Madame Tussaud

I almost replied, And that republic died when Julius Caesar made himself emperor. When people are desperate, their republics don’t last. They vote themselves a king. But instead my mother said, “We will see you in Versailles.”

Now I look into Marat’s eager face and want to ask if this performance will bring back Foulon and Madame Berthier. Will it put bread in the bakeries? Flour in the mills?

“Yes, we are going,” my mother says. “We would never miss such a patriotic gathering.”

Even my mother has learned the right words.

“YOU HAVE BECOME hard,” my mother says as we are dressing. “God has a plan.” She turns from the mirror to look at me. “Do you question it?”

I think of Madame Elisabeth with her one hundred saints. Certainly, she doesn’t question God’s plan.

“When God wishes me to be with His angels,” she says, “He will summon me as well. And you. And Curtius. We are all going to die. It’s what you do before that call that makes the difference.”

“And do you think God would be pleased with what we’re doing tonight?”

My mother makes a dismissive noise. “God cares for people, not kingdoms. So we are sitting in the audience of the National Assembly. Do you think He cares about such petty things? You have a talent, Marie. A talent given to you by God—”

“And Curtius.”

“But first God. Look at how you have served Him with it. A hundred saints. A hundred!”

“We have only completed three.”

She gives me a long look. “There is no shame in what we do.”

We meet Henri and Curtius in the carriage downstairs, and as the coach drives away, I sit back and look at them in the sunset. They’re exquisite, really. In silk culottes and large tricolor cockades, they might belong to the halls of Versailles or the chambers of the National Assembly. Henri has decorated his walking stick with red ribbon—a color the women are now crassly calling sang de Foulon, or Foulon’s blood—and the buckles on his shoes gleam in the low light.

“That gown suits you well,” he compliments me.

I look down at my white dress and pearl necklace. “Gifts from Curtius,” I say.

“Well, your uncle has very fine taste.” He smiles at my mother, who blushes.

“So when do you become part of our family?” my mother asks.

Everyone looks to me. She’s done this on purpose, I think, because there’s no escaping from a moving carriage and I will have to answer. “We would like to wait for Curtius to leave the National Guard,” I reply.

“You are twenty-eight,” my mother says archly. “And who knows when he may leave the Guard?”

“It won’t be long,” Curtius promises. He pats my mother’s knee. “This is the price you pay for having a talented daughter.”

She wants grandchildren, I know. It’s not enough that Johann has Paschal. They are too many hours away. But still, I feel irritation at her intrusion.

We arrive behind a small delegation of women carrying chests weighted with gold and purses filled with jewels. A buzz of excitement fills the hall of the National Assembly. As directed, the women are dressed entirely in white, and the men have come with shoe buckles that read, LONG LIVE THE NATION and LIBERTY. Because we’ve painted this hall inside the Salon, it has become as familiar to me as the Palais-Royal. The president’s podium, the bright chandeliers, the heavy tapestries. But in truth, it’s been four months since I was here with Rose.

I search among the women for her distinctive figure, but she hasn’t come. Not surprising, really. While she’s made concessions to the Third Estate and its Revolution, she is betting that the queen will triumph. My uncle, however, has brought a purse filled with five hundred livres. Even Henri has come with a bribe. Of course, none of us are calling it that. Instead, we are to call it a charitable donation. We are taken to the front of the hall, where the families of other artists are seated on long benches. Curtius recognizes Jacques-Louis David and makes a point of sitting with him.

“Old friends?” Henri asks.

“David was made a member of the Academie Royale eight years ago,” I whisper. “He has a great deal of influence.”

“I thought the Academie would be made up of royalists,” Henri says, surprised.

“Even the world of art is changing.”

“Is this bench available, Citizeness?”

It is Lafayette. He is dressed as Commander in Chief of the National Guard, with white gloves and a dark blue coat. He has brought his wife and children with him. “Adrienne, I would like you to meet the sculptress Marie Grosholtz, and the scientist Henri Charles. On the other side of Henri are Marie’s mother and the artist Philippe Curtius.”

“The wax modeler?” Adrienne is clearly impressed.

“Yes. But it was Marie who sculpted my model.”

“I would like to see your Salon someday,” she says to me.

“You are welcome at any time.”

“This is my son, George Washington,” Lafayette continues, “and my daughters, Anastasie and Virginie.”

All three children have the same red hair as their father. They greet us politely, even the youngest, who cannot be more than six or seven. What a beautiful family. And two of them have been named for Lafayette’s time in America. I remember the story of Lafayette’s youth, how he left his wife while she was pregnant with their second child to help the Americans fight against the British. And now he’s Commander in Chief of the National Guard, with the dual responsibility of keeping the peace in France and keeping the royal family safe.

Lafayette takes his seat next to me, and we listen as the Assembly’s president calls forth the eleven women who have come with their jewels. It is a carefully orchestrated masque and will be reported in every paper tomorrow as reminiscent of Rome’s glorious republic, a time when women eschewed fashion for simplicity and jewels for honor.

Madame David leads the way to the wooden podium, then tells the Assembly that she has come to offer the trappings of her previous life to a country in desperate need. “We no longer wish to own adornments,” she proclaims, “that are reminders of a time when citizens were slaves to the monarchy and to fashion. Let virtue be our crowning jewel,” she declares, “and liberty our most glorious ornament.”

The hall erupts into cheers. Each woman in turn presents her jewels. Then deputies from all across the hall are rushing toward the podium to offer their diamond buckles and silver walking sticks. Curtius and Henri make a great show of handing over their purses, and with each person who approaches the podium, there is a new surge of cheering and applause. Women who have come simply to watch the proceedings find themselves caught up in the moment and are offering their rings, bracelets, lockets.

I turn to Lafayette. “You must be very proud.”

“The path to a constitutional monarchy is never easy, but we are fortunate to be on this journey with many courageous citizens.”

“I didn’t realize you were in favor of a constitutional monarchy,” I say. When I sketched him in Jefferson’s study, Lafayette had wanted to be rid of the king altogether.

“I have come to see things differently,” he admits. “There is tradition here. A court that goes back to the Treaty of Verdun. Are we going to throw it all away and risk anarchy?” He is thinking of Foulon. He couldn’t stop his own men from committing murder. “The Americans never had a king on their soil. They’d been ruling themselves for several hundred years. Jefferson is right. Our nation is different.”

For the first time in months, I am filled with optimism. Like Lafayette, I have never seen the purpose of trampling on so many hundreds of years of tradition. But perhaps there can be a compromise. Something that could benefit both Madame Elisabeth and Camille, the Second Estate and the Third.

Chapter 32