Madame Tussaud

massacre, like the one that resulted in the Princesse de Lamballe’s slaughter. She tells us how the revolutionaries placed the beautiful princesse’s head on a pike and shoved it through the window of her cabriolet. “It was only because I was Scottish that they did not murder me right there.”

Of course, that is no protection now.

To escape, I spend much of my time in the gardens. In the mornings, Francois walks with me, and in the evenings, I go with my mother and Grace. But as July’s heat intensifies, no one feels like moving. “What is the point?” Rose asks. “It is cooler in the cells than it is out there.” When I ask her about the smell of festering waste, she replies, “At least there is nothing to remind us in here of the world we will never rejoin outside.”

So I go alone to the garden in the middle of the day and am not surprised to see an empty bench. It’s directly in the sun, but why should I care about my complexion? Will the executioner’s job be any different if I am dark or pale? My mother and I have been here now for two and half months, but there is no one I recognize in the garden. New prisoners arrive every day, replacing the ones who are sent away in carts. But someone thinks he recognizes me.

“Marie?”

The voice is immediately familiar. I turn, and as I shade my eyes with my hands, my vision blurs. It’s impossible. I rise from the bench. No … I am dreaming.

“Marie,” Edmund says, “it’s me.”

I grab the back of the bench in case my legs give out, then look around the garden for help. Is this real? Do the others see him as I do? But when my brother steps closer, I know that it is him. He is dressed as a common sans-culotte, with a loose white shirt and dirty brown pants. His hair is longer than I have ever seen it, even when we were children, and instead of being tied back with a band, it hangs around his shoulders. I am caught between the desire to beat him and the impulse to embrace him.

“Marie, I am a coward,” he whispers. “I escaped,” he says in German. “I fled the Tuileries after Johann was killed.”

I back away from him.

“You have to understand—”

“That you left Maman in agony? That you let us believe you died in the worst possible way?” The other prisoners are staring, but I do not care. He reaches out to touch me, but I slap his hand away. “You betrayed us!” I cry. “Where have you been? Did you ever think of Maman’s suffering?” I ask. “Did you ever wonder what happened to Wolfgang and Abrielle and Michael?”

“Please, sit,” he begs. He is a different man. Tired, beaten, full of regret. “They died.”

“No, they are living in London—with Henri!”

Now it is his turn to be shocked.

“You were prepared to let Maman believe she had lost three sons.”

“I was a coward, Marie. Why would Maman want to see a coward?”

“Because you are her child.” I am weeping, and the guards are watching us. They probably believe this is some lovers’ spat. “So while we were marking your grave,” I confirm, “you were hiding in Paris?”

“For a week. I knew if I came to the Boulevard they would find me. But I was arrested on the eighth day. I gave them a different name, and they took me to La Force.”

“And you didn’t think to send word?”

“They were going to kill me. Why would I make Maman suffer twice?”

In the heat of the day, it is difficult to think. I put my hand to my head.

“I was imprisoned at La Force until last week,” he says.

“Two years?”

“Twenty-two months. They think I am the son of a farmer. It’s the only reason they haven’t executed me.”

I stare at him in the harsh light of the sun. His face is pale, and his broad chest, which once filled out his Swiss Guardsman’s uniform, is no longer well muscled and defined. “I assumed you were among the first to die.”

He flinches. “It was a massacre. I am not proud of what I did.”

“What does it matter?” I ask sharply. “Johann is dead because he remained.”

We watch each other, and a lifetime of bitterness hangs between us.

“I am sorry, Marie. There were many things I could not appreciate before I was imprisoned. Family, love …”

My throat closes. Perhaps we were more alike than I believed. “Henri asked me to go with him and I refused.”

My brother nods. “We were married to our ambition.”

It hurts to hear this from him. But he is right.

“How long have you been here?” he asks.

“Two and a half months. Curtius is at the Rhine, and Maman was arrested with me.”

“She is here?”

“You must not go and see her! She lost you once. She cannot lose you again. What if your name is called tomorrow?” I ask. “Or the next day? Or the next?”

Though I can see how this pains him, he understands. “Of course. I will make sure she never sees me.” It is difficult to reconcile this Edmund with the Edmund I knew. He must guess at what I am thinking, because he adds, “Two years can change everything.”

We embrace, and I feel the thinness of his body through his shirt. They have starved him in La Force. “Perhaps we can meet again here tomorrow,” he offers.

“No. Maman comes and walks with me sometimes. Once after breakfast, once at noon, and another time at sunset.”

“I will be careful,” he promises. “In case you ever look for me, I am Emilien Drouais.”

He squeezes my hand, and despite the many betrayals and heartaches between us, he is still my brother. “I hope we will meet again on the outside,” I say. “If not, I will see you in heaven.”

I TELL NO one about my meeting with Edmund, but I search for him every morning in the hall, praying that they will never call Emilien Drouais. He is the one I think about as the list grows longer each day. Eventually, the guards are forced to keep order while the chief jailer reads. Throughout Les Carmes they are blaming this escalation on the Law of 22 Prairial.

On the twenty-third of July, when the chief jailer reads the name “Alexandre de Beauharnais,” Grace grabs Rose’s arm and I implore her to sit down. It is all we can do to stop her from flinging herself at the guards. When her husband crosses the hall to embrace her farewell, she faints. She is not conscious to watch as his lover begs the guards for one more moment. They warn his mistress to keep back or join him in the cart.

Francois takes my hand. “Keep strong,” he whispers. “We have seen worse than this.”

But I am so tired … “I just want to lie down and never wake up,” I tell him.

“Don’t say that. We will get out of here, Marie.”

“Yes, in a cart or a coffin.”

He can see that I am giving up. When the sun sets, he sleeps on the floor beside my bed, telling me stories about the famous silk manufacturers of Lyon and what it was like to grow up in a merchant city. The guards have stopped locking the doors at night. What is the point when there are so many prisoners that the beds spill out from the cells into the hall? I have no idea if Isabel still brings fifty-six livres-assignats for the jailer each week, and it no longer matters, really. Straw, no straw. A bed, no bed …

On the twenty-sixth of July, forty-three names are called. At this rate, we will all be dead by September. That evening, I do not take supper with the rest of the prisoners. I remain in my cell, and Francois joins me on my bed. We sit facing each other, trying not to breathe too deeply of the rancid air. “If we are ever released from this prison,” he says, “I would like to marry you.”

I think at once of Henri. Almost certainly he will have found a wife by now. They will be living together in an apartment in London. Or perhaps, if she is wealthy, they will have bought a house, even started a family. “I had thought to go to London,” I say.