Madame Tussaud

one human nation. The Swedes, the Turks, the Mesopotamians—they are all here to celebrate this great oneness. Then Lafayette mounts a podium to swear an oath to the Constitution, which is still in the making, and the entire stadium falls silent.

“We swear forever to be faithful to the Nation, to the Law, and to the King, to uphold with all our might the Constitution as decided by the National Assembly and accepted by the King, and to protect according to the laws the safety of people and properties, transit of grains and food within the kingdom, the public contributions under whatever forms they might exist, and to stay united with all the French with the indestructible bonds of brotherhood.”

The king takes his place at the podium to swear his oath. Then the queen appears, and when everything is finished, there is cannon fire all around the Champ-de-Mars.

“Study these faces,” Curtius suggests. “These are men you may never see again.”

With two family members as captains in the National Guard, I am introduced to every foreign delegate. There is John Paul Jones, the Scottish fighter who has founded the American Navy. And Thomas Paine, whose pamphlet Common Sense inspired the Americans to rebel against England. It was over a year ago that Wolfgang gave me a copy. These men have traveled to Paris for this occasion, and both believe this is a great day for France.

“Not every action the Assembly makes will be for good,” Paine tells me. “But tyranny can never be allowed to flourish.”

Perhaps I should be happy. But I see the misery of Madame Elisabeth when I visit her, and I hear of the way the people treat the queen, and I have to think it cannot be this way in England. Not even King George III, who is said to be mad and ruled by his son, is slandered in the streets and spit on in his gardens.

In all of this, there are two events that bring us real joy. Near the end of July, Abrielle is delivered of a healthy son. He is christened Michael Louis Grosholtz, and although the baron does not come to see him, no child has ever brought his family greater happiness. His bassinet may not be lined with silk, but he will never be cold and he will never go hungry.

Then, in December, Lucile brings us the news she has been waiting years for. She and Camille are finally to marry. In this new world of assemblies and liberty, Camille has become someone of great importance. When the king is forced to sign the Civil Constitution of the Clergy, commanding all priests to swear an oath of loyalty to the nation or be labeled a dissident, it’s Camille’s paper the people turn to for information. And when the Assembly abolishes all hereditary titles of nobility, it’s Camille’s paper that inspires the celebration in the streets. He has become a man of rousing metaphors, and Lucile’s father has turned down proposals from men with incomes of twenty-five thousand assignats a year to give her to Camille.

The wedding is held in the fashionable Church of Saint-Sulpice, with its view of the Left Bank and its Italian colonnades. I am wearing the very best gown I own, and the pearls around my neck are a gift from Curtius.

I look around the church and see many of the faces from our new Fete de la Federation tableau. There is Lafayette, sitting with his pretty wife, Adrienne. And there is Mirabeau. He looks terribly frail for such a large man. He is sitting at the front of the church with a bloodied handkerchief around his neck. When I ask Curtius what this is for, he tells me, “The leeches. He uses them for his eyes.” When I recoil, he adds, “Apparently, the Salle du Manege has poor ventilation, and no one can see. The room is filled with smoke, but it’s the only place they can find that is large enough to house the Assembly.”

I look back at Mirabeau, who is clearly suffering. It can’t just be his eyes. His cheeks are hollow, and my guess is that his syphilis is very bad. He is sitting next to the Duc d’Orleans, who returned to France several months ago with a new name, Philippe Egalite. He has proclaimed himself a man of the people and is now a member of the Jacobin Club. Nearly everyone here, including my uncle, has also become a member. Every law, every act, every possible decree, is debated endlessly before the Club, with the hope that the members who hold positions of power will return to the National Assembly with a single agenda. They are all men of dreams, but none of them speak as long or as passionately as Robespierre.

If I lean to the side, I can see him near the altar in a pale blue coat and silver cravat. He is acting as witness for Camille. I wonder if, in their schoolboy days together, they ever imagined standing in Saint-Sulpice with all the important players of the nation behind them. When the ceremony is finished, Robespierre steps back while Camille shouts triumphantly, “Lucile Desmoulins!”

The entire church erupts into applause. Then we are on our feet and moving to follow the happy couple out the door.

“Perhaps that will be us someday,” Henri remarks, and I can hear the edge in his voice.

“The Austrians are at our gates,” I tell him. “You know Curtius can’t leave his position now. There could be war at any moment. Today, tomorrow—”

“Next month, next year …”

I can see the mistrust in his face. He’s beginning to believe that I don’t love him, that I’ll postpone our marriage forever. “I hope I’ve never given you any cause to doubt how much I love you. Or that I want to marry you.”

“Then let’s do it now. Today.”

“Henri—”

“How long will this continue? Last year, Curtius promised to resign his post. So when will it be? Another year? Two? I’m a patient man, Marie, but everyone has a breaking point. You must make a choice. Do you want to be Rose Bertin or Vigee-Lebrun?”

My eyes fill with tears. Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun was the queen’s artist. She married a fellow painter named Jean-Baptiste, and the pair of them have traveled across Europe together, arranging commissions and painting portraits. They have a daughter, little Jeanne Julie Louise. Somehow, Vigee-Lebrun has balanced motherhood with art. But how am I to do that? I can’t. Not yet.

Henri wipes away my tears with the back of his glove. Then he puts his arm through mine. “Think on it,” is all he says.

Chapter 38

APRIL

–JUNE

1791

War is the national industry of Prussia.

—COMTE DE MIRABEAU

MIRABEAU IS DEAD.

I am in the workshop when I hear the news that the great voice of the Revolution has passed. A year ago, almost to this date, it was Benjamin Franklin. Now, it is the man who was only recently made president of the National Assembly. At first, there is the hope that the news is wrong. Then there is talk that perhaps he has gone to the countryside to escape from politics and live incognito. But when Mirabeau’s body is displayed to the public, the wailing and beating of chests begins.

Immediately, we make the bust of Mirabeau the centerpiece of our Salon, and the people who come dressed in black to mourn his passing would fill a stadium. On the day his ashes are interred inside the Pantheon—built to reflect the great masterpiece in Rome—the Assembly requests our bust for their procession.

“The Revolution has been the making of us,” Curtius says as Robespierre carries away the wax head.

I reflect on this. While good men like de Flesselles and de Launay have died, we have thrived. While the Swiss Guards are mistrusted for being the king’s men, Curtius and Wolfgang are greatly respected as captains of the National Guard. Why does life carry some people on the crest of the wave while others drown beneath the water?

I look across the room to a white certificate hanging above the caissier’s desk. It is the Assembly’s official recognition of Curtius as one of the Vainqueurs de la Bastille. In a splendid ceremony at Notre-Dame, he was given this document along with a sword inscribed with his name. We are good patriots. That is clear for anyone to see. And perhaps this is why Jacques-Louis David helped Curtius become