Madame Tussaud

“He was there this morning,” Henri replies, “writing frantically in a corner.”

“Well, this time he was standing on a table and shouting. He was impassioned.” Curtius wipes his neck. “Like I’ve never seen him before. He took out his pistol and encouraged every citizen in Paris to rise up. He said, ‘The citizens of France requested Necker, and what does the king do? Banish Necker!’ Then he compared himself to Othryades.”

My mother has returned with a carafe of water. “Who is Othryades?”

“A warrior,” Curtius explains, “who captured an enemy flag and wrote ‘Sparta Is Free’ across it in his blood.”

“Camille thinks he’s a Spartan warrior?” my mother exclaims.

“It’s a metaphor,” I say in German.

“He added that he would be willing to write ‘France Is Free’ in his own blood if the people would rise up and make it happen. That Necker’s dismissal has sounded the tocsin for war, and if the people don’t take to arms, it will be another St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre.”

“He’s developed a gift for rhetoric?” Henri asks.

“Yes. And drama. He pinned a leaf to his shirt, then told everyone they could recognize their fellow revolutionaries by their green cockades. The trees were stripped bare.”

To think of calling a tree leaf a cockade, a circular ribbon used to symbolize a cause … It is brilliant. Nothing could be more humble than a small green leaf. “And his stutter?”

“Completely gone when he’s speaking to a crowd. When he shouted ‘Untimely death or eternal liberty,’ I thought I was listening to Mirabeau. And now he’s leading the people here.”

We can hear them coming. As with the Roman army, the dust heralds their approach. They are chanting something, and as they make their way down the Boulevard du Temple, doors swing shut and women peek out from behind their shutters. As the mob comes closer, I can hear what they are shouting. “Necker! Necker!”

Curtius opens the door, and a sea of faces peer back at us. Everyone in the crowd is wearing green. Camille steps forward, and I see that Lucile is behind him.

“Citizen Curtius,” Camille greets him formally. “We have come for the head of Necker.” A shout goes up, and the mob begins to cheer. “Knowing how fervently you support this Revolution, would you be willing to part with your exhibition’s most honored bust?”

“The Salon de Cire,” my uncle replies, “is honored to serve the people’s cause.”

The mob cheers again, and someone shouts, “Give us the bust of Orleans.”

“Yes, give us the Duc d’Orleans!” a woman cries.

“Would you be willing to part with Orleans as well? He has been threatened with b-b-banishment.” Camille gestures dramatically. “But we shall show the king that the people support those who believe in liberty!”

My uncle hesitates. “If that is what the people wish …” He bows. “Come inside.”

Camille takes Lucile’s hand, and they separate themselves from the crowd. The mob looks more excited than angry, eager to see what Camille will produce. I go with my mother and Curtius into the Room of Notables. For the many times Camille has been to our Salon, I don’t believe he’s ever seen these figures. “My God,” he says, like every observer. “They’re so realistic.” He reaches out to touch the Duc’s face while Lucile caresses the head of Necker. In her muslin cap and long white dress, she is the picture of gallant youth. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of taking the king …”

“That’s an entire figure,” Curtius says. “If you carry it, the model will break.”

“And we would appreciate them all coming back in one piece,” I reply. “Each figure takes weeks of work.” Not to mention money. Fifteen livres for a wig, forty sous for real hair, and eighty sous for a full set of teeth.

“Nothing will happen to them,” Camille promises.

“And you? What if something should happen to you?” I ask.

“The time of sacrifice is upon us,” Lucile says. “We are willing to take that risk.”

When they emerge from the Salon, the cheer that goes up must be heard in Versailles. The members of the crowd have taken off their hats, and someone has found black crepe to drape around the busts.

“Where are you going?” Curtius shouts.

Camille takes off his hat. It’s a solemn procession he plans to lead. A funeral march for the exile of Necker and the threat of exile to the Duc d’Orleans. “To the Place Vendome!”

BECAUSE IT’S TOO dangerous for Yachin to go home, a bed is made for him in the workshop. I open the windows to let in a breeze, and our barker says nervously, “Perhaps we should close them.”

I hesitate. All evening, friends have been coming in to give us news. Philip Astley, who runs the circus, said the theaters have been shut down all across Paris. A mob of three thousand stormed the Opera, demanding that Gretry’s Aspasie be canceled out of respect for Necker. They are treating his dismissal as though the king has ordered his execution. In the Place Vendome, the tocsins were sounded, and when the mob spilled into the adjacent Tuileries Gardens, the king’s troops were ordered to clear the space. But Camille’s mob refused to move, and shots were fired. The man carrying the wax bust of the Duc d’Orleans was killed. According to Astley, the soldiers tied his body behind a horse and dragged it through the Tuileries as a warning to others. “And the bust?” I exclaimed.

My mother gasped. “A man was killed!”

“But they didn’t murder the bust. So where is it?”

No one knows. The last we’ve heard is that the Gardes Francaises are fighting alongside the people. They are supposed to be one of the king’s fighting regiments, but they have turned against their brothers, and because they far outnumber the royal troops, the king’s soldiers are actually in retreat! It’s an unbelievable turn of events. It means the Third Estate has its own army, and they are defeating the Royal German Regiment. But does the fighting mean we’re prisoners inside our own homes? I look outside. The streets are dark. I shut the windows, just in case.

Yachin looks pitiful. “Do you think I will see my family tomorrow?” he asks. His knees are tucked up under his chin, and his small arms are wrapped around his legs.

“The fighting can’t last forever,” I tell him.

“But I thought the Revolution was over. There were fireworks at the Palais-Royal.”

“Yes, but now these men want more. Some think they can establish a republic, like they have in America.”

“If there’s no more monarchy, my father can print whatever comes into his shop.”

“I should think there will always be censorship,” I tell him, “of one kind or another.”

“Are they allowed to print whatever they wish in America?”

I don’t know. “Perhaps we should ask Curtius,” I say. “I see you’re not going to get any sleep.”

We join the others at the caissier’s desk. It will be a long night, and only God knows if the Salon will be able to reopen tomorrow. Henri’s brother, Jacques, has just come from the Place Vendome. I take a seat on an empty stool and listen while he recounts what’s happening.

“It’s chaos. The mob has grown to at least twenty thousand. It could double, even triple by tomorrow. The man carrying your bust of Necker was killed by a bayonet to the stomach.”

I feel the blood drain from my face.

“Astley told us the man carrying the Duc’s model was killed as well,” my uncle says.

“They are breaking into the armories now. It’s anarchy in the Palais-Royal. Every shop selling swords and guns has been ransacked. They’ll need gunpowder next.”

There’s a knock on our door, and Curtius rises. “It must be Astley,” he says, and he lets in our neighbor, who searches the gloom for any sign of danger. I have never seen Astley nervous. He’s tall and broad with limber hands, but when he approaches our table, he’s shaking. My mother fetches a stool, and Curtius presses a glass of wine into his hand.

“They’ve burned the barriers to the city, and thousands of peasants are flooding in from the provinces. It’s absolute lawlessness,” Astley tells us. “They’ve attacked more than forty customs posts and burned the tax records. Now they’re searching for food. The monastery of Saint-Lazare has been overcome. Everything inside was taken.”

My mother crosses herself.