Madame Tussaud

OCTOBER

10, 1789

The people of Paris, always criticizing, but always imitating the customs of the court.

—MADAME CAMPAN,

FIRST LADY-IN-WAITING TO MARIE ANTOINETTE

ON THURSDAY, WHEN I RETURN TO MONTREUIL, I FEEL guilty for my joy. Madame Elisabeth makes no mention of my presence before the National Assembly, but I see what she has gathered on her workshop table and I am sorry. The Assembly has passed a law granting the freedom of the press, and since then, the papers have been filled with the vilest things. Images of the queen lifting her chemise before the Princesse de Lamballe, cartoons mocking her as a ferocious beast with a human face ready to devour its prey, and descriptions of her love affairs with men whom prostitutes would be ashamed to sleep with. In a pamphlet called The Royal Dildo, the queen is shown with the Princesse de Lamballe engaging in the most humiliating acts, and other papers show her engaging in orgies, masturbation, even bestiality. I hope it isn’t a libelle that Madame Elisabeth has managed to procure.

She passes me one of the papers. There is an image of the eleven women from Monday night presenting their jewels before the National Assembly. They are dressed in the flowing white chemise gowns for which the queen is criticized so bitterly, yet the caption beneath the image reads, “The virtuous maidens of France.”

“When the queen wears such a gown, she’s a wicked adulteress. When any other woman wears it, she’s an honorable maiden. Why do they do this? Why do they hate her so much?”

I take a steadying breath. “Because they are focusing all of their resentments and frustrations on her.”

“Look at the other articles,” Madame Elisabeth whispers. She can barely bring herself to say, “The one they’ve titled L’Autruche Chienne.”

It means “The Ostrich Bitch” and is close enough to L’Autrichienne, or The Austrian, for people to believe it’s clever and amusing. Even the Duc likes to use this offensive pun. Whoever wrote this wants to see the queen disgraced. Like those who attributed lies to Foulon, they credit her with telling the people of France to eat cake if they can’t find any bread, and the accompanying pictures are equally offensive. “I wouldn’t look at these, Madame. No good can come of it.”

“The king has called up the Flanders Regiment for extra protection. When they arrive next month, there’s to be a great banquet. Of course, none of my family shall be attending. Any common soldier can go, but imagine the scandal if we should attend a feast in our own palace? We’re prisoners here. No one believes it, Marie, but that’s what we are.”

OF THE MANY buildings in Versailles, the Chateau Opera must be the most beautiful. Tonight, the halls echo with the sharp clicks of women’s shoes and the polished heels of smartly dressed soldiers. It’s the king’s desire that the men in the Royal Flanders Regiment be properly introduced to the Swiss Guard. While welcome banquets like this are usual, there has never been one in the Chateau Opera. There’s to be food and drinks, even an orchestra playing Gretry’s Richard Coeur-de-lion, but no appearance by the royal family. I am here because Madame Elisabeth gave me permission to celebrate with my brothers. It is an honor a better person would have refused.

“I find it hard to believe there can be a celebration like this without the king. These are his soldiers. They’re here on his behalf,” I say to Wolfgang.

My brother takes my arm and guides me to the stairs. “Perhaps there will be a little surprise, then.”

I gasp. “They’re coming?”

Wolfgang winks. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Tell me,” I beg him. We climb the stairs, and I’m thankful to have chosen a gown with a bustle that is trimmed and pleated at the back. Anyone climbing stairs should be wearing a polonaise gown.

“It’s supposed to be a surprise. The king and the queen will be here with their children,” he reveals. “But not the entire time.”

I look down at the handsome men as they arrive, and at the women in their glittering array of dresses, and think, The queen will be happy to see this. “So where is Abrielle?”

“Down there.” He points to the stage, where long wooden tables have been set up for the soldiers. The china sparkles in the candlelight, and the men are taking their seats. Each of the king’s bodyguards has been seated next to a soldier from the Royal Flanders Regiment. Sitting beside the commander of the Swiss Guards is a milk-and- honey beauty like Madame du Barry, with thick blond hair and porcelain skin. But she is smaller than du Barry. So petite, in fact, that she might be mistaken for a little girl.

Something her father said has made her laugh, and I catch the sound all the way up here. She is dressed in a russet gown trimmed with pearls, and there are pearls around her neck at least three strands thick. Her father’s little girl, I think. He will not give her away so easily.

“She’s very beautiful,” I say. “Exactly the kind of girl I imagined you with.”

“Really?” My brother searches my face.

“Yes.”

“I laugh more with her than I have with anyone,” he admits.

“Have you spoken with the baron?”

“What is there to say? I have no money. No means of getting any money. The Swiss Guard is my life, and what advancement is there in this?”

I look down at the Baron de Besenval. Edmund is sitting next to him, serious and sober. Although everyone at the table is laughing, his eyes are searching the hall, as if he’s preparing himself for trouble. The glass in front of him is clear, which means he’s drinking water. But the baron is intent on enjoying himself, and he raises a glass of wine for a toast. He has a cheerful face and an easy smile. “He might take pity,” I say. “What sort of man is he?”

“The sort that will want the best for his daughter. If we’re honest, we both know there’s no way I can provide it.”

“That all depends on what best means. Thick strands of pearls, or happiness and love?” We go to the theater box where I’ll be dining, and my brother looks down at the golden figure of Abrielle. I shouldn’t have mentioned the baron. This is supposed to be a happy night for him. “Go and enjoy yourself,” I say. “Just don’t drink too much.”

“I cut my wine with water now.”

I raise my brows. “Sacrifices like these can’t go unnoticed. Not if there’s truly a God in heaven.”

He laughs. “I’ll come back up when dinner’s over.”

“Do you know whom I’m sitting with?” The box is set for two.

“Someone you know,” he says mysteriously.

I take my seat, and when Wolfgang disappears, a familiar figure takes his place.

“Marie Grosholtz.” Rose smiles. She is dressed in a gown of violet silk de chine with painted bouquets of lilacs across the petticoat. Small purple gems decorate her bodice, and I wonder if they’re crystal or real amethysts. “It seems the court doesn’t know what to do with either of us, and so we meet again.” She arranges herself on the velvet seat. “I saw all three of your brothers. Quite a handsome trio.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not really. But Wolfgang …” She snaps her fan closed and reaches for the wine. “Now there is a handsome man. I suppose that he’s taken?”

My God. She’s forty-two years old. Does she really invite such young men to her bed? “Yes,” I say at once. “Very much taken.”

“What a shame. Although, if I had to guess, she is someone who is quite out of his reach.”

I stare at her. How does she know this?

“He was making eyes at the Baron de Besenval’s daughter, and I very much doubt she’s resisted his