I’m in the presence of genius, yet the world is more concerned about tricolor cockades. Henri takes me to his desk, where his notes on the weather are carefully laid out. “With enough balloons, we could observe the weather from here to London and make predictions.”
“As in when it’s going to rain?”
“Or snow or hail …”
“But how?”
“By sending up a mercury barometer,” he says, “or by having someone record the movements of the wind and clouds. And imagine what you could do with a telescope! Think of how close an astronomer could get to the stars. My brother ascended nearly fifteen thousand feet. With the proper gear, perhaps you could go higher. There are scientific uses, commercial uses, even
We watch each other in the bright morning light. There is so much to hope for between us. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. “Come tonight,” I say. “My mother is cooking ham from Bayonne.”
THE REOPENING OF the Salon passes by in a haze. Curtius has excused himself from his duties in the National Guard this weekend, and in front of a crowd of nearly a thousand people, he makes a great show of taking our wax model of the king and placing him outside, then pinning a tricolor cockade to his hat. They must hear the exclamations of joy in the Palais-Royal.
“What’s the matter?” my mother asks. “That’s the second person you’ve forgotten to record.”
I look down at the record book and suppress a smile. It’s true. Already, Henri is detrimental to my profession. I write down, “Female, seventeen sous,” then listen to the exclamations of horror as the woman comes face-to-face with de Launay and de Flesselles. But the most popular model is the one of the decrepit Comte de Lorges. Curtius has given him his very own room, painting the walls to look like a dungeon and cluttering the nearby tables with mementos taken from the Bastille. Knowing how valuable these items will become, he’s purchased inkwells and armor, green curtains, and even a set of iron firedogs. A pair of men stop by my table and point to the Comte de Lorges’s tableau. “So is that who you would have us believe came tottering out of the Bastille?” the younger man demands.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“That’s the beggar from Notre-Dame,” the older man says. “I should know. I pass him every day.”
“No. That’s the Comte de Lorges. He was a prisoner.”
The old man exchanges a look with his son.
“Did he have a mark on his cheek?” the younger man asks. “And a red spot beneath his eye?”
I think back three days ago to the night the Comte de Lorges allowed me to sculpt him. “Yes.”
“Then he’s the beggar from Notre-Dame.”
“But the Comte de Lorges—”
“Is probably a myth, Mademoiselle. Why? Did someone pass that man off as a comte?”
“Yes.” I think of Robespierre. “But all the newspapers … they’re printing his story.”
“Well, you know how it is,” the older man says angrily. “Anything for a sale.”
I am beside myself with rage. I want to take the model of de Lorges and utterly destroy it. I find Curtius outside with the wax model of the king, and I tell him the story.
“And they were
I nod. “What do we do?”
“Obviously, we have to keep him. These people believe he existed, and they’ll want to know what happened to him if he suddenly disappears.”
“Well, perhaps he had a tragic accident,” I say angrily in German. And then it occurs to me. “Do you think Robespierre lied to us on purpose?”
“I think Robespierre believes what he wishes to believe.”
JULY
22, 1789
—ANONYMOUS THREAT TO MARIE ANTOINETTE
IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN. JUST AS HENRI PREDICTED, JUST AS I have dreamed over and over again in my nightmares. Camille comes running into the Salon, pushing past patrons so he can make his way to the
“They’re coming from the Hotel de Ville,” she says swiftly. “They are making their way to the Boulevard to find Mesdames Foulon and Berthier.”
Immediately, the people in line begin to talk. Where is the mob? Are they in danger? Should they leave?
“It is nothing to worry about,” Curtius announces. “No reason to abandon your entertainment.” To Yachin, he says, “Mind the
The rest of us follow him into the workshop. He closes the door, and Camille explains.
It began with a rumor that Joseph-Francois Foulon, the king’s new Minister of Finance, told the starving people of France to eat hay. “And you believe that?” my uncle questions, but Camille shrugs. Either way, he says, the people believed it. And as soon as Foulon heard the rumor, he understood the danger he was in and escaped to the country. But a thousand citizens marched into the village where Foulon was hiding and dragged him back to Paris. The eighty-year-old man was hitched to a cart and told to pull the wagon to the Hotel de Ville. Someone tied a bale of hay onto his back and crowned his head and neck with thistles. “How do you like hay now?” they shouted.
Tears are rolling down my mother’s cheeks, and she wipes them away with the back of her hand. Foulon lives only a few blocks away, in the house his father built. As the king’s Finance Minister, he might have bought a chateau. But he has never forgotten his roots on the Boulevard, and there has never been a kindlier, more considerate man. When my mother was sick with fever seven years ago, he found the court doctor, and within a week she was better. Without the care of that good physician, who knows?
“When Foulon finally reached the Hotel de Ville,” Camille says, “the mob hung him from a lamppost.”
My mother cries out. She can’t hear any more of this.
“Go,” Curtius says gently. “Sit with Yachin.”
We watch her leave, and Camille continues, “When he was dead, the mobs decapitated him. Then they went for his son-in-law, Berthier de Sauvigny. They wanted him because he’s the Intendant of Paris.” That’s right. An administrator for the king. “So they marched to Compiegne and dragged him from his bed. They made him kiss Foulon’s severed head, then dragged him through the streets and beat him as he went. When he could no longer stand, they hung him from the nearest lamppost as well.”
I look at Curtius, whose jaw is clenched. “What about the National Guard?” he demands.
“Members of the National Guard were there.”
“They were part of it?” he exclaims. This is anarchy. When the men who are supposed to protect French citizens are killing them instead, how can there be peace?
“Yes,” Camille confirms. “And now they are bringing Berthier’s head to his wife.”
“No!” Curtius shouts, and Camille steps backward.
“It’s already done,” Lucile says nervously. “They were on their way while we were running to you.”
“So why did you come? Why didn’t you go for Lafayette, or a closer captain of the National Guard?”
“Because now they’re coming here,” Lucile replies, “and they want a wax model.”
I am going to faint.
“I won’t do it,” I swear. “They can’t make me do it!”
“I will do it,” Curtius says calmly.
