Madame Tussaud

Chapter 6

FEBRUARY

4, 1789

The contagious example of the Duc d’Orléans [is ruinous].

—MADAME CAMPAN,

FIRST LADY-IN-WAITING TO MARIE ANTOINETTE

ALTHOUGH I SHOULD BE LAYING OUT CALIPERS AND BOWLS of plaster, I am standing in Henri’s workshop surrounded by the most curious instruments of science. Because I have been so busy with the Salon, I have not been here for several months—perhaps even a year, I realize with shock—and in that time much has changed. Placed haphazardly on the long wooden countertops are gadgets I have never seen before, and in between them are clear tubes filled with bubbling liquid. Everything looks new, but then that is the nature of science. Whereas wax will be the same in two hundred years, science changes daily.

Like the house that we rent, Henri’s home with his brother, Jacques, has been divided into three parts. On the first floor is a vast auditorium with a sprawling workshop behind it, while upstairs are large chambers off a long hall and a kitchen. For me, the workshop is the most soothing. I imagine this is how Henri feels as well. It is probably a place where he can shut out the incessant noise of the Boulevard and concentrate on something quiet. While the crowds outside may never stop, art and science will go at your own pace. Even when an exhibition has gone poorly, I find peace in retiring to the back of my workshop to be among the tools of my trade.

At a table on the far side of the room, Jacques Charles is scribbling furiously. Above him hangs the formula for which he is known, v₁/t₁ = v₂/t_2. The volume of a gas at constant pressure increases linearly with the absolute temperature of the gas. This is how Henri initially explained it to me. His words had confounded me for days until I returned and he showed me the experiment that resulted in the equation. He took a deflated silk balloon and held it over a lighted candle. The silk envelope twitched and flickered upward from his outstretched fingers. Heat expanded air, air filled the balloon, then the balloon went up. Magic, and not magic at all.

When Jacques Charles lifts his head and greets us, I refrain from asking him what he is working on. My business is with Madame Sainte-Amaranthe and her daughter, and the fewer questions I ask, the sooner I will be able to return to the Salon. Still, I wonder when he will launch his next balloon. A model of the one launched in the Tuileries Gardens hangs next to the formula above his head. It is an exact replica, from its wicker gondola to its valve-and-ballast system. Nearly half a million people had been there to see it off, and because our family were special guests of the Charles brothers, we were granted a place in the front row across from the queen and her ménage. The queen had dressed her ladies in loose, flowing lévites, pink and yellow to coordinate with the color of the balloon. Matching scarves were tied around their waists, and their pink bonnets were identical. Only the queen herself stood out, in a lévite and bonnet of the purest white. I look around the workshop and realize what is missing. “The plaque from the queen,” I say. “Commemorating your flight. What happened to it?”

Henri exchanges a look with his brother. Although fifteen years separate them, in some ways they are strikingly similar. I can see their kinship now in the way they both lower their eyes. “We thought it prudent to put it away,” Henri explains, “in case anyone should wish to tour our laboratory.”

“It could be a major draw to your exhibition!” I look at Curtius to see if he agrees, but he is silent.

“Do you know why the people were respectful during Their Majesties’ visit to your Salon?” Henri asks. “Because bread and firewood were passed out in their names all along the Boulevard du Temple that morning.”

So the king and queen are savvy. They know that a peaceful outing in Paris requires a donation to the local poor. “I don’t see why that means you should take down her gift.”

“If she had not placated the people, they would have stood at your doors shouting ‘Down with The Austrian.’ ”

I don’t believe it. “They’ve been coming in droves to see what she’s seen.”

“This week,” he points out. “What about next week? Or the week after that?”

“She isn’t popular,” my uncle says quietly, and this is the first I’ve heard him speak against her. “We should listen carefully to what’s happening. There may come a time when the Duc is more popular than the king.”

“The Duc d’Orléans?” I exclaim. The man who stumbles into his coach too drunk to sit upright every Tuesday night? The man who has publicly humiliated his wife by installing his mistress as governess, giving her the right to educate his children despite the Duchesse d’Orléans’s pleas to raise her own sons and daughters?

“He has sold art from his estate worth more than eight million livres,” Jacques says. He stands next to his brother. “He is using the money to buy bread and firewood for the poor.”

“And the peasants have begun calling him Father Charity,” Henri adds flatly.

“So he thinks to win the crown through a popularity contest?” I demand.

Everyone around me nods. To displace a king. It is unthinkable.

“Come. Let’s hear the Invisible Girl,” Curtius says. “That is a far more cheerful subject.”

But as we cross the workshop, I can’t stop thinking about the Duc, imagining him on the king’s throne, wearing the king’s crown. And who would be his queen? His mistress, Mary Nesbitt, whose origin can be traced to a wheelbarrow according to the scandal sheets? Or perhaps it would be Grace Elliott, London’s finest courtesan? And what would become of his wife, the beautiful and neglected Duchesse d’Orléans? I am so obviously disturbed by this prospect that Curtius puts his arm around my shoulder and says, “It will be fine. We didn’t come here to speak politics.” It is a reminder that I must look interested and enjoy the entertainment.

Henri hesitates before the door to the auditorium. “We can do this another time.”

“No,” I say. “I wish to see it. I don’t want to be the only one in Paris who hasn’t met the Invisible Girl.”

Curtius smiles at me. It is important to him that we keep on good terms with the Charles brothers, and Henri in particular, who has been like another son to him, fixing our mechanics, painting our walls, helping build our tableaux. We enter the auditorium, with its hundreds of seats and darkly painted walls. At the far end of the stage, a large box has been suspended from the ceiling. A giant horn has been affixed to the box. Henri waves us toward the stage, and I put my ear to the horn.

“That is a lovely green dress you have on,” someone says from the other side of the horn.

I jump back. “Where is she?” I look around. “How did she know?”

Henri laughs. “Can’t you figure it out?”

I am intrigued despite myself. Curtius puts his ear to the horn, and I hear a young woman’s voice tell him that his brown gloves are extremely elegant. Somehow, she can both see us and project her voice through the box. But she can’t be inside the box, for it is too small to accommodate a person. “She’s behind the stage,” my uncle says, “and there’s a peephole somewhere.”

“Close, but not quite.”

I listen again, and this time the girl compliments my green purse. I study the wall in front of me, then run my hands over its smooth surface. There is no hidden opening. I look up, and there, craftily disguised by a hanging lamp, is a peephole. “She’s up there!” I exclaim. Henri watches me with open fascination. “She’s looking down on us. And the mouthpiece of the horn … you have extended it all the way up to the attic.”

“You are the first person to guess it.”

It’s incredibly ingenious. “It will make you a million livres!” I say.

“Is that all you think about?” Henri laughs, but there is earnestness in his question. “Curtius, you have raised a coldhearted entrepreneur. The only thing money is good for, Marie, is buying time. The time to do the things you like.”

I often forget that exhibitions are a secondary passion for him. His first love is the laboratory, but as the more versatile brother, he has taken on the role of provider. It is only in his spare time that he is able to join Jacques among the gadgets and glass tubes. “Well, think of all the time a million livres could buy,” I say. “You could construct an entire fleet of balloons.”

“If that ever happens, I shall name one Marie in your honor.” His dark eyes are studying mine.

Suddenly, I feel warm. “And will I get to choose the color?” I tease.

“Certainly. Which color would you like?”

I take a moment. And then it comes to me. “Gold.”

I AM LATE for my sitting with Madame Sainte-Amaranthe’s daughter. As Curtius and I rush through the door, my mother clucks her tongue disapprovingly. “They will be here in twenty minutes!”

“Then let them wait,” Curtius says.

“Madame Sainte-Amaranthe?” my mother and I shriek. She is one of the most powerful women in Paris. Men would sell their children to be invited to her Thursday evening salons and give up their wives to be a part of her exclusive gambling club, Cinquante. She has been mistress to the Prince de Condé and the Vicomte de Pons, and there is loud talk that the vicomte is the father of her two children. She has her own box at the Italiens, the Opéra, the Comédie. This is not a woman accustomed to waiting.

“It will be good for her,” Curtius says wryly. “A new experience.”

“Or perhaps she will leave, and that will be a new experience for us,” I tell him.

We enter the workshop, and I see that my mother has done her best to prepare for the sitting, anticipating our needs. “The plaster!” I ask. “Where is the plaster?”

“Right in front of you,” my mother says calmly.

I am flustered. I haven’t even readied the clay. And I am sure Madame Sainte-Amaranthe will not wish to have plaster applied directly to her daughter’s face. That means the wax mold must be made from a sculpture. It takes a quiet mind to sculpt, not one filled with strange contraptions and horns. The Invisible Girl! I scowl at Curtius, who is directing my mother on how to rearrange certain items. I have barely calmed my mind when Yachin announces the Sainte-Amaranthe family, then takes it upon himself to escort them personally through the Salon and into the workshop. I see why at once. He is only two years younger than Madame’s daughter, Émilie, and at fourteen she is already a stunning beauty. She has come in a dress of long white gauze threaded through with silver.

“Thank you, Yachin.” But our barker cannot take his eyes from her. “You may go now,” I say. I am surprised he is able to walk away without tripping over himself.

Madame Sainte-Amaranthe gives a little laugh that I hope Yachin cannot hear. “My daughter has this effect on men.” She turns a dazzling smile to Curtius, and it is clear that she thinks she still has this effect as well. Many years ago, when the Prince de Condé requested a nude of his mistress, my uncle made two. One went to the prince’s boudoir; the other lies scantily clad in our Salon.

“As do you, Madame.… You are still next to Madame du Barry,” Curtius flatters her. “My two sleeping beauties.”

“I thought you would have found a younger woman,” Madame Sainte-Amaranthe replies, dangling her fish on the line. “I am surprised you keep it.”

My uncle takes the bait. “Madame, I could search the faces of a thousand women and never find one who is your equal.”

It is a credit to my mother that she is still wearing her most welcoming smile. She understands that wealthy women of a particular age, after a lifetime of bartering their beauty, do not know any other way of interacting with men. Now that Madame has assuaged her ego, she turns to her children. “Émilie, Louis, I would like you to meet Dr. Curtius.” My uncle bows again. “Madame Grosholtz.” My mother continues to smile. “And her daughter, Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

“Please, call me Marie,” I say.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Louis replies. He is as delicately framed and beautiful as his older sister. “Will it be possible for my mother and me to watch while you make Émilie’s sculpture?” he asks graciously. She has brought them up well.

“Of course,” my uncle says. “These chairs are for you.” My mother has taken our best seats from upstairs and arranged them at the far end of the workshop, near the fire. “Madame Grosholtz will fetch us some drinks while Marie begins. When the head is finished, I will work on the rest of the model.”

Curtius rarely sculpts faces anymore, mostly because there is too much to do entertaining guests and fashioning miniatures for our Curiosity Shop.

“Have you brought clothes?” I ask Émilie, directing her to a stool across from my worktable.

“My mother has them. Will you be putting the model in the Salon?”

“If you approve of it,” I tell her and fetch my caliper.

“Oh, there is nothing I’d like more!” she says while I measure her face. “But what I really want is for François Elleviou to see it.”

“The singer?” I ask.

“You have heard of him?” she exclaims.

Like all young people, she cannot believe that someone as old as I am might have heard of François Elleviou. “He is something of a sensation,” I say wryly. “I’m certain most of Paris has heard his name.”

“My mother hadn’t. Not until I begged her to invite him to our salon.”

I want to say that it is my job to be well informed, that people don’t come to an exhibition to see figures that are of no interest. Instead, I reply, “Then she knows who he is now.”

Émilie smiles, and I notice that both of her cheeks are dimpled. They are too charming not to include in the sculpture. “She certainly does. He is courting me.” Before I can reply she says, “There is a man in the doorway!”

I turn, and there is Robespierre. Yachin must have sent him back. I cannot fathom what he might want. As I cross the room, I wipe my hands on my apron. “Monsieur Robespierre. What a delightful surprise.”

“I do not mean to interrupt,” he says quickly. “I happened to be passing and thought to deliver a message to your uncle in person.”

I point to the back of the workshop, where Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is in danger of exposing her bosom. She is showing my uncle something on her feet, perhaps a new gold buckle. Robespierre makes a great performance of disapproving. “You have guests,” he says with distaste.

“Allow me to introduce Madame Sainte-Amaranthe and her daughter, Émilie.”

He looks at Émilie, perched on her stool like a Grecian goddess. There are few women who can live up to such hyperbole. I have seen only two: the queen’s dearest friend, the Princesse de Lamballe, who was as pale and flawless as a diamond when I saw her over ten years ago at Versailles, and now Émilie.

“She is fourteen,” I tell him, “and this is her first sitting.”

Robespierre makes the briefest of bows, then hurries across the workshop to greet my uncle. I feel sorry for him. It’s not his arrogance that keeps him from engaging with women, but a lack of self-confidence.

I return to the clay model and take up my caliper to be sure that I have the nose just right.

“Who is that?” Émilie whispers.

“Robespierre. A lawyer from Arras.”

“Does he always wear green spectacles?”

“Yes. He does not see well.”

“Like the king. I’ve heard that the corners of all his furniture are rounded in case he should run into them.”

But I am stopped from replying by something else extraordinary. A courtier in the king’s livery has been shown in by Yachin. The workshop falls silent as the man holds out a letter for me. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz?”

“Yes.” I study the man’s powdered wig, his silk stockings, his blue livery. Even the nail on his smallest left finger, grown long so that he may scratch on King Louis’s doors—no one is allowed to knock but the queen—indicates his status.

“A request from Madame Élisabeth, sister to His Majesty King Louis the Sixteenth.”

I gasp, and Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is already on her feet. I break the seal and begin to read. “An invitation. An invitation to instruct Madame Élisabeth in the art of wax modeling for twenty livres a day!” That is more than the Salon takes in.

Immediately, Curtius is at my side. “When?” he asks.

“Beginning the second of April!” I can hardly believe my luck. An invitation from the royal family and witnesses to spread the news that I shall be going to Versailles! I could not have planned it better if I had paid Yachin to shout the news in the streets. Think of all the figures I’ll be able to make! A new model of the Princesse de Lamballe. And certainly one of the king’s sister, who has never been done. I pass around the letter.

“We will send our answer shortly,” Curtius says and tips the man handsomely, as well he should. I may see that man again in the halls of Versailles.

My mother has returned with a tray of warm drinks. When she hears the news, she lowers it onto my worktable and sinks into a chair. “Such a tremendous honor,” she says in German. “But … what of the scandals?”

Only my uncle and I can understand, but we both look instinctively toward Robespierre.

“It is something to consider,” Curtius replies, then asks Robespierre in French, “What would you do?”

“What does it matter what he would do?” Madame Sainte-Amaranthe exclaims. “It is an invitation from Madame Élisabeth herself, signed by the king.”

Robespierre stiffens at the rebuke. “I would turn it down,” he says at once.

“An offer from Versailles?” Émilie asks. “That is insane.”

A flush creeps up Robespierre’s neck.

“I would not be going for the queen,” I say quickly. “It is the king’s sister.”

“And Marie can tell us the mood of the palace,” Curtius placates Robespierre. “When you and Camille are made deputies, you will be glad to have someone who knows Versailles.”

“You are to be a deputy?” Émilie asks.

“Only if I am elected,” Robespierre replies, “by a fair and undisputed vote.”

“Why shouldn’t it be fair?” Émilie inquires.

“Because very little is fair in this country of ours. Which is what the Third Estate has every intention of changing come the fifth of May!” He raises his hat. “I came to tell you that I am giving a speech at the Palais-Royal at noon. But I can see that you are busy. Enjoy the rest of your morning.”

When Robespierre is well gone, Émilie wrinkles her nose. “An unpleasant man.”

THAT EVENING, WHEN the wax mold is cooling and I am sweeping the steps of the Salon, I see Henri leaning against a lamppost. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his dark hair has been pulled back with a leather band. He looks as though he has been waiting for me, and immediately my pulse quickens, despite the fact that I see him daily. “How long have you been standing there?” I ask.

He smiles. “Since you first began humming Gluck.”

“Was it in tune?”

“Not particularly.”

“I took singing lessons, you know.”

“From whom? Astley and Sons?” Philip Astley runs a circus of prancing horses and performing bears. “I hear an invitation has arrived.”

“This will be the making of us.”

“Versailles is not …” Henri looks troubled. “They are ruthless there. The ladies will never permit you to get close to the queen. There are rules for everything. Sitting, standing, eating, sleeping. You are used to freedom. You are used to coming and going as you please. The women of the court won’t abide this.”

“Then I will adapt. But everyone in Paris will know of our exhibition. Everyone in France.”