family portrait with all of the children. I made the decision last night to remove the princesse Sophie-Helene Beatrix, who died a year and a half ago at eleven months old. Now I see that this was the right choice, since the queen goes at once to the model of her youngest son and caresses his cheek. I believe she is feeling sentimental, for this model was made when Louis-Charles was only three years old. I based it on a bust in the Paris Salon, and since then his face has matured.
“Look, there I am!” Madame Royale marches toward the model I have made of her and inspects it. She looks from me to the wax image and back again. “You did this?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And how did you know what I look like? I’ve never met you before.”
“There are images of Her Highness in many galleries. I based this model on one of those.”
The queen puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, but the girl shrugs it off. “I wish to take this home.”
“This is a museum,” the queen replies, “not a shop.”
“And we do not take things from museums,” Madame Elisabeth says. The king’s younger sister has been silent until now, and when Madame Royale hears her aunt speak, she is quieted. “Why don’t you go inside the Cavern of Great Thieves?” Madame Elisabeth asks the queen. “I will stay here and watch the children.”
Madame Royale stomps her foot and whines, “I want to go, too.”
“When you are older,” her father says. “Not now.”
I lead the adults into the Cavern of Great Thieves, and immediately, the mood changes. The room is lit by only a few candles, and the walls have been constructed to look like a dungeon. I steal a look at Curtius and Henri, who both nod encouragingly at me. I am the one who gives this speech to important patrons. I lick my lips and begin. “Here are the men who have terrorized the good people of France. Thieves, forgers, and even murderers of children.”
I see the king exchange a worried look with Rose. The queen, however, steps forward.
“This is Antoine Francois Desrues. In 1744, he was born to humble parents not far from here. After many years of hard work, Desrues purchased his own grocery. Although the business was successful, he spent far more than he could ever take in. He fancied himself part of the nobility and arranged to purchase a chateau from the kind and friendly Monsieur de la Motte. When Monsieur sent his wife to collect the payment, Desrues invited the pretty woman to dinner.”
Curtius leads the group to the next model. She is a woman in her thirties in a beautiful gown and a fashionable hat.
“At first, the evening went well. Desrues was charming, as men like him can be. But as soon as Madame de la Motte wasn’t looking, Desrues slipped poison into her wine. Within the evening, Madame de la Motte was dead!”
The queen inhales sharply.
“The next week, Madame de la Motte’s sixteen-year-old son came searching for her. Enticing the boy into his home, Desrues offered the child a cup of chocolate. Like his mother, the boy was soon dead. The next week, Desrues forged a receipt and attempted to take possession of the beautiful chateau. But the sudden disappearance of his wife and son aroused Monsieur de la Motte’s suspicion. The police were summoned, and the bodies were discovered stuffed into chests and buried inside Desrues’s own cellar. In 1777, Desrues was executed by burning.”
“Which is exactly what he deserved,” the king says.
“His wife,” I add, “is currently imprisoned in the Salpetriere.”
“But was she part of the conspiracy?” Rose Bertin asks.
I turn up my palms. “That, no one can know.”
We go to the next model, and I tell them the story of the famous forger who sold works of art supposedly produced by the great Italian master Leonardo da Vinci. For twenty years he conned wealthy noblemen, delivering pieces to their homes and taking their money—two, three, sometimes four thousand livres for a single painting. Henri points out that this forger should have known better than to try to imitate one of the greatest artists—and scientists—ever to have lived.
“Then you are an admirer of his work?” the king asks.
Henri nods. “I am.”
“Many years ago I saw a reproduction of
“What is
The king looks to Henri, allowing him to answer.
“It is a drawing of man that is perfectly proportional to a real human body. Da Vinci based it on the writings of the Roman architect Vitruvius, who discovered that the proportions of nearly every human body are similar.”
“Do you have an example of this?” the queen wants to know.
Henri smiles. “Certainly, Your Majesty. Vitruvius discovered that the length of a man’s ear is one-third of the length of his face, and the length of a man’s foot is one-sixth of his height. As a child, I was asked to measure the distance from the tip of my head to the floor and divide it by the distance from my belly button to the ground. The number I came up with is the same number that nearly everyone will. A ratio of 1.618.”
The queen turns to her husband. “Have you ever done this? And is it true? Was the number 1.618?”
“It was when I was young.” The king looks down at his protruding stomach. “I’m not sure it would be now.”
“I want to try it,” she exclaims, “as soon as we are home!” She looks up at the wax model of the forger again. “There are so many stories,” she reflects quietly.
“All of these thieves and murderers,” the king says uneasily. “You modeled them?”
I nod. “But not always in person.”
“They are very …” He searches for the right word.
“Realistic,” the queen puts in.
We go from tableau to tableau, and I explain the disturbing tale behind each sculpture. There are men here whose names are synonymous with murder, and others whose faces are immediately recognizable. As we exit the Cavern of Great Thieves, Madame Royale demands, “Was it fun?”
“Yes …” The king shivers playfully. “But only for a few minutes.”
I lead our visitors to my model of Rousseau and tell them how my mother spent many nights cooking dishes for the Swiss philosopher.
“So tell me,” the king says, “was the man himself as brilliant as his writing?”
Everyone turns to me, and I can see that Henri is holding his breath. “There has never been a more remarkable man,” I reply. “With the exception, of course, of Your Majesty.”
The king smiles widely, and the queen steps so close to me that I catch the scent of her jasmine perfume. “Did he really dress like an Armenian?” she asks.
“In vests and caftans.” I am careful not to add that he sometimes adopted the American habit of wearing a fur cap. “And he was enormously fond of my mother’s
My mother gasps, then says in her best French, “It would be an honor to prepare some for Your Majesty.”
“You understand,” the king says sorrowfully, “that we cannot eat here.”
But my mother is already shaking her head. “I shall make some to take home with you.”
I look at Curtius, and neither of us can believe what is happening. It is one thing to feed philosophers, but to provide food for queens … We will have customers beating a path to our door for days. Perhaps even weeks! After the Duchesse de Polignac visited the snuff shop on the Rue Saint-Honore, the owner had to hire extra help for a month. My mother rushes off to begin a batch of
