“Grain,” Henri says. “It was a storehouse for grain.”
“I am finished with Paris,” Astley says. “I’m returning to London. They’ve already had their civil war.”
“Which ended with a Constitution,” Jacques reminds him. “Perhaps this is the time for new birth.”
Astley takes a long sip of his wine. “The king has been a loyal patron to me. I don’t wish to see him disgraced.” He looks from Jacques to Henri. “I have no desire to see the Duc d’Orleans on the throne. Or any other man in the National Assembly.”
“Lafayette was elected its vice president—he might make a good leader,” Curtius says.
“Can you imagine the bloody coup that will come before installing him as king? He will have to fight every other man who wants it: Orleans, Mirabeau, Camille—”
“Not Camille!” I exclaim.
“Did you hear his speech in the Cafe de Foy? He’s a man with intentions. Just wait,” Astley promises. “If the king doesn’t crush this rebellion and send Camille to prison, you will see him in the National Assembly.”
There is another knock on the door, and the seven of us freeze. Whoever it is, they will have heard us talking. There’s no point in pretending we aren’t here. “Who is it?” Curtius calls through the door.
“Citizen Armand,” the man identifies himself. “I have come with your wax head.”
Curtius opens the door, and a young man holds out the head of Orleans. “For you, Monsieur.”
I spring from my chair and rush to the door. “What about the bust of Necker?” I demand.
Armand shakes his head. He is a
“That bust means a great deal to us,” I say sharply.
Armand steps back. He is seventeen, or eighteen, perhaps.
“Yes,” Curtius cuts in. “For there is no greater patriot than Necker.”
The young man smiles. “Of course. I will see what I can do.” He looks over our shoulders and can see the meats on our table.
“Would you like to come in?” Curtius offers. “There is food. And perhaps you can give us some news.”
Armand accepts, and I lock the door behind him. Yachin has already found a stool from the workshop where I laid his bed. He offers it to our guest, and the seven of us watch him eat. He is starving, chewing with his mouth open because he has stuffed too much inside. When he finally swallows, he sees that we are waiting. “What is the last you’ve heard?” he asks.
“That the monastery of Saint-Lazare was ransacked,” Jacques says.
Armand reaches for a sausage. “And all of the monks have been turned out. They can live off the fat of their bellies now.”
“That is a sin,” my mother says.
Armand sees he has offended her and puts down his sausage. “Perhaps it is. But we are starving, Madame. It is all well and good for the National Assembly to proclaim this law and that. But where is the food? Can they force the king to give us food?”
“He doesn’t have enough food to feed a nation,” I reply.
“Then we shall find a government that knows how to conduct trade for grain. The members of the National Assembly are meeting at the Hotel de Ville,” he says. “If you hear cannon shots tomorrow, it might be battle, or it might be the National Assembly summoning its deputies to a meeting. They are looking to create their own militia. It will be every patriot’s duty to provide this new militia with whatever weapons they have.”
“Including the shops that have been broken into?” Henri asks.
“Yes,” Armand says earnestly.
“Isn’t that thievery?” Jacques wants to know.
“Not if it’s for the greater good. We found a barge at the Port Saint-Nicholas carrying forty casks of powder. That powder would have gone to the king’s army if we hadn’t taken it. Where is it better used?” Armand asks. “By tomorrow, the king will be facing a formidable army,” he promises. “A citizens’ militia.”
JULY
13, 1789
—MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE
ONLY CURTIUS AND I ARE AWAKE WHEN THE CANNON FIRE begins. Perhaps it has gone on all night and only now can it be heard on the Boulevard du Temple. But the sound seems to shake our house on its foundations. We look across the table at each other, and my uncle puts down his coffee.
“Battle, or a meeting of the National Assembly?” I ask fearfully.
“It will be the meeting in the Hotel de Ville. Can’t you hear the tocsin?”
If I strain, I can just make out the ringing of the bells above the cannons. “What if the king’s troops defeat them? What if they throw Lafayette and Robespierre into prison?”
“That’s why we straddle both worlds until it’s clear which side will be the victor. In three days, you’ll go back to Versailles. Meanwhile, whatever good patriots are doing, we’ll do. They want green cockades? We’ll wear them. They need arms for the citizens’ militia? We’ll donate. And as soon as it’s safe to reopen the Salon, the exhibits will change weekly. Daily even, if that’s what events call for.” He stands from his chair and begins to pace. “We’ll want to change our signs from “Monsieur” and “Madame” to “Citizen” and “Citizeness.” That’s what all the papers are using. We don’t want to be behind.”
“Then we should change the Room of Notables to the Room of Great Patriots as well.”
“Yes. And whatever happens—” Curtius stops pacing to look at me. Even at six in the morning, he is wearing a waistcoat and an embroidered vest, just in case the king or the Duc should come calling. “The Salon de Cire must continue. This will be your inheritance, Marie, and you will make it your children’s inheritance someday.”
“Why are you saying this?”
“The Glorious Revolution in England swept away many good families. We don’t know how we’ll be caught up in this. Already, we’ve provided models for Camille’s procession.”
“The mob could have stolen those busts,” I say quickly. “Or they could have forced us to hand them over. Why should the king believe we were part of it?”
“He might not. But men have been sent away for much less. Did you hear that the commander of the Swiss Guards, the Baron de Besenval, has been placed in charge of the king’s troops?”
“Abrielle’s father?”
“Yes.” My uncle sighs. “Of all the women to fall in love with … Wolfgang might have chosen anyone.” He smiles at me. “At least you have some sense.”
I look down at my coffee. Clearly, Henri has taken Curtius aside and made his intentions known. “You know I cannot marry now.”
“Henri told me. But Marie, you will never be left homeless or poor. That much I swear.”
There is the sound of a horse and carriage outside, and both of us pause. I go to the window and recognize the man with the auburn hair and mahogany walking stick. “I can’t believe it.”
Curtius rises. “Who is it?”
“The Marquis de Lafayette!”
“Go and wake your mother. And make some more coffee.”
I rush to my mother’s chamber. The curtains are drawn against the summer’s light, casting the silk-paneled walls in shadow. From the embroidered settee to the cushioned armchair, everything has been done in robin’s-egg blue. I push the airy bed hangings aside and see that my mother is still asleep. I should let her be, but I know she would be angry to miss Lafayette. I gently shake her shoulder. I’m surprised she doesn’t hear the cannons.
“What? What’s happening?”
“The Marquis de Lafayette has come,” I say.
