Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

Chapter 4

JANUARY

30, 1789

I am terrified of being bored.

—MARIE ANTOINETTE TO AUSTRIAN AMBASSADOR

COMTE DE MERCY D’ARGENTEAU

THERE ARE A HUNDRED THINGS STILL TO DO IN THE SALON DE Cire before Their Majesties arrive in just a few hours. We must remove the figure of Benjamin Franklin and replace it with one of Necker, the king’s Minister of Finance. And the recumbent model of Madame du Barry, the beautiful mistress of King Louis XV, must be hidden away. When Marie Antoinette first arrived in France, it was no great secret that she and her father-in-law’s mistress had not become friends. No Hapsburg princesse could legitimize a woman of unguarded morals. If du Barry had possessed any sense, she would have seen that she was the mistress of the past while Antoinette was the princesse of the future. When Louis died, Antoinette had du Barry banished. It certainly will not do to remind the queen of her rival for her father-in-law’s affections. So I hire two young boys from the street to help me carry the model into the workshop.

They look, mesmerized, at the sleeping figure of du Barry on her blue and white couch. Her back is arched and one arm is raised, suggesting complete and utter abandonment—either to sleep or to pleasure. Her golden curls tumble loosely over her pink taffeta gown, and her long neck is exposed to the viewer.

“From here to the workshop.” I point to a closed door across the exhibition. “I’ll give you five sous each.” With a loaf of bread at fifteen sous and daily wages for the average worker at twenty, it’s a fair price for a moment’s work.

The boys position themselves on either side of the couch and lift the sleeping woman. I walk in front of them, guiding them past the various tableaux, then open the wooden door to the workshop and inhale the familiar scents of oil paints and clay. As they enter, their eyes go wide. It is a wonderland of gadgets and artistry. Like in the secret rooms behind the curtain of a theater, there is everything that a person might need to re-create himself. Dresses and hats, walking sticks and gloves, chairs, couches, tables, lamps, and the half-finished heads of a dozen figures. Tools and supplies are strewn across the floor where Curtius and I left them last night: calipers, chisels, bags of clay, even sacks of horsehair. I can see the boys wish to stay and explore, but I pay them ten sous, and as soon as they are gone, I cover the figure of du Barry with a sheet. I surround it with heavy bags of plaster so there is no chance that anyone will ask to see what’s beneath. But as I am dragging the last bag across the room, it tears, and the plaster trails along the floor.

When my mother sees the mess, she exclaims in her native German, “Mein Gott!”

“I will clean it up,” I promise.

“But they will be here at any moment!” she cries.

My mother goes into a frenzy of cleaning, tossing the tools into various baskets without any concern for where they belong. At this late hour, it doesn’t matter, and I follow behind her, sweeping the plaster from the floor.

“Where is Curtius?” she demands. “Tell him to come in here and help us!”

“He can’t,” I reply in German. “He’s giving instructions to Yachin.”

Our barker, a young Jewish boy from Austria, is standing outside with the sign I painted for him this morning. It reads, THE SALON DE CIRE WILL BE CLOSED TODAY IN HONOR OF THEIR MAJESTIES’ ARRIVAL. I have instructed him to shout it at every passerby. The boy has thought on his own to start telling the crowd that the tickets will be only twelve sous for those who wish to walk in Her Majesty’s footsteps. Of course, the tickets are always twelve sous.

“We must get dressed,” my mother says suddenly.

“But the king. Shouldn’t we add—”

“It’s too late! Do you want the queen to see you like this?”

I laugh, since it is completely unthinkable that anyone should be presented to the queen in an apron. We have spent three days searching among the shops in the Place de Grève for proper attire. It is everything that we get this right. Our Salon may deceive the eye—stucco for marble and gilt instead of gold—but there is no disguising dress. We must look as well turned out as the queen’s ladies, even if it costs us a fortune.

In my mother’s room, I change into a tight-waisted dress. Curtius has bought me a silk fichu for the occasion. It is trimmed in lace, and as I pin it to my bodice, I stand in front of the mirror and admire its effect across my shoulders. While most of Paris is without firewood or bread, our museum takes in three hundred sous a day. It’s enough to ensure that there is always meat on our table and luxuries such as this.

“What do you think?” my mother asks. She has put on the most expensive gown she has ever owned. Although she has already passed fifty, she giggles like a girl. “Am I silly?”

“No.” And I am being honest. “You are beautiful.” The gown is embroidered with tiny pearls, and the bodice has been sewn with gems. It has cost my uncle nearly two hundred livres, and now I can see how du Barry could spend two thousand on a lavish court gown. “Just look at you.” I turn my mother toward the mirror. The dress makes her positively youthful. “You could be forty,” I tell her.

She laughs out loud. “Maybe forty-nine.” She smiles at me in the mirror, then reaches out to take my hand. “I am so lucky in my children,” she whispers. “Three sons in the Swiss Guard, and a beautiful daughter with her own occupation. You will never have to marry for money. You will never have to depend on anyone but yourself.” This is important to my mother, whose marriage was for convenience, not love. She raises her eyes to an image of Christ above her bed. “All of Curtius’s hopes are in you,” she says. “You have made this happen today.”

“We have all made it happen. The Salon could not continue without everyone’s hard work.” It takes enormous skill to coordinate and run an exhibition. I cannot imagine how Curtius ever did it alone. I have seen his record books from before I was born, and they are appalling. Tickets sold for reduced prices to friends, free tickets to various members of the nobility. It is a wonder he made any money at all. We argued last night about whether we should charge the royal family an entrance fee. He wanted to let them in free, as if the new gowns for the models had all come cheap, and I wanted to charge a fee. But my mother insisted that we be gracious subjects, and grace means allowing the royal family inside without a price. I squeeze her hand in mine.

“Sound the trumpets,” she announces grandly.

Downstairs in the Salon, Rose Bertin and Henri Charles have already arrived. I notice that Rose has a wider smile for Henri than she has ever had for me. Perhaps it is because he looks particularly handsome today. His long hair has been dressed à catogan and tied with a blue ribbon that matches his coat. The tassels of his walking stick are also blue, like his silk culottes, and the long tails of his coat have been richly embroidered. It is the first I have seen him take such care with his appearance. Truly, someone as impressive and intelligent as Henri should be petitioning the king for a place at court. He could serve in the king’s workshop or, better, live by the king’s grants. I think of all the brilliant things he could create with enough money and time.

As soon as Henri sees me, he breaks off conversation with Rose and points to the crowds waiting outside. “Have you seen what’s happening?”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Tomorrow, the Salon will be shoulder to shoulder!”

He hesitates, and I realize that he is being critical.

“You clean up quite well,” Rose remarks. “If you ever wish to make an appearance at court, you could be dazzling in my green robe à la française. To match your eyes.”

She is as ruthless a saleswoman as I am. “If I come into an unknown inheritance,” I say, “I will be sure to visit you.”

There is the sound of a coach and eight outside, then of women crying, “The queen! It is His Majesty and the queen!” Despite what’s been printed about her in the libelles, accusing her of every kind of immorality, they are excited to see her. I feel a great surge of relief. Henri is wrong. This is exactly the kind of publicity we want. I take my mother’s arm, and we rush to the door.

“Curtsy,” Rose reminds sharply from behind me. “Curtsy!”

I sink into my lowest curtsy, and when I come up, it is real. The King and Queen of France are before me, dressed in expensive silk and ermine cloaks. The cries of the people are shut out as members of the king’s guard hurry to close the doors. None of my three brothers are among the men. Their jobs are to guard the king’s chamber, not to accompany the royal family on trips to Paris. It’s a pity, since we see them so rarely.

“Welcome to the Salon de Cire,” my uncle says.

A servant steps forward to make the introductions. There is Madame Élisabeth, the king’s youngest sister. She is twenty-four and has the cream and rose complexion of a girl in her teens. There is the royal family’s eldest child, Marie-Thérèse, whom the court addresses as Madame Royale. Her dark eyes and hair are a striking contrast to her younger brothers’. I smile at the frail, sickly dauphin, who is borne on a litter by two men. Though he is seven years old—the middle child—he looks all of four or five. He shares the same fair hair and blue eyes as his four-year-old brother, Louis-Charles. The youngest boy is dressed in a little sailor’s outfit: a fitted blue jacket with matching trousers.

“Papa, Maman, that’s you!” Louis-Charles points across the entrance to the horseshoe table where the wax figures of the king and queen are eating. From the stools arranged for the duchesses to the high-backed chairs for the king and queen, it is as close as any tableau can come to real life.

“Very good,” the queen compliments her youngest son. Then she turns to the dauphin. “Do you know what that scene is meant to be?”

The dauphin struggles to a sitting position. He looks around, not with the quick, dismissive glance of a child who has been given every luxury, but with the slow, curious gaze of a boy who is eager to learn. His eyes go first to the faux marble columns dividing the tableaux, then to the paintings hanging on the walls, which give the impression that the viewer has entered a woman’s private salon. “It must be the Grand Couvert.”

“Exactly!” the queen exclaims. She clearly takes pride in teaching her children.

“Can we go inside?” the dauphin asks. “Where do we pay?”

Curtius laughs. “Today, the entertainment comes free. And if Their Majesties will permit, my niece and I shall take them on a tour.”

We leave the entrance hall, and I notice that the king moves with a limp. In my wax model of him, he is not nearly so short and obese. I imagine he will be pleased with what I’ve done. The queen, however, is more graceful than any model can convey. It is true what they say about her—that she glides instead of walks. Though there is a thickness beneath her chin and she is not as lithe as she once was, there is no mistaking the body of a dancer. Aside from her cloak, she has dressed modestly for this outing. It’s a shame, since I can remember attending her Grand Couvert, the weekly ritual when the king and queen are seen to eat in public, and I know how dazzling Marie Antoinette can be. When I saw the queen at her Sunday dinner, her dress was blue velvet trimmed in white fur, and the white satin stomacher matched her plumed headdress. But today, she is dressed in a gown of puce. She has used the smallest soupçon of rouge to enliven her cheeks, and her hair has been only lightly powdered. I notice that her necklace is of pearls, not diamonds, as are the rings on her fingers.

Her sister-in-law Madame Élisabeth is dressed far more elegantly, in rich brown silk and beige taffeta. Her ermine muff has been embroidered in gold, while the same lavish trim has been used for her gown. Like his sister, King Louis has made no attempt to alter his dress to appease the populace. There are diamond buckles on his shoes, and the fashionable walking stick he is carrying is encrusted with jewels. Even so, there is very little of kingly majesty about him. In different clothes, he might be a peasant. As we enter the exhibition, he stops in front of the first painting. Because he is nearsighted, he must approach the canvas until his nose is nearly touching the paint.

“How many paintings are in your exhibition?” the king asks.

“A hundred and fifty, Your Majesty. I am somewhat of a collector,” Curtius admits.

“And have you always been interested in wax, Dr. Curtius?”

“Yes. Since I first came across it in medical school.”

“Ah.” The king turns to his children. “And do you know what he would have used it for in school?”

The boys shake their heads. But Madame Royale, who is eleven and thinks herself too grand for this place, simply rolls her eyes.

“He would have used it for making anatomical models.” The king looks at my uncle. “Am I correct?”

“Exactly so, Your Majesty.” As we stop in front of the dinner tableau, expressions of delight pass through our group of royal guests. I was right. The queen is pleased with what she sees. She is smiling and asks if she may have a closer look. “Certainly, Your Majesty.” My uncle opens a little gate in the wooden balustrade, and the queen passes through, followed by the rest of her family. We do not allow visitors to touch the models, but in this case, neither Curtius nor I complain.

“Exceptional,” the queen breathes, caressing her wax face. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

“I knew Your Majesty would approve,” Rose gloats, as if I hadn’t begged her for a year to invite them. She indicates the headdress made of satin and trimmed with bejeweled aigrettes. “Like the one you wore to your last masquerade.”

The look on the queen’s face is one of pain, but just as quickly it is gone and she has schooled her features into serenity. “Show me everything!” She claps eagerly. “Even your Cavern of Great Thieves.”

We are more than happy to oblige. There are thirty full-size models in our exhibition, and a dozen busts on short marble columns. We have positioned a floor-length mirror across from each tableau to give the impression that the Salon is larger than it really is. Come evening, these mirrors will reflect the glow of the chandeliers, casting double the light over the exhibits.

The king stops before a group of figures depicting the Eastern envoys of Tippoo Sahib in their colorful costumes. “Remember this?” He turns to his wife. “They were the funniest men who ever came to Versailles.” That was six months ago. The king summoned Paris’s best artists to sculpt the envoys, and he was so impressed by my uncle’s wax model that he had it installed in a tent outside the Grand Trianon for more than a month. Now, he holds his belly and laughs, sending his young sons into fits of giggles. The girl, I notice, never smiles.

“Those mustaches!” The queen laughs, and it’s a merry sound, not high and false like those of some of the important women I have modeled.

“They smelled,” Madame Royale puts in nastily.

“That was the scent of the East,” her father says.

The queen’s cheeks have gone pink. “And you, Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Which of these wonderful models are you responsible for?”

“This dinner scene that Her Majesty saw. And this one as well.” I lead the group into the next room. It is a family portrait with all of the children. I made the decision last night to remove the princesse Sophie-Hélène Béatrix, 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 Élisabeth 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 Élisabeth 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 François 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 château 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 château. 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 Salpêtrière.”

“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 The Vitruvian Man,” the king recalls. “It was fascinating.”

“What is The Vitruvian Man?” the queen asks.

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 Käsespätzle.”

“Käsespätzle,” she repeats, and I wonder how long it’s been since she has tasted the food of her homeland. “I would love some Käsespätzle.”

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-Honoré, the owner had to hire extra help for a month. My mother rushes off to begin a batch of Käsespätzle, and I smile at Rose, who brought this all about. I take the royal family to the last tableau. It is covered with white sheets, and as Curtius unveils the final scene, Rose puts her hand to her mouth. It is always a shock for clients to see themselves as they truly are, and I have spared nothing—neither cost nor vanity. She is excessively plump, with a second chin and pudgy eyes. But her lips are beautiful, and her dress is fit for the halls of Versailles. She is part of an intimate tableau with the queen in her dressing room. The wax Antoinette stares at herself in a handsome mirror, dressed in a heavy linen shift that will be changed into a revealing gauze nightgown tomorrow. Meanwhile, the wax Rose is holding a gazette des atours, a heavy book filled with swatches from which the queen chooses her outfits each morning.

The queen approaches her seated figure with awe. Unlike the previous models, with their horsehair bodies, this one has been made entirely of wax, from her Hapsburg lip to her painted toes. “You are responsible for this?” the queen asks.

I can see that Henri is nervous, but there is nothing to be ashamed of. “Yes,” I reply.

“And who thought of this?” the king questions.

“I did,” I say, before Curtius can answer. “I wished to show Her Majesty as she truly is, full of grace and beauty even before she is dressed in her robes à la française.”

The queen smiles, and then her daughter speaks. “I think it is improper.”

“There is nothing improper,” the king overrules. “The queen is covered, and the act of dressing is a part of life.”

“What about her feet?” Madame Royale sticks out her lower lip, an unattractive gesture on any child, but particularly on her. Hands on her hips, she feels obliged to add, “Madame Campan says—”

“It is quite fine,” the queen says impatiently. “Dr. Curtius, Mademoiselle Grosholtz, you have an exceptional museum.”

My uncle leads the royal family to the last stop on our tour. “The Curiosity Shop,” he says, and both princes clap their hands in delight. Filling the shelves are miniature wax models of all the figures in our museum. There are little wax kings and tiny wax princes. There are also models of houses and theaters. On the highest shelves are the wax figures for adults. When the queen’s brother Emperor Joseph II came to visit, he bought two miniatures of Venus in the nude. The princes want to see and touch everything, while Madame Royale stands back, surveying the shop from the entrance.

“You are welcome to take whatever you wish,” Curtius says.

“Only one figure,” the king adds. “Everything in moderation.”

The princes choose wax soldiers, and Madame Royale takes an image of a sleeping cat.

My mother appears with our best china bowl, covered with a square napkin of silk. “For Her Majesty.” She curtsies very low. “May she enjoy it in the best of health.” She holds it out for the queen, and one of the Swiss Guards who have been following us steps forward to take it.

“I am deeply grateful, Madame Grosholtz. We shall not soon forget this trip.”

Outside, the royal carriage is waiting for its charges. The sleek horses and liveried guards look like something from another world on the bleak Boulevard du Temple. We watch as the royal family is escorted into their gold and velvet coach, and when they are gone, we return to the Salon. My mother goes upstairs to our private quarters, and I’m grateful that Henri helps Curtius move the tableau of the sleeping du Barry back into its empty space. Rose, however, is standing in front of her waxen image.

“I would like to be thinner,” she says critically.

“And I would like to be more buxom,” I reply.

She stares at me, then breaks into laughter. “Very well, Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Very well.”