESTATES-GENERAL!” YACHIN cries. “Then come see the greatest thieves in France!”

“Will the queen be there?” I hear someone ask, and the people in line begin to laugh.

Commoners, noblemen, tourists from England—they are all crushed together: the rich want to walk through Jefferson’s study, while the poor wish to see Robespierre in the Estates-General. This is success even greater than when the royal family came to visit, and the customers can’t shove their twelve sous at us fast enough. The Journal can write of Robespierre, but we show him the flesh. The Courrier can paint a picture of the Salle des Etats with words, but we have brought it to life. And only the Salon de Cire can show Danton as he truly is in life—towering, immense, with a chest like a barrel and hands like heavy plates.

“We shall have to limit the time they’re inside,” Curtius says. “Otherwise, this line could go for days.” We sit at the caissier’s desk from ten in the morning till ten at night. When we close the doors, there are men and women returning from the theaters who want to know when we’ll be open tomorrow.

“Eight in the morning,” I reply.

“And how much for entry?”

“Fifteen sous.” My mother stares at me.

As they walk away, I hear one of them saying, “I’d rather see models than read the Journal. The papers are so tedious.”

“Fifteen sous?” my mother asks when they’re gone.

Forget fifteen sous. “We could charge twenty!”

My mother looks uncertain, but when eight o’clock arrives and the line stretches down the Boulevard du Temple, there is no doubt that this is a winning approach. Curtius and I decide to include posters in every room explaining the tableaux. Each day, as more news comes from Versailles, the posters will change. All of Saturday is a triumph. But as the last patrons are pushing through the door, a rider comes with the message that my brothers will be arriving tomorrow.

Curtius shakes his head. “It would be better if they didn’t. Think of it, Anna,” he says in German. “What will Edmund feel?”

She looks at the room that’s been transformed into the Salle des Etats, then at the figures in Jefferson’s Study. “He will understand that this is business,” she says firmly. “He will see how we have made a great success.”

“He doesn’t care about success, Maman. Tell them we’ll go to Versailles instead.”

But she won’t hear of it, and when the carriage arrives on Sunday evening, I pause on the doorstep to tell my uncle, “We’ve taken in three thousand sous since Friday.” That’s three times what we would normally make. “He will be enraged.”

Curtius gives me a look. “Then try not to provoke him.”

This time I won’t need to.

MY BROTHERS LEAP from the carriage, Wolfgang first, and when he wraps me in his arms, I smell the scents of narcissus and sandalwood in his hair. He embraces my mother, and she smells the change, too. I have told her about Abrielle. But she will wait for him to say something first.

“Welcome home.” She kisses both of his cheeks, then does the same for Johann and Edmund. “Come inside. We have coffee waiting.”

“And something to eat?” Johann says hopefully.

“This is Maman,” I reply. “The table is full.” We set it this afternoon, leaving Yachin to help Curtius while my mother roasted meats and I prepared the desserts. There will be pastries and almond milk, plus Johann’s favorite cheeses, Gloucester and Gruyere.

“I see the streetlights are still out,” Edmund remarks. “The Estates-General hasn’t changed the world.”

We step into the Salon, and everyone falls silent. My mother closes the door behind us, and Wolfgang gives a low whistle. The tableau of Robespierre, Danton, and Mirabeau is the first room you see. “It looks just like the Salle des Etats,” Wolfgang says.

“Very impressive,” Johann adds. “Did Marie do this?”

Edmund’s eyes are accusing. “You are no better than the libellistes. We spoke of this!”

“And while I heard your concerns, I also heard the voice of the people—”

Edmund turns on our mother. “Aren’t you supposed to guide this family? Where are your principles?”

My mother inhales sharply.

“Perhaps you don’t have any. After all, you live with a man you’ve never married. No better than a common cocotte really.”

Curtius reaches out and grabs Edmund’s throat. He is going to kill him. I can see it in his eyes.

“Don’t!” Johann cries. He and Wolfgang pull them apart, and Johann shouts into his brother’s face, “What’s the matter with you?”

I rush to comfort my mother, who is weeping into her apron. “He didn’t mean it,” I say. “He isn’t rational.”

“I’m perfectly rational!” Edmund shouts. His face is red, and his neck is swelling. “But I’ll never stay in a house of harlots and traitors.” He is gone before Curtius can go after him.

We look to my mother, and for a moment there is only the sound of her weeping. Upstairs, the roasted meat and coffee are getting cold.

Wolfgang wraps his arm around her shoulders. “He says a lot of things,” Johann soothes her. “You don’t know him, Maman. We have to live with this. He has a temper. Everything offends him. Nothing is ever good enough.”

We lead her upstairs, and my brothers and I try to be cheerful. We talk about the king, and what the queen is wearing. Then Wolfgang tells us all about Abrielle, though he swears my mother and Curtius to silence.

“I’m in love,” he reveals, “and I wish to marry her.”