Madame Tussaud

fichus and two pairs of gloves. Though it is May, there is no telling how long we may be gone. I can hear gruff voices approaching the stairs, and I whisper for my mother to hurry. “Another hat,” I tell her.

When the men arrive, we are ready. I have spent a lifetime reading people’s faces, and I need only one look at Robespierre’s to know that he has come for our arrest. When animals have finished attacking their prey and there is nothing left to eat, they will attack each other. This is the real reason he has come.

“Citizeness Grosholtz,” he says, as if he has not known me by the name of Marie for seven years. “Is it true that you have refused to cast the masks of the traitors who have recently been put to death?”

“Yes,” I tell him.

He waits for more, but I offer him nothing. He turns abruptly to my mother. “And you?”

“We can no longer sleep at night,” she says. “Death haunts our dreams.”

“That is the price true patriots must pay.”

“Then we are done paying.”

He studies her for a moment, then snaps his fingers. “Arrest them.” Four soldiers step forward. If they were expecting a fight, they will be disappointed. I look into Robespierre’s eyes. There is only arrogance and self- righteousness there. No pity, not even the glimmer of recognition. Robespierre levels me with his gaze. “May Saint Denis watch over you.”

WE ARE TAKEN to Les Carmes prison on the Rue de Vaugirard, and despite the warmth of the night and my layers of clothing, I am shivering. My mother holds my hand as we pass through the gates. Les Carmes once belonged to the Carmelite monks. Now it is the worst prison in Paris.

Inside the monastery we are inspected for weapons or anything of value. Our gloves are confiscated, and when the chief jailer sees my mother’s rosary, he throws it to the floor and crushes it underfoot. “Do you speak French?” he shouts into her face.

“Yes.”

“Then you can understand this. There is no God in Les Carmes. God died on the scaffold with the rest of the aristocrats.” The soldiers around us laugh. “But there is money.” He smiles. “As-tu de la sonnette?”

He is asking if we have brought enough livres-assignats to pay for our bedding. “Yes,” I say at once, and indicate the guard who has taken my purse. “Inside.”

The jailer holds out his hand. “Give it to me.”

A black-haired guard passes him my small leather bag, and the jailer empties the contents onto a desk. He sorts through the paper, then looks up at me. “It’s enough,” he says grudgingly. Was he hoping we could not afford a bed, since straw is cheaper to provide? “Will there be more next week?”

I think of my instructions to Isabel. That she must find us wherever we are and leave money for our keep, but she is never to reveal her name to the guards. “Yes. Another fifty-six livres-assignats.”

He studies me, and I meet his eyes. I am not a liar. There will be money. “Take them to the first floor,” he says sharply. “There is space in the room with our lovely Rose.”

The black-haired guard smiles. “Welcome to Les Carmes. Although I do not expect your stay to be long.” He produces a key to the prison door, then turns the lock.

My stomach tightens, and I grip my mother’s hand. A pair of guards walk behind us in case we decide to run. But where is there to go? The passages we are led into are dark and windowless. And the stench … When I cough, the guard says, “Get used to it. It’s even better in the day.” The halls are lined with buckets of human waste. Where do they empty them? And what do they do when the heat creeps in and the flies begin to gather?

Two years ago more than a hundred priests were massacred in these halls, and I now see that the walls are still stained with their blood. My mother crosses herself, and the guard behind us makes a warning noise. But what more can they do to us? We are in hell. The jailer was right. There is no God in Les Carmes.

We reach a cell, and the guard slides a key into the lock. There is the sound of voices on the other side, and as the door creaks open, the lantern light falls over a room filled with beds and burning candles. “New prisoners!” the guard shouts.

We are pushed inside, and the door swings shut behind us. I listen as the guard turns the key in the lock; then there is silence. My mother and I stare into the dimly lit chamber. There are twenty beds and at least fifteen women, all with the same short hairstyle, cut at the neck. One of these girls, dressed in a long chemise gown and tattered slippers, rises from her bed to greet us.

“Welcome to Les Carmes,” she says kindly. “I’m Rose de Beauharnais.”

“You and your husband came to my Salon many years ago,” I say. She is so thin, and her face is so pale. “You both wanted portraits.”

“You are Marie Grosholtz?”

“And this is my mother, Anna.”

“This is Marie Grosholtz,” Rose announces. “The wax modeler from the Boulevard du Temple.” She directs us to a pair of empty beds.

“Why are you here?”

My mother and I sit across from each other while the women gather around. They are all so young. How did they end up in Les Carmes? “I would not make the death masks of Lucile Desmoulins or Princesse Elisabeth. They were good friends to me, and I would not dishonor them.”

Rose’s eyes fill with tears. “And your mother?” she asks.

“Has the misfortune of being related to me.”

The other women nod understandingly, and one of them puts her arm around Rose’s shoulders. “Don’t cry,” she encourages. But tears are rolling down Rose’s cheeks.

“She weeps whenever someone new is brought to our cell.” The woman smiles. “I am Grace Elliott.”

“The Duc d’Orleans’s mistress,” I say. All of Paris knows who she is.

“His former mistress,” she adds quietly. “There were many other women after me, but we always remained friends.”

“Is that why you are here?”

She laughs sadly. “Do any of us really know why we are here?” She looks around, and the women shake their heads. “We are much like your mother. We’ve been imprisoned because of those we’re related to, or those we’ve slept with. Rose’s husband was arrested two months ago, and they came for her next. They were both sent here.”

“To Les Carmes?” I exclaim. “There are men here?”

Everyone laughs, and a blond woman steps forward. “My dear, you have come to the most exciting prison in Paris. Every morning the soldiers arrive with the carts and the jailer reads out the names of those bound for the guillotine. But each day you survive is another day of freedom.”

I don’t understand.

“Louise is talking about sexual escapades,” Grace explains.

I study the blond woman’s face in the candlelight. I have seen her before. “Louise Contat?” I ask. “The actress from the Comedie-Francaise?”

She makes a little bow. “I may be climbing the scaffold soon,” she says, “but ’tis only a change of theaters.” All the women snicker except Rose, who looks as though she may faint. “Tomorrow, we’ll all get up and wait for the lists, and when that is over we’ll go and find our men.”

“Most of us have someone,” Grace explains. “Even Rose, when she isn’t crying.”

My mother and I look to Rose, who says unabashedly, “My husband has found Delphine de Custine, and they are a far better match than we ever were. I have found Lazare Hoche. That is what Louise means by freedom. And if you become pregnant, there is a ten-month stay of execution.”

A soft murmur fills the room. I think of Henri in London and the life we might have had. By now, he surely will have found someone else. My eyes fill with tears.

Rose instructs me to lie down and get some sleep. “Is there anyone you have left?” she asks.

“My husband,” my mother says, though of course they are not married. “Plus my daughter-in-law and grandchild.”

“I am sure they will visit.”

“Is that allowed?” my mother asks.