Madame Tussaud

remove the plaster and pour beeswax into the hardened mold.

There is talking and laughing as the molds dry and I paint the faces. Someone suggests I give de Launay a woman’s wig, since he enjoyed his foppery. I use the cheapest men’s wig in my mother’s basket and skip the glass eyes. When I am finished, I pass Hulin his wax models. With a theatrical flourish, he impales the heads on the ends of separate bayonets and lifts them above the crowd. Once again, there are wild cheers. A man hands him a leather purse, and he holds it out to me. It looks heavy. “For your service to the people.”

A hundred livres, maybe more? But though we have used at least fifty livres’ worth of materials, I shall not be paid to decorate death. “No.”

Hulin is surprised. He turns back to the crowds. “She has refused payment for her work!” he shouts, and the mobs cheer again. He takes the severed heads and gives them to another man. He bows to me, and the throng begins to clear.

“I have to go with them,” Curtius says quietly.

As soon as they are gone, I untie my apron and let it fall to the ground. My hands smell of death. My mother and Henri follow me inside, where I stand motionless. “I will draw you a bath,” my mother says quickly. She kisses my brow and says to me in German, “Your grandfather was the executioner of Strasbourg. He saw death every day and then had to go home and greet his children. It is in your blood to be strong. You didn’t kill those men. You simply made them immortal.”

She goes upstairs, and I remain standing. Henri takes me in his arms, and it’s only when I’m there, safe against his chest, that I let myself weep. “Shh.” He strokes my hair, but the tears won’t stop coming. “Shh …”

“To hold their heads. Men who were alive …” I choke on my tears, and Henri tightens his embrace. “What will their families think? What will they say …”

“No one will blame you. There was no other choice.” He brushes away my hair with the back of his hand, then says softly, “Marry me. We’ll go away. We’ll sail to England, and we’ll combine our two exhibitions as one.”

I look into his eyes. They are dark and earnest. Full of expectation. What sort of fool would turn down marriage to this man? “And what would my family do?” I ask him, taking his hand. “How would they live?”

“They could come with us.”

“That … that isn’t practical. Curtius would never leave, and neither would Maman. France is their home. We’ve made a name for ourselves here.”

“Which is why the mob came to you, Marie. What happens when they arrive with the next demand? And the next? A corpse lasts for a few days. But they can parade a wax model for as long as they please.”

I put my hand to my head. Why can’t I think?

“Marie, they are going to come again. Marry me, and we can stay in England until all of this is over.”

It’s the sensible thing to do. Philip Astley is leaving, and there’s talk on the Boulevard that Rose Bertin may be going as well. “When Curtius is no longer a guardsman,” I say. “As soon as he’s able to run the Salon, we’ll marry. And if things aren’t better for France, we’ll take our exhibitions to England.”

Chapter 27

JULY

15, 1789

Nobility, wealth, rank, office—all that makes you very proud! What have you done to deserve these blessings?

—LORENZO DA PONTE, THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO

“SO WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?” MY MOTHER ASKS.

I look down at the plaster molds of de Launay and de Flesselles. Last night at our salon, Jefferson came with Lafayette, congratulating me for “serving the people’s cause” and completing a tremendously gruesome task “to frighten the ancien regime into compliance.” That’s what they’re calling the king and his nobles now. The ancien regime, the Old Order. A way of life that’s no longer acceptable. “If the Americans can cast it off,” Lafayette said, “then so can we!” He lifted the heavy key to the Bastille and promised to send it across the ocean to George Washington. Everyone cheered, and it was like old times, with the Duc, Camille, Lucile, even Marat. Only Robespierre was missing, though a letter came saying that he’d be visiting the Bastille today. Everyone wants a piece of it. They’re selling large stones for seven sous, and you can pay fifteen to tour the dungeons. “It was a symbol of tyranny,” Jefferson said.

I thought it had been a symbol of transgression.

I lift the plaster mold of de Launay and hold it up to the light. It’s a very good likeness. However repulsive these times may be, if the Salon is to survive, our tableaux must change. This morning the Journal de Paris described yesterday’s events in gruesome detail. Parisians will find their news in their papers or in our halls. It’s up to us.

“So what are you going to do?” my mother repeats.

“We’re going to remove one of our exhibits,” I decide, “and replace it with The Conquest of the Bastille.”

My mother nods encouragingly. This is what she likes to see. Movement. Progress.

“I’ll need to make our own busts of de Launay and de Flesselles. Also the men I saw yesterday: Elie, Hulin, the mayor, Bailly. We’ll need clothes for them. Trousers and cockades …”

“What about the shop?”

“For the Curiosity Shop we’ll go with miniature Bastilles. Do you think Curtius will have time for that? The entire model can be made from wax except the white handkerchief they used to surrender. That can be cotton. Or linen. Whatever’s cheapest.”

“And we can reopen the Salon on Saturday,” my mother says eagerly.

“Perhaps Yachin can help Curtius with the miniature Bastilles. If it’s calm, I’ll visit Rose. She’ll know what our models should be wearing.” Then we will find a tailor who can make them cheaper.

It’s a short walk to Le Grand Mogol, but I take the longer route so I can see the city. There’s a strange euphoria in the air, as if everyone believes that the destruction of the Bastille has set the country free. Houses have opened their shutters to the world, and those who can afford it have decorated their homes in blue, white, and red. Even the poor are wearing tricolor cockades, and they greet each other in the streets with “Good morning, Citizeness,” and “Welcome, Citizen.” Men are sporting trousers instead of culottes, even the wealthy who can afford knee breeches and stockings. And powdered wigs have almost completely vanished, as if every shop in Paris has suddenly stopped selling them.

I reach Rose Bertin’s shop and stand in front of the window. She’s showing a long chemise gown with a black and white cockade pinned to the white ribbon at its waist. My God, does she want to be driven out of business? Black is the queen’s color, the color of the Hapsburgs, and white is the color of the Bourbons! I open the door and step inside. A group of well-dressed women are at the counter purchasing similar black and white cockades. None of them are wearing powder in their hair. But their gowns are fine, and their gloves are of good leather. So this is how the nobility will show its discontent.

I wait until the crowd has cleared before saying, “An interesting window display.”

“That’s what my customers want,” Rose replies. She’s wearing a yellow gown with a black cockade on her breast. The queen would be proud.

“So does this mean you’re on the side of the nobility?”

“It means I’m on the side that pays the bills. And right now, aristocrats are the only ones with any money. But I’m not a fool.” She leads me into her workshop, where two dozen women are sitting at separate desks. Their heads bob up and down in greeting, but they don’t stop sewing. “Show Citizeness Grosholtz what you’re doing, Annette.”

A young woman holds up a white muslin cap edged with a beautiful tricolor ribbon. “A bonnet a la Nation,” she says.

We go on to the next desk, and Rose gestures for the second woman to show us what she’s doing.