Madame Tussaud

brows shot up on their foreheads, but Lafayette explained who I was and what purpose this would serve. Yet it’s not the wax tools that she reaches for. It’s the mask I kept as a memento from her birthday, when she guessed who I was in my red gown and simple ribbon. She holds it up to the light—a reminder of better, happier times—and now the tears come fresh.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry, Madame. It’s supposed to be a reminder,” I say. “Things may change. You may see me in a tricolor cockade, or you may have had to leave Montreuil for Paris, but that doesn’t alter who we are. This”—I look around the room, which may not be Montreuil but is still very beautiful—“it’s only a mask.”

She puts down the basket and takes my hand. “God has blessed me with your friendship,” she whispers. She tells me how the queen has been forced to wear tricolor dresses made by Madame Eloffe. “If we go outside in the gardens, the people shout insults. So we stay inside and entertain ourselves with music and needlework. But God works in mysterious ways. I have never seen Marie-Therese so happy. It’s only been two days, but there’s already a change.”

It’s hard for me to imagine Madame Royale wearing anything but a scowl, but perhaps now that her mother is a prisoner, there is nothing else for the queen to do but lavish attention on her children. Perhaps this is what an eleven-year-old child needs. “And the court?” I ask.

“Some friends have abandoned us.” Madame Elisabeth twists the ends of her fichu in her hands. “I suppose that’s to be expected. But the Princesse de Lamballe will remain as Superintendent of the Household. And my brother, the Comte de Provence, has been dining with us every night.”

“The one who suggested you remain in Versailles?”

Madame Elisabeth hears the criticism in my voice. “He could never have imagined this …”

“And you will stay in the Tuileries?”

“Until my brother decides otherwise.” She lowers her voice. “He still calls the French his good little people,” she confides, and I can see how this distresses her. “He doesn’t see that we’re at the beck and call of the National Assembly. These rooms, these furnishings, they could be taken away tomorrow. The queen’s dear friend Axel von Fersen has been very good to us. He’s sold his house in order to buy something closer to the Tuileries, and if anyone can, it will be Fersen who convinces the king to plan our escape.”

“His Majesty trusts him that much?”

“The three of them are very close,” she replies. “But my brother … he has a difficult time making decisions.… I know it’s a great deal to ask, Marie, but perhaps we can work together on Fridays? There isn’t a workshop yet. But I can have one set up. And I can still pay you. They haven’t taken away our inheritance.” She adds in a whisper, “Yet.”

Chapter 35

OCTOBER

20, 1789

In the arts the way in which an idea is rendered, and the manner in which it is expressed, is much more important than the idea itself.

—JACQUES-LOUIS DAVID

NOW THAT THE ROYAL FAMILY IS IN PARIS, THE NATIONAL Assembly has moved from the Hotel des Menus in Versailles to the archbishop’s palace on the Ile Saint-Louis. Hundreds of deputies have flooded the city looking for residences close to the Seine, and only Robespierre has chosen some dingy third-floor apartment in the Rue de Saintonge.

“He’s had eighteen livres a day since he was made deputy,” I say. “I should think he could afford a place on the first floor.”

“That’s Robespierre. He’ll live on soup and water if it means saving two sous,” my uncle says. He hands me a coat for the new figure of Lafayette. The National Guard and Great Patriots of France are now complete. All that remains to be done are the figures for The Jacobin Club. “It will be a busy salon tonight. If Robespierre is here, everyone will want to come and hear the news.”

He’s right. That evening, friends arrive whom we haven’t seen in months. Even the artist Jacques-Louis David makes an appearance so that he can bask in Robespierre’s presence. His wife, Marguerite, is dressed in a red bonnet that does nothing for her complexion and a white chemise gown that billows around her legs like a loose curtain. “Marie!” she exclaims and embraces me as if we’re the closest of friends. “Did you know that the National Assembly was talking about what we did for weeks? We could be as famous as Rousseau someday. Did you see the articles in the newspaper?”

“No,” I lie. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

She opens her purse and takes out a clipping. “There we are,” she says eagerly. “Well, not you. But that one there”—she points to a picture of a beautiful woman in Roman dress—“that’s supposed to be me.”

I raise my brows. “How can you tell?”

“Well, obviously … It looks like me.” She puts the clipping away, then takes a seat between her husband and Lucile. Good. Let them listen to her chatter.

“Robespierre!” A tremendous shout echoes in the salon the moment he arrives. He’s come dressed in a striped nankeen coat of olive green, a matching waistcoat, and a yellow cravat. He must be the last person in Paris still wearing a wig. Camille bounds from his chair and puts his arm around his former schoolmate.

“The voice of the Revolution!” Camille declares. “Three cheers for Robespierre!” Camille steers him to the place of honor at our table, and we listen, riveted, while Robespierre recounts his battles in the National Assembly. And there are many battles to be waged. Who are the true citizens of France? Can they be Austrians who’ve lived here for twenty years? What about Germans? Or better yet, Jews? And who will be given the right to vote?

“I warned the Assembly,” Robespierre says, “that equality is to liberty as the sun is to life. But will they listen? No. They have given the right to vote to active citizens”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“and that is it.”

“So women are to be excluded?” Lucile exclaims.

“As well as any male citizen who doesn’t pay enough taxes under the new laws. An annual sum equal to three days of labor.”

“But that must be half the male population!” Camille shouts angrily.

“Tell that to the Assembly.”

“And the National Guard?” Camille demands. “Have they changed the qualifications?”

“Why do the qualifications need to be changed?” Curtius asks.

Robespierre levels him with his strange green eyes. “Because limiting eligibility to active citizens does not promote equality.”

“So you want equality at any cost?” Henri challenges. “How does that work, allowing noncitizens to join your army?”

“That’s a dangerous proposition,” Curtius warns. “Right now, National Guardsmen have no incentive to pillage or loot. They have money of their own and they earn a small salary. What happens when poor, uneducated men have weapons and authority? You have chaos.”

“Or equality,” Robespierre replies. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?” He looks around the room. “Isn’t that what this Revolution is all about?”

A cheer goes up inside our salon.

“Wait. W-w-where is Marat?” Camille searches the room. “He never misses a Tuesday.”

I look to Curtius, since it’s better that he explain, and everyone follows suit.

“He was arrested on the eighth,” my uncle says, “and sentenced to a month.”

“For what?” Camille cries.

“Inciting rebellion.”

“His paper is no more incendiary than mine!”

There is a tense silence in the room. Then Robespierre says, “We must be careful. These are dangerous