rest of the emigres.” He lowers his voice. “All of the royal family’s closest friends are gone, including Angelique de Bombelles.”
“She
“The princesse instructed her to.”
Johann follows me down the hall, and I notice that he is wearing a thicker cloak. “New?” I ask as we climb the stairs.
He exhales so that I can see his breath. “For every guard in the Tuileries. How is Maman? Isabel and I are thinking of coming on Saturday evening. Is there anything we should bring?”
“Paschal. That’s all Maman is really interested in. She asked yesterday about Edmund, but I told her I never see him. Is he—”
“Still angry. I try not to see him either.”
We reach the door to Madame Elisabeth’s salon. There are no ushers, so my brother opens the door for me and announces grandly, “Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”
It is a miserable scene inside. Madame Elisabeth is alone on her couch, buried beneath three blankets for warmth. Her greyhounds are huddled together, shivering visibly as they bury their noses in their paws. “Madame!” I exclaim. “It’s freezing in here.”
“They won’t light the fires for me.”
“This cannot continue. We must ask the guards for firewood,” I say.
“You can ask, but they will tell you no.”
I look down at the tiny, shivering dogs and reply, “We’ll see about that.” I go back into the hall, but Johann is gone. The first guard I find, I ask for firewood.
“And who are you?” the young soldier asks. “Madame’s new servant?”
“I am the owner of the Salon de Cire,” I reply, “along with my uncle, Curtius, who is a captain in your army.”
A light flickers in his eyes. “You mean the wax modeler on the Boulevard du Temple?”
“Yes.”
“And you are his sculptress?” The boy looks me up and down.
“I am also his niece.”
“I’ve always wondered about those figures,” he says. “How do you decide who to place inside your exhibition?”
“We look for well-known patriots and celebrated servicemen.” I step closer to him. “Like yourself.”
He laughs self-consciously. “Me?”
“Do you know what it is to be immortal? To have your face seen by thousands of passersby?”
His eyes go wide.
“Perhaps you would like to come to the Salon, and I shall make a model of you.”
“Really?”
He cannot be more than fifteen or sixteen. What is he doing here, guarding the Tuileries? “Yes. And all I ask is a simple favor.”
He backs away and scowls. “So there’s a price!”
“Everything comes with a price,” I say evenly. “Especially fame. All I want is some firewood for Madame Elisabeth.”
“I don’t know that I can get that,” he says. He names the guard who is in charge of it.
“Can he be convinced?”
“If there is a good reason.” He hesitates. “But how will I know if I’m to be a model?”
“Because tomorrow you’ll come to the Salon de Cire and I shall make you famous.”
Within the hour, there is a crackling fire. Madame Elisabeth is thanking me again and again for my kindness. “Look at them.” She indicates her dogs, who have curled up as close to the flames as possible. Even by the light of the fire, wrapped in an ermine cloak, she looks pale and cold.
“The guard has promised to bring you wood every morning and evening.”
“What did you say?”
“That there might be a wax model in it for him. For a great deal of timber.”
We both laugh, and I feel closer to her than I ever have before.
“It was very good of you to come,” she says. “Most courtiers left after … after we fled. And those who haven’t escaped abroad are too frightened to come back. My brother has no one to attend his
I think on the tragic irony of this. For years, the queen tried to avoid the rigid ceremonies of the court, and now she desperately needs them back. She has discovered that without them, there is nothing to separate her from us.
“It’s too cold for wax modeling today,” I tell her, “but I am happy to continue coming here.”
“It would have to be on Wednesdays. The guards have forbidden us any entertainments on Fridays. That is the day the queen used to see her friends.”
Wednesdays are busy days for the Salon. But I think of all of her unfinished saints and the loneliness she must feel her with only her dogs to keep her company, and I nod. “Certainly. I am sorry for all of this,” I begin.
She sighs heavily. “I hear the National Assembly has renamed itself the Legislative Assembly. And that Robespierre has been made president of the Jacobin Club. I heard his portrait is hanging in the Paris Salon.”
Citizens are suffering, there is no bread, and now coffee and sugar are scarce. But Robespierre’s portrait is displayed next to Curtius’s wax model of the dauphin. “He’s not a member of the Legislative Assembly,” I assure her. “His only power is as the president of the Jacobin Club.”
“But the members of the Legislative Assembly will listen to him. Most of them are Jacobins as well, and their Club is hungry for war.”
“Robespierre will never vote for that. If France were to be defeated, he knows it would return to a monarchy. Whatever gains might be had in winning, Robespierre would never put the Constitution at risk. He considers himself to be a man of great principles.”
“Is that why they are calling him
No, I think. They are calling him
APRIL
20, 1792
—ELISABETH VIGEE-LEBRUN, ROYAL PORTRAIT ARTIST
IT IS ROBESPIERRE WHO BRINGS US THE NEWS. THE QUEEN’S brother Leopold II has also died, and the Jacobin Club has now voted for war on the emperor’s successor, Francis II.
“Against the Holy Roman Emperor!” Robespierre is beside himself with grief. We offer him a place at our table, and he seats himself between Henri and Jacques. He holds his head in hands. “No one would listen to me,” he says. “No one would listen!”
“Then we must hope the Legislative Assembly will vote differently,” Henri offers.
“It’s too late!” Robespierre is distraught. “They have already voted.”
“Does Curtius know this?” my mother asks. He is on duty and will not be home until midnight, perhaps later.
“If he doesn’t, he will,” Robespierre says darkly. “All of France will know it when the emperor comes storming to Paris, to crush everything we have achieved! Now there will be enemies within as well as without. Foreign war as well as civil war.”
