Madame Tussaud

“They were singing when they brought the king to Paris. I heard they surrounded his coach and were shouting that they’d brought the baker, the baker’s wife, and the baker’s son. My father says the revolutionaries had barrels of flour and soldiers had bread loaves on pikes. Is that true? Is there really so much bread in Versailles? Will the bakeries be filled now?”

“That’s a lot of nonsense,” Henri replies. “The king had enough to feed the ten thousand people who lived in Versailles, and that’s it. That flour won’t feed an entire city. It won’t even last the week.”

Yachin looks disappointed.

“Why don’t you help my mother?” I say. “I think she might have a few cakes.”

Yachin is gone before I can tell him to be careful on the stairs. Henri shuts the door behind him. “Cakes is the magic word.”

“We feed him whenever he comes. And my mother gives him food to take home.”

“That’s very kind of her.” Henri encircles my waist with his arms. “That must be where you get it from.”

“Kindness?” I laugh.

“You wouldn’t be upset about the royal tableaux if you weren’t concerned about the real people.”

“Perhaps I’m upset that I’ll have to find new models for those rooms,” I offer.

“I don’t believe that for a second. I can see through that hard mask of yours, you know.”

“Really?” I ask teasingly. “And what do you see?”

“A woman who wants to make sure that the door is locked …”

I giggle. I’ve discovered that there are ways to give and receive pleasure without risking pregnancy. They are a coquine’s ways, but that doesn’t bother me. I lock the door and blow out the lamps.

Chapter 34

OCTOBER

7, 1789

We have left the cradle of our childhood—what am I saying? Left! We were torn from it.

—MEMOIRS OF MADAME ELISABETH

WHEN I LOOK UP FROM THE CAISSIER’S DESK, THE FIRST thing I notice is her tricolor cockade. Rose has never come to the Salon without a reason. She hands me an envelope without speaking, and while I read the letter, she looks around.

You will have heard something by now of what has befallen my family. I do not need to tell you how devastated I am to have left behind my beloved Montreuil and the palace that has been my home since birth. Upon our flight to Paris, we took nothing with us. The queen’s milliner, Rose, and her hairdresser, Leonard, have been like guardian angels, offering to retrieve our most important things from Versailles, where our lives, our possessions, even our history, have all been left behind. I understand that it is a great imposition—and I hope you know that I would never ask except under the most dire of circumstances—but I was wondering if you might go with Leonard and Rose to salvage whatever is left in Montreuil. I’m afraid my circumstances will not allow me to return to the home that has given me such joy. If you think you might be able to honor this request, please find enclosed a small list of items that are beloved by me and that I am loath to live without.

The letter is signed by Madame Elisabeth. I look at the enclosed list, expecting to find precious jewelry and gowns, but instead there are more personal items: books and portraits, papers and mementos, even her wax figure of Christ.

“Will you come?” Rose asks quietly.

With so many things to do? There are three empty rooms that need to be filled, seven new models to be made, and who knows how many signs for the new tableaux. “When are you going?”

“Now. Lafayette is outside with guardsmen. Leonard is in the coach with empty baskets and chests. We’re to find whatever is on these lists and keep the items in our homes until further notice.” She raises her brows. “I had no idea you were so well regarded in Montreuil.”

I fold the letter and put it back in its envelope. “Neither did I.”

I go upstairs to find my mother and tell her what’s happening. She will need to mind the caissier’s desk with Yachin. Outside, Lafayette lifts his hat to me, and when he calls me by my first name, I know that Rose is impressed.

“A pleasure to see you, Marie,” he says. “I didn’t know you were on such close terms with the princesse.” There’s no accusation in his voice. After all, we are in similar positions. While we both believe that France is in need of its monarchs—that too much freedom, too fast, would be dangerous—our jobs are to serve the people.

“I was her wax-modeling tutor. But as you know from my uncle’s service,” I add cautiously, “there are no better patriots.”

“I have no doubt.” He helps me into the carriage, then holds out a gloved hand for Rose.

“Thank you,” she breathes, and her fingers remain on his hand longer than they need to. She is fooling herself if she thinks she’ll make a friend of Lafayette. There’s nothing he despises more than the vanity of the ancien regime, and with her powdered hair and wide silk dress, she is the opposite of Madame de Lafayette in every way. She seats herself next to a young man who has been watching me closely. When the door is shut and the horses pull away, he introduces himself as Leonard.

“Her Majesty’s hairdresser,” I reply. He’s a handsome man, with a shock of dark hair and exceptional skin. His culottes are the best quality silk, and the diamond buckles on his shoes are larger than any I’ve seen the king wear. He is obviously well loved by the queen, who has never cared what station of life people come from if they have talent.

“And you are the wax modeler,” he says. “I thought you’d be different. I imagined you older. Uglier,” he admits. Rose gives him a sharp look. “What? She’s quite pretty. Most tutors in the palace are ancient,” he confides. “The music tutor would make Methuselah look spritely.”

I don’t know what to say, so I keep my silence. Methuselah lived to see his nine hundred and sixty-ninth birthday.

“You are not a woman of many words,” Leonard decides.

“She’s a woman of plentiful words and firm opinions,” Rose says. I’ve never seen her so dejected. She had always imagined that the royal family would triumph. Now they are all but held captive in the Tuileries Palace.

“Then what do you think of this?” Leonard asks. “Of all the people in Versailles, we’re the ones they’re trusting to retrieve their possessions. A dressmaker, a hairdresser, and a sculptress. And none of us nobility.”

“It’s a sign of desperation,” I say. “They don’t know whom to trust. And if France can carry on without Versailles,” I add, “who’s to say there will ever be a court again?” It’s a heavy thought, and the three of us ride the rest of the way in silence.

When we reach Versailles, I hear Lafayette giving instructions to the National Guardsmen on patrol. They’re to unlock the doors of the king’s palace, then follow us to Montreuil, where I will collect Madame Elisabeth’s belongings. Suddenly, I’m nervous. Rose opens her fan and snaps it shut again. None of us want to be in a palace empty of everything but memories.

The carriages roll up the Avenue de Paris, and when they pass through the main gate, with its golden coat of arms depicting the crown and the horn of plenty, both Leonard and Rose inhale.

“Only princes of the blood pass through this gate,” Leonard whispers. “Even the nobility are forbidden.”

But the carriages stop in the royal courtyard. The three of us sit motionless; then our coach door is opened and we are instructed to get out. I am conscious of the feeling that, with every step, we are trampling on tradition. Only those with the Honors of the Louvre have walked across these stones. From the time of Louis XIV, everyone else has driven into the court of the ministers, where you can hire a sedan chair to take you to the palace if you’re unfit to walk.

“This isn’t right,” Rose says quietly.

We wait while a guardsman unlocks the door to the palace. I have never seen such a massive building