Madame Tussaud

“A necklace.” The girl holds up a long golden chain. From the end of it dangles a smooth gray stone with the word Liberte written in diamonds.

“That’s a rock from the Bastille,” Rose explains. “So you see? I am ready for anything.”

We return to the shop, where the summery scents of sandalwood and jasmine fill the light space and she is still selling gloves a la mode de Provence. I pick up a pair and inhale. The leather has been perfumed with orange blossom. Three hundred sous. I place them back in the basket. “So what should our models be wearing?”

“That all depends. Which models are we talking about?”

“Madame du Barry.”

“I would take off the wig and show her natural hair.”

I groan. That will take forever. Perhaps we can find a long blond wig instead.

“Get rid of panniers,” she continues. “Wide dresses are finished.”

“They are?”

“Done.”

“But last week—”

“Was last week! The Bastille has fallen. And the king has visited the National Assembly without a single minister by his side to say that he’ll be withdrawing his soldiers. He arrived in the Hotel des Menus completely unannounced. And he went on foot.”

My God. It’s all but an abdication.

“Only his brothers were with him. Artois and Provence. The three of them stood in the National Assembly and agreed to call back the royal troops. They’re bringing the king to the Hotel de Ville to address the Assembly there. It isn’t by choice.”

“It’s the end of the Bourbons,” I say. My gaze falls on her black cockade.

But Rose isn’t disturbed. “So long as the queen has her family to call on, it’s never the end. Her brother is the Holy Roman Emperor.”

“So you think he’ll come to her aid?”

“He’s been fighting his own war with the Turks. But there’s talk of it in the palace. It’s all they have left to hope for,” she admits. “Until then, I would dress du Barry in a light chemise gown with a lace fichu. And your male models will want black felt hats with tricolor cockades.”

“I thought you were promoting the black and white cockade?”

“To my customers. Your customers are a different sort.” Rose Bertin would dress the Devil if there was money in it for her.

But then am I so different?

The rest of the morning is spent in modeling the faces of Elie and Hulin. This Revolution has cost us several thousand sous. Although I’ve heard that actors have it worse. They’re being told which performances they’re allowed to put on, and Pierre Beaumarchais’s play The Marriage of Figaro is the Assembly’s favorite. Up and down the Boulevard du Temple and at the Palais-Royal, this same comedy is playing. And when Figaro takes the stage and declares, “Nobility, wealth, rank, office—all of that makes you very proud! But what have you done to deserve these blessings?” the entire crowd cheers. Even the Opera Royal, which was nearly burned down, has been allowed to reopen so it can play Mozart’s operatic rendition of The Marriage of Figaro. I find it ironic that it was the queen’s brother Emperor Joseph II who commissioned the play to be turned into an opera.

At four in the afternoon, a carriage arrives outside. “Robespierre!” I hear my uncle exclaim.

The rest of Paris is discarding the fashions of the ancien regime, but Robespierre is dressed in blue silk culottes and a powdered wig. From his embroidered waistcoat to his striped nankeen jacket, he is the very picture of what newspapers are calling a muscadin, or scented fop. And because he stands only a little over five feet tall, some clever shoemaker has convinced him to add higher heels to shoes that already have platforms. He greets my uncle with a dignified nod. A smile is too casual for Assemblyman Robespierre. “Citizen Curtius,” he says with exaggerated politeness. “I hear you have performed this country a mighty service.”

I leave the wax bust of Hulin and stand next to my uncle, who says, “It was my pleasure to help in any way I could.”

“There will be recognition of your service,” Robespierre assures him. “The National Assembly is drawing up certificates for all nine hundred Vanquishers of the Bastille. We don’t want the citizens of France to forget the sacrifice you made, or the significance of that day. There are enemies lurking around every corner,” he says. “Men —even women—who wish to strangle these feats of liberty in their cradles and return this country to its recent days of tyranny.” He sounds like Camille, only paranoid. “I have just come from the Hotel de Ville,” he says, “where the king told the crowds that he is proud of what the National Assembly has accomplished. But when he returns tonight to his palace, what do you think he is going to do?”

“Write to his brother-in-law for help,” Curtius guesses.

“Exactly!” Robespierre pushes his glasses back with his thumb. “That’s exactly what I told the National Assembly. We are in danger.” His voice drops low. “So long as the king is wearing his crown, this country is only one army away from returning to despotism. Rousseau believed in equality. And there can never be equality so long as there are nobles.” He looks around, seeing the heads of de Launay and de Flesselles for the first time. “Is this for a new tableau?”

“The Conquest of the Bastille,” Curtius replies.

“I hear you’ve become quite popular.” He is obviously waiting for an invitation. He wants to see the model we’ve made of him. He wants to stand in front of our most popular tableau and enjoy the fact that he, a poor lawyer from Arras, is now a major speaker in the National Assembly.

“Would you like to look around?” my uncle offers. “There’s one tableau in particular I think you’ll enjoy.”

Robespierre lets us take him from room to room, and for each tableau he gives us his commentary. Jefferson’s Study? “Would be much improved if you removed the bust of Lafayette. Any man who commands other men to kill cannot be trusted.” Sleeping Beauty? “A disgrace to this nation! Madame du Barry,” he adds with disgust, though I notice his eyes rest on her chest, “should be sent from this country and never allowed to return.” The Grand Couvert. The Queen’s Chamber. Parisian Beauties. The Foreign Envoys. All of these have something Robespierre would change. It’s unbearable, really. How do the other assemblymen stand him?

“And now, our most popular room,” Curtius says, and I wonder if Robespierre will have improvements for this. We step into a re-creation of the National Assembly holding a meeting in the Hotel des Menus. There are models of the Duc d’Orleans, Mirabeau, and Danton, who took part in yesterday’s assault on the Bastille. And, of course, there is Robespierre.

Suddenly, our guest is silent. He crosses the room and stands in front of himself. What must it feel like to see your double in wax? He studies the wide feline face, the green spectacles, the short powdered wig. For a moment, I think he’s going to offer a critique. Then he turns and says, “I am honored.”

Curtius smiles at me, as if to say, There. He is not such a barbarian after all.

“To stand here,” Robespierre says, “and see my likeness among so many of the good and great …” He puts his hand over his heart. “It is almost more than I can take. In his Discourse, Rousseau wrote that the arts and sciences have never served mankind, born as they are of vanity and pride. But this …” He casts his gaze around the room, from the walls painted to look like public galleries to the bench where the Duc d’Orleans is seated. “This is inspiring. Work like this will remind the citizens of France what we are fighting for, what we are struggling to achieve. Congratulations, Curtius and Marie.” My uncle humors him with a little bow. “I am impressed.”

We return to the workshop and my uncle’s miniature Bastilles. “If you would like to take one with you back to Versailles,” he offers, “I can have it wrapped.”

“That would be very generous,” Robespierre says. “I see you are modeling Jacob Elie and Pierre-Augustin Hulin. Have you considered including the former Comte de Lorges?”

I look at Curtius to see if he’s heard of him, but his face is blank.

“There is no man in France who better symbolizes the cruelties of the Bastille,” Robespierre tells us. “He was thrown into prison on a lettre de cachet and remained there for thirty years. When they