But the king is concerned about the welfare of his people, and the queen is concerned about how it would all appear. So no action is taken.
ON THE EIGHTH of August, Robespierre nearly convinces the Legislative Assembly to arrest Lafayette as a traitor to France. The vote is taken and only narrowly defeated, and when word reaches the American war hero on the front, he flees to Liege.
On the tenth, Henri and I sit together on his steps, watching the stars at two in the morning. I never knew that the city could be so quiet. Perhaps in the Palais-Royal there are cafes open and coffee being served, but with the theaters shut down, the Boulevard du Temple is silent. A rat scurries along the cobblestones, sniffing for garbage left behind by the fish sellers, but the street has already been picked clean by hungry children.
“Lafayette was a rallying point for the soldiers. If he is fleeing to Liege, what will stop the rest of our army from following?” I ask.
“The Assembly hasn’t thought of this. They are listening to Robespierre and taking advice from Camille and Danton.
I am about to reply when the sound of a church bell drowns out my voice. The two o’clock hour has already been rung. Why are there bells? “My God,” I say, as I realize what’s happening. “They are sounding the tocsin!” Have the foreign armies arrived? Are we to be invaded?
We open the door to Henri’s house, and Jacques is hurrying down the stairs. By the time we enter our Salon, my mother and Curtius are already downstairs. Curtius is half-dressed in his captain’s uniform, and the four of us stand in fearful silence as he slips on his boots and calls for his belt. “If I don’t return, I want you to keep this door locked and the curtains closed. Find our muskets and take out every weapon.”
My mother embraces him once, and then he is gone. We lock the door, and outside the only sound is the constant ringing of the bells. Jacques and Henri have found and loaded our muskets. We stand frozen for at least twenty minutes. Then there is a pounding at the door. Henri takes up a musket and shouts, “Who is it?”
“Curtius!”
My mother opens the door, and my uncle hurries back inside. He has brought Wolfgang, Michael, and Abrielle. Their faces are pale. Whatever it is, it cannot be good news. “They have stormed the Tuileries,” Curtius says gravely, “and the monarchy has fallen.”
Jacques, who is surprised by very little, asks, “And the Imperial army—”
“Is not here. This is chaos of a different kind,” my uncle replies. “Members of the Jacobin Club gave the signal this morning at the Hotel de Ville, and thousands answered the call. The mobs marched on the Tuileries, and the palace has fallen.”
Wolfgang presses his lips together, as if he’s afraid of what he is about to say. Then he tells my mother, “The Swiss Guards are waging battle as we speak.”
I hurry to my mother’s side and help her into the nearest chair. The ringing of the bells has not stopped, and Wolfgang’s son begins to cry. His ears must be traumatized by the sound, and Abrielle bounces him on her hip. “Shhh,” she coos into Michael’s ear. We hear a heavy pounding on the door. This time, it is Curtius who answers it.
“Are you Captain Philippe Curtius?” a man’s voice asks.
Next to me, Abrielle sucks in her breath. “Papa.”
The baron sees her and steps inside. “Abrielle!” He looks down at the child in her arms, and the emotion is too much for him. He blinks rapidly. “Is this … is this my grandson?” he asks. His voice breaks with emotion, and Abrielle begins to cry.
“Yes. This is Michael Louis.”
The baron holds out his arms to him, but Michael only cries louder in fear.
“He is afraid,” Abrielle says. “The ringing of the bells—”
“Of course.” The words remind the baron of why he’s come. He looks around at the eight of us in the dimly lit room, and when he finds Wolfgang’s face in the candlelight, he says, “You must come with me.”
My mother stands. “Wolfgang is not going anywhere!”
“Madame, the mobs are massacring every Swiss Guard they find.” My mother covers her mouth in shock. “Inside the palace or outside. I am offering him a chance at escape. To London. Your entire family may come.” He looks to his daughter and grandson. “You are my heir,” he says. “And someday, Michael Louis will be a baron as well.”
“They have banished all titles,” Abrielle says. Her cheeks are wet with tears.
“Not in England. There is a boat waiting for us. Those of you who wish to come will have to leave everything behind.”
“I cannot leave,” Curtius says. “My life is here. But Wolfgang, you must go—”
“I am a National Guardsman!”
“But you were once a Swiss Guard,” the baron warns.
“What about Johann and Edmund?” Wolfgang asks.
The baron shakes his head. “I don’t know. The royal family has taken shelter with the Assembly in the Manege. The king left no orders, so the Guards are defending the walls of the palace. But there are twenty thousand armed men.”
Abrielle whispers, “How did you escape?”
“I was in the Manege drafting a petition.” He closes his eyes briefly, and I can see how much this pains him. These are his men, and tonight he has had to choose between family and duty. “If any of our brothers make it out alive, it will be because they have dressed like
No one in the Salon says a word. Surely God will watch over Edmund and Johann. They are good men. He will not take them from us now.
“When does the boat leave?” Wolfgang asks.
“In an hour. The queen’s dressmaker is to sail with us—”
“Rose Bertin?” I confirm.
The baron nods. “She has left the keys to her shop with an assistant. Many of the Jews are fleeing as well. The mobs are burning their houses.”
“I thought they closed the ports,” Henri says.
“We are on a ship carrying arms supposedly bound for Le Havre,” the baron explains.
My uncle looks at me. “Marie, go.”
“And leave you?” I panic. “And leave Maman?”
“You and Henri can begin a new life.”
“And when all of this is over,” Henri says, “we can return.”
But who knows when all of this will end? I think of the Salon. Of all of our hard work. And then I think of Maman left alone with only wax figures for company. “No … I … I cannot.”
“Marie—”
“Henri, I cannot! Not without my family.”
“Not without your family, or not without your models?” he asks cruelly. “Wolfgang is leaving—”
“And don’t you think that is enough for one family? If you want to go …”
Everyone is weeping. Who knows if any of us shall ever see Wolfgang or Abrielle again? My mother is caressing Michael’s hair, and I know that she is memorizing his feel, his smell. What will he look like when he is five? Seven? Even ten years old. I should have taken the time to sculpt him, I realize. I should have made a mask on one of those Sundays when he came to visit. Except I was too busy sculpting foolish men like Marat and Camille.
I cannot bear to say farewell to my brother. Of all my siblings, we have always been the closest. He takes my hand and squeezes it forcefully. “We have to,” he says.
I am crying. “I know.” They will come for him.
Abrielle embraces me good-bye; then the four of them slip into the darkness. When the door closes, my
