“Yes. From the Palais-Royal.”
“But how—”
It has clearly been a long time since Rose has had to do her own shopping. If she had been in the Palais- Royal in the past several months, she would have seen the men with their pliers in the streets. “No one can afford a dentist with a shop,” I tell her. “Anyone in pain goes to a street dentist. It’s fifteen sous for every extraction.” Or ten, if you allow him to keep the tooth. “Then he sells the teeth to us.”
Now, Rose’s skin truly is pale. “I had no idea,” she whispers, but I notice that none of her women look surprised. They shop for their own goods, just as I do, and they have seen these men in their bloodied aprons. “It is the same with the hair,” I continue. “We can use a wig, or we can insert human hairs into the scalp one at a time. But for you, it will be a wig. We’ll want to be sure we get your
“And the eyes?” I can see that she is afraid I will tell her that these, too, will be real.
“Those will be glass. The body,” I add before she can ask, “will be fashioned by my uncle, using the clothes you have so kindly donated.”
“And how long will all of this take?”
“Several weeks.”
“But Her Majesty will be here by then! How will I know if I approve?”
“Do you like what you see in the mirror?”
She glances above my head, where the reflection of a heavy woman in pearls looks back at her. “It is acceptable.”
“Then the model will be acceptable as well.”
JANUARY
30, 1789
—MARIE ANTOINETTE TO AUSTRIAN AMBASSADOR
COMTE DE MERCY D’ARGENTEAU
THERE ARE A HUNDRED THINGS STILL TO DO IN THE SALON DE Cire before Their Majesties arrive in just a few hours. We must remove the figure of Benjamin Franklin and replace it with one of Necker, the king’s Minister of Finance. And the recumbent model of Madame du Barry, the beautiful mistress of King Louis XV, must be hidden away. When Marie Antoinette first arrived in France, it was no great secret that she and her father-in-law’s mistress had not become friends. No Hapsburg princesse could legitimize a woman of unguarded morals. If du Barry had possessed any sense, she would have seen that she was the mistress of the past while Antoinette was the princesse of the future. When Louis died, Antoinette had du Barry banished. It certainly will not do to remind the queen of her rival for her father-in-law’s affections. So I hire two young boys from the street to help me carry the model into the workshop.
They look, mesmerized, at the sleeping figure of du Barry on her blue and white couch. Her back is arched and one arm is raised, suggesting complete and utter abandonment—either to sleep or to pleasure. Her golden curls tumble loosely over her pink taffeta gown, and her long neck is exposed to the viewer.
“From here to the workshop.” I point to a closed door across the exhibition. “I’ll give you five sous each.” With a loaf of bread at fifteen sous and daily wages for the average worker at twenty, it’s a fair price for a moment’s work.
The boys position themselves on either side of the couch and lift the sleeping woman. I walk in front of them, guiding them past the various tableaux, then open the wooden door to the workshop and inhale the familiar scents of oil paints and clay. As they enter, their eyes go wide. It is a wonderland of gadgets and artistry. Like in the secret rooms behind the curtain of a theater, there is everything that a person might need to re-create himself. Dresses and hats, walking sticks and gloves, chairs, couches, tables, lamps, and the half-finished heads of a dozen figures. Tools and supplies are strewn across the floor where Curtius and I left them last night: calipers, chisels, bags of clay, even sacks of horsehair. I can see the boys wish to stay and explore, but I pay them ten sous, and as soon as they are gone, I cover the figure of du Barry with a sheet. I surround it with heavy bags of plaster so there is no chance that anyone will ask to see what’s beneath. But as I am dragging the last bag across the room, it tears, and the plaster trails along the floor.
When my mother sees the mess, she exclaims in her native German,
“I will clean it up,” I promise.
“But they will be here at any moment!” she cries.
My mother goes into a frenzy of cleaning, tossing the tools into various baskets without any concern for where they belong. At this late hour, it doesn’t matter, and I follow behind her, sweeping the plaster from the floor.
“Where is Curtius?” she demands. “Tell him to come in here and help us!”
“He can’t,” I reply in German. “He’s giving instructions to Yachin.”
Our barker, a young Jewish boy from Austria, is standing outside with the sign I painted for him this morning. It reads, THE SALON DE CIRE WILL BE CLOSED TODAY IN HONOR OF THEIR MAJESTIES’ ARRIVAL. I have instructed him to shout it at every passerby. The boy has thought on his own to start telling the crowd that the tickets will be only twelve sous for those who wish to walk in Her Majesty’s footsteps. Of course, the tickets are always twelve sous.
“We must get dressed,” my mother says suddenly.
“But the king. Shouldn’t we add—”
“It’s too late! Do you want the queen to see you like this?”
I laugh, since it is completely unthinkable that anyone should be presented to the queen in an apron. We have spent three days searching among the shops in the Place de Greve for proper attire. It is everything that we get this right. Our Salon may deceive the eye—stucco for marble and gilt instead of gold—but there is no disguising dress. We must look as well turned out as the queen’s ladies, even if it costs us a fortune.
In my mother’s room, I change into a tight-waisted dress. Curtius has bought me a silk fichu for the occasion. It is trimmed in lace, and as I pin it to my bodice, I stand in front of the mirror and admire its effect across my shoulders. While most of Paris is without firewood or bread, our museum takes in three hundred sous a day. It’s enough to ensure that there is always meat on our table and luxuries such as this.
“What do you think?” my mother asks. She has put on the most expensive gown she has ever owned. Although she has already passed fifty, she giggles like a girl. “Am I silly?”
“No.” And I am being honest. “You are beautiful.” The gown is embroidered with tiny pearls, and the bodice has been sewn with gems. It has cost my uncle nearly two hundred livres, and now I can see how du Barry could spend two thousand on a lavish court gown. “Just look at you.” I turn my mother toward the mirror. The dress makes her positively youthful. “You could be forty,” I tell her.
She laughs out loud. “Maybe forty-nine.” She smiles at me in the mirror, then reaches out to take my hand. “I am so lucky in my children,” she whispers. “Three sons in the Swiss Guard, and a beautiful daughter with her own occupation. You will never have to marry for money. You will never have to depend on anyone but yourself.” This is important to my mother, whose marriage was for convenience, not love. She raises her eyes to an image of Christ above her bed. “All of Curtius’s hopes are in you,” she says. “You have made this happen today.”
“We have all made it happen. The Salon could not continue without everyone’s hard work.” It takes enormous skill to coordinate and run an exhibition. I cannot imagine how Curtius ever did it alone. I have seen his record books from before I was born, and they are appalling. Tickets sold for reduced prices to friends, free tickets to various members of the nobility. It is a wonder he made any money at all. We argued last night about whether we should charge the royal family an entrance fee. He wanted to let them in free, as if the new gowns for the models had all come cheap, and I wanted to charge a fee. But my mother insisted that we be gracious subjects, and grace means allowing the royal family inside without a price. I squeeze her hand in mine.
