Madame Tussaud

“Sound the trumpets,” she announces grandly.

Downstairs in the Salon, Rose Bertin and Henri Charles have already arrived. I notice that Rose has a wider smile for Henri than she has ever had for me. Perhaps it is because he looks particularly handsome today. His long hair has been dressed a catogan and tied with a blue ribbon that matches his coat. The tassels of his walking stick are also blue, like his silk culottes, and the long tails of his coat have been richly embroidered. It is the first I have seen him take such care with his appearance. Truly, someone as impressive and intelligent as Henri should be petitioning the king for a place at court. He could serve in the king’s workshop or, better, live by the king’s grants. I think of all the brilliant things he could create with enough money and time.

As soon as Henri sees me, he breaks off conversation with Rose and points to the crowds waiting outside. “Have you seen what’s happening?”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Tomorrow, the Salon will be shoulder to shoulder!”

He hesitates, and I realize that he is being critical.

“You clean up quite well,” Rose remarks. “If you ever wish to make an appearance at court, you could be dazzling in my green robe a la francaise. To match your eyes.”

She is as ruthless a saleswoman as I am. “If I come into an unknown inheritance,” I say, “I will be sure to visit you.”

There is the sound of a coach and eight outside, then of women crying, “The queen! It is His Majesty and the queen!” Despite what’s been printed about her in the libelles, accusing her of every kind of immorality, they are excited to see her. I feel a great surge of relief. Henri is wrong. This is exactly the kind of publicity we want. I take my mother’s arm, and we rush to the door.

“Curtsy,” Rose reminds sharply from behind me. “Curtsy!”

I sink into my lowest curtsy, and when I come up, it is real. The King and Queen of France are before me, dressed in expensive silk and ermine cloaks. The cries of the people are shut out as members of the king’s guard hurry to close the doors. None of my three brothers are among the men. Their jobs are to guard the king’s chamber, not to accompany the royal family on trips to Paris. It’s a pity, since we see them so rarely.

“Welcome to the Salon de Cire,” my uncle says.

A servant steps forward to make the introductions. There is Madame Elisabeth, the king’s youngest sister. She is twenty-four and has the cream and rose complexion of a girl in her teens. There is the royal family’s eldest child, Marie-Therese, whom the court addresses as Madame Royale. Her dark eyes and hair are a striking contrast to her younger brothers’. I smile at the frail, sickly dauphin, who is borne on a litter by two men. Though he is seven years old—the middle child—he looks all of four or five. He shares the same fair hair and blue eyes as his four- year-old brother, Louis-Charles. The youngest boy is dressed in a little sailor’s outfit: a fitted blue jacket with matching trousers.

“Papa, Maman, that’s you!” Louis-Charles points across the entrance to the horseshoe table where the wax figures of the king and queen are eating. From the stools arranged for the duchesses to the high-backed chairs for the king and queen, it is as close as any tableau can come to real life.

“Very good,” the queen compliments her youngest son. Then she turns to the dauphin. “Do you know what that scene is meant to be?”

The dauphin struggles to a sitting position. He looks around, not with the quick, dismissive glance of a child who has been given every luxury, but with the slow, curious gaze of a boy who is eager to learn. His eyes go first to the faux marble columns dividing the tableaux, then to the paintings hanging on the walls, which give the impression that the viewer has entered a woman’s private salon. “It must be the Grand Couvert.”

“Exactly!” the queen exclaims. She clearly takes pride in teaching her children.

“Can we go inside?” the dauphin asks. “Where do we pay?”

Curtius laughs. “Today, the entertainment comes free. And if Their Majesties will permit, my niece and I shall take them on a tour.”

We leave the entrance hall, and I notice that the king moves with a limp. In my wax model of him, he is not nearly so short and obese. I imagine he will be pleased with what I’ve done. The queen, however, is more graceful than any model can convey. It is true what they say about her—that she glides instead of walks. Though there is a thickness beneath her chin and she is not as lithe as she once was, there is no mistaking the body of a dancer. Aside from her cloak, she has dressed modestly for this outing. It’s a shame, since I can remember attending her Grand Couvert, the weekly ritual when the king and queen are seen to eat in public, and I know how dazzling Marie Antoinette can be. When I saw the queen at her Sunday dinner, her dress was blue velvet trimmed in white fur, and the white satin stomacher matched her plumed headdress. But today, she is dressed in a gown of puce. She has used the smallest soupcon of rouge to enliven her cheeks, and her hair has been only lightly powdered. I notice that her necklace is of pearls, not diamonds, as are the rings on her fingers.

Her sister-in-law Madame Elisabeth is dressed far more elegantly, in rich brown silk and beige taffeta. Her ermine muff has been embroidered in gold, while the same lavish trim has been used for her gown. Like his sister, King Louis has made no attempt to alter his dress to appease the populace. There are diamond buckles on his shoes, and the fashionable walking stick he is carrying is encrusted with jewels. Even so, there is very little of kingly majesty about him. In different clothes, he might be a peasant. As we enter the exhibition, he stops in front of the first painting. Because he is nearsighted, he must approach the canvas until his nose is nearly touching the paint.

“How many paintings are in your exhibition?” the king asks.

“A hundred and fifty, Your Majesty. I am somewhat of a collector,” Curtius admits.

“And have you always been interested in wax, Dr. Curtius?”

“Yes. Since I first came across it in medical school.”

“Ah.” The king turns to his children. “And do you know what he would have used it for in school?”

The boys shake their heads. But Madame Royale, who is eleven and thinks herself too grand for this place, simply rolls her eyes.

“He would have used it for making anatomical models.” The king looks at my uncle. “Am I correct?”

“Exactly so, Your Majesty.” As we stop in front of the dinner tableau, expressions of delight pass through our group of royal guests. I was right. The queen is pleased with what she sees. She is smiling and asks if she may have a closer look. “Certainly, Your Majesty.” My uncle opens a little gate in the wooden balustrade, and the queen passes through, followed by the rest of her family. We do not allow visitors to touch the models, but in this case, neither Curtius nor I complain.

“Exceptional,” the queen breathes, caressing her wax face. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

“I knew Your Majesty would approve,” Rose gloats, as if I hadn’t begged her for a year to invite them. She indicates the headdress made of satin and trimmed with bejeweled aigrettes. “Like the one you wore to your last masquerade.”

The look on the queen’s face is one of pain, but just as quickly it is gone and she has schooled her features into serenity. “Show me everything!” She claps eagerly. “Even your Cavern of Great Thieves.”

We are more than happy to oblige. There are thirty full-size models in our exhibition, and a dozen busts on short marble columns. We have positioned a floor-length mirror across from each tableau to give the impression that the Salon is larger than it really is. Come evening, these mirrors will reflect the glow of the chandeliers, casting double the light over the exhibits.

The king stops before a group of figures depicting the Eastern envoys of Tippoo Sahib in their colorful costumes. “Remember this?” He turns to his wife. “They were the funniest men who ever came to Versailles.” That was six months ago. The king summoned Paris’s best artists to sculpt the envoys, and he was so impressed by my uncle’s wax model that he had it installed in a tent outside the Grand Trianon for more than a month. Now, he holds his belly and laughs, sending his young sons into fits of giggles. The girl, I notice, never smiles.

“Those mustaches!” The queen laughs, and it’s a merry sound, not high and false like those of some of the important women I have modeled.

“They smelled,” Madame Royale puts in nastily.

“That was the scent of the East,” her father says.

The queen’s cheeks have gone pink. “And you, Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Which of these wonderful models are you responsible for?”

“This dinner scene that Her Majesty saw. And this one as well.” I lead the group into the next room. It is a