Madame Tussaud

regime how tyrants are dealt with!” He tells us of a Swiss Guardsman named Bequard who kept de Launay from detonating the gunpowder and blowing the entire fortress to pieces. As he opened the gates to let in the people, the mobs severed his hand. “The hand of a tyrant,” Camille says, “and it was still gripping the key!”

“Enough.” Henri stands. “What are you thinking, telling stories like this in front of two women?”

“Henri.” I put my hand on his arm, but he shrugs it off.

“No.” He points accusingly at Camille. “He gets pleasure from this.”

“And if you were a good patriot, you would find pleasure in it, too.”

Henri and Camille glare at each other from across the table. Henri has never pushed me away, and though I know he is only trying to protect me, I am hurt. What’s happening, that friends are suddenly turned into enemies?

“Have some coffee,” my mother says hurriedly, moving the pot toward Camille. He pours himself a cup, but his cheeks are still inflamed, and his long hair has come loose from its ribbon.

“I will be starting my own newspaper,” Camille tells us. “Revolutions de France et de Brabant. The tyranny of the press is at an end. If the royal family could have seen the face of de Launay in his surrender, they would understand that the monarchy is finished as well.”

“I assume de Launay has been arrested,” Henri says. “Where are they taking him?”

“To Citizen Bailly at the Hotel de Ville. Bailly has been named the Mayor of Paris, and he will decide what to do with such traitors.” Camille puts down his cup and looks at me. “Are you coming?”

“To the Hotel de Ville?” my mother exclaims.

“Of course.” He is excited. “That is where the news is.”

“He’s right, Maman. As soon as it’s safe to reopen the Salon,” I say, “the exhibits need to reflect what’s happening. What does Bailly look like? What is he wearing? Perhaps one of the rooms should be changed to reflect the Hotel de Ville.”

“I’ll go with you,” Henri says, and Camille doesn’t object.

I bring a leather case to hold my paper and ink, and the three of us hurry south down the Rue de Saintonge. Hundreds of people are leaving their houses, making their way toward the Hotel de Ville. They all want to see de Launay and the Vainqueurs of the Bastille for themselves. When we reach the hotel, the crowd is so large that it’s impossible to see anything. “Murderer!” some of the people are crying. “Murderer!”

Members of the National Guard are bringing the prisoners through. I assume that one of them is the Marquis de Launay.

“That’s Jacob Elie.” Camille points. “And that man over there is Pierre-Augustin Hulin. You’ll want both of their faces for your exhibition. They led the storming of the Bastille.”

“God in heaven,” I whisper, “look what they’ve done to de Launay.” The governor of the Bastille has been badly beaten. There is blood on his face and down his white cravat. His captors can’t move him three steps without having to push away the crowds, who believe the marquis plotted to massacre the invading mobs.

“How should we kill him?” someone shouts.

Another man answers, “Let’s draw and quarter him.”

“Get away from me!” de Launay screams. “Just let me die. Let me die!” He lashes out with his foot, and this is all the reason the people need. He disappears beneath a flurry of bayonets and knives. I shriek, and the crowd begins to cheer. The man who was kicked is given the honor of sawing off de Launay’s head, and when they hoist it onto a wooden pike, I am certain I am going to be ill. “I want to go home,” I say. Even Camille has lost his color. “Are you coming?”

We walk back in silence, but the sound of the crowd seems to be following us. As we reach the Boulevard du Temple, the cries grow louder, and as I open the door to the Salon Camille cries, “The mob! My God, they’re following us.”

“Inside!” Henri shouts. “Get inside!” But before anyone can make it through the door, we are surrounded. Henri grips my hand and positions himself in front of me. There must be a thousand, no, two thousand of them. What are they doing here? What do they want?

A man steps forward and identifies himself as Pierre-Augustin Hulin, Vanquisher of the Bastille. “Citizeness Grosholtz. The patriots of France have come to your doorstep to make a request. We carry the heads of two tyrants, and it is our wish to preserve these heads for eternity, not only as examples of what happens to the enemies of the people but as reminders to the ancien regime that their time has come!”

The crowd cheers, raising their weapons in the air. Most of them are men in long trousers and tricolor cockades. But there are women as well, in muslin caps and linen skirts. Their faces look fierce. They are watching, waiting for me to make a mistake. I am about to refuse when another man separates himself from the crowd.

“Curtius!” I gasp.

“Marie.” He takes me by the shoulders, and while the crowd waits, he says to me in German, “Tell them yes.”

“What do you mean?” I back away from him. “You—you want me to touch a severed head?” I want to scream, to vomit, to run away, but there is something in his gaze that steadies me.

“These men are the future leaders of France.”

I stare at the sea of grubby faces. These are our leaders? This murderous mob?

“If you can’t, I will. But one of us has to.”

“Well?” Hulin demands.

I look at the bayonets, their metal tips glinting in the sun. If we refuse, it will be the end of the Salon de Cire. It may also be the end of us. “I will do it,” I say.

A deafening cheer goes up in the crowd.

“Go inside and find plaster,” Curtius says.

I turn to Henri, who takes my hand. “You can do this,” he whispers and kisses my neck. I feel the strength of his conviction in his voice. I can do this. I will do this. For us.

My mother, who has been listening at the window, helps me collect the materials. Plaster, water, a basket of cloths. I will not bring corpses into the workshop. I will sit on the steps, and the mob can watch me at their gruesome handiwork. I fetch a white apron and try not to think how it will look in an hour. The men on my father’s side, generation upon generation, were executioners. It is my Grosholtz heritage. My mother and I don’t speak. We take the materials onto the porch, where the mob is waiting.

Everyone stays, even Camille. Hulin passes the first head to me, and I fight against the urge to vomit. It is de Launay without his wig. Twenty minutes ago, this head was attached to a forty-nine-year-old body. The skin, the hair—it was all taken care of by a man who woke up this morning and could never have imagined that I would be holding his head in my hands. His eyes are shut, but even so, I feel certain that he is looking at me.

I cradle the back of his head so I don’t have to touch the bloody stump of his neck. As I place it between my knees, it stains my apron. God, give me strength. My mother passes me the plaster. I work without looking up. I don’t want to see the faces of these murderers. I don’t want to remember any more of this than I have to. I expect the crowd to be silent, but they chat among themselves as if this were an open-air show.

“Look at her hands,” someone says.

“She works so quickly!”

Without the need to sculpt a clay head first, the entire process is swift. Unlike with living models, who refuse to have anything applied to their skin, it takes only a few minutes for the plaster to set against de Launay’s face and for a mold to be made. Then my mother disappears and returns with a pot of melted beeswax. While we wait for the wax to set, Hulin passes me the second head. This man is older, and his eyes are open.

“Jacques de Flesselles. A traitor,” Hulin spits.

God forgive me, I think as I position the head between my knees and feel the steady presence of Henri and Curtius at my side. I don’t ask why this man was killed or what he did. I just repeat to myself, One more mold, and all of this is done. I close the old man’s eyes, then press the plaster bandages to de Flesselles’s face. He is—was—a man in his sixties. Was he a father? A grandfather? Certainly he had some family that’s missing him right now. What would they say if they knew what I was doing? I