Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

Chapter 7

MARCH

28, 1789

It was a masterpiece of etiquette. Everything was regulated.

—MADAME CAMPAN,

FIRST LADY-IN-WAITING TO MARIE ANTOINETTE

MY BROTHERS HAVE COME FROM VERSAILLES TO HELP ME prepare. Since the news arrived nearly two months ago, it seems that all I have done is get ready. There have been fittings in a dozen different shops to be sure that I am properly attired, and lessons with a master of dance who has taught me the curtsies for court. I will be joining a palace of ten thousand people, nine hundred of them nobles, and my presence must be a good reflection on my brothers, who all guard the king.

This is the first time in nearly three months that Edmund, Johann, and Wolfgang have come home, and they are dressed in the splendid uniform of the Swiss Guard: red pantaloons, white stockings, and a hat in the style of Henry IV, with three magnificent feathers. Edmund, who never smiles, is thirty-five. Johann, who wishes to be at home with his wife and son, is thirty-three. And Wolfgang, who would sneak off with my allowance as a child to go gambling, is twenty-nine. Because we are the closest in age, I have the most affection for him. We have gathered around the table in the salon, and while my mother rushes back and forth from the kitchen, Johann, my most generous brother, is complimenting my figure of the dauphin.

“There couldn’t be a better likeness,” he says with an easy smile. He has the round cheeks of a painted cherub. “Did you see it, Edmund?”

My eldest brother glares across the table. “It was next to the vulgar display of the queen dressed for her boudoir.”

“Then you approve,” I say. I can never keep from needling him.

“The queen saw the tableau,” Wolfgang reminds him. “She didn’t disapprove.”

“Was she wearing the same shift?” Edmund demands. He knows how exhibitions work, that as soon as the queen was gone, we changed her modest gown to something with more appeal to the commoners. “This is how rumors start,” he accuses.

“We’ve done nothing but change her shift,” I argue, though I know that if we were being fair to the queen, we would not portray her so. But we have shown nothing that isn’t already in a hundred different libelles, obscene pamphlets available in every café along the Palais-Royal. They charge her with every kind of indecency, from having an affair with the Comte d’Artois, the king’s handsome brother, to lesbian orgies with the Princesse de Lamballe.

Edmund shakes his head. His face is leaner than I remember, and his arms are corded with muscle. “Every image of the queen makes a political statement, and nothing speaks as loudly as her dress. Your models are the only access commoners have to the queen. And what about those who can’t read or write? This Salon is their only news. And this news is telling them that the queen prepares for her bed like some woman at the Palais-Royal. It is immodest and in poor taste. Better your exhibition take in fewer sous—”

“And shut down?” Wolfgang exclaims. “This is not the time to be taking in less money—there was a line outside the bakery this morning.”

“There is a line every morning,” I amend.

All three of my brothers look shocked.

“It has been this way for several months,” Curtius tells them. “The lines begin at two in the morning, and when the baker opens the doors, only the first fifty people come away with bread. And it has doubled in price. Haven’t you heard about this in Versailles?”

“The king has a country to administer,” Edmund replies. “He does not make it his business to know about the bakery lines in Paris.”

“It isn’t just Paris,” I tell him. “It’s likely the whole of France.”

“What about the streetlights?” Wolfgang asks. “This morning, most on the Palais-Royal and the Boulevard du Temple were out. How long has it been since they were refilled?”

Curtius and I exchange looks, trying to remember. “At least three months,” I answer. The city lacks funds to buy the oil. “All of the theaters and cafés, even the Opéra, must close when the sun is set, else their patrons risk collision or robbery on the roads.”

“I would not mention this in the palace,” Edmund says. It is not a suggestion, but a command. “These things are not spoken of to Their Majesties.”

“That goes for Madame Élisabeth as well?” I ask. People are starving, bread is scarce, and Their Majesties don’t know? It is a crime, what the advisers to the king are allowing.

“To anyone in the royal family. If you mention it, you will bring disgrace upon us, and you will bring disgrace upon the Salon de Cire. Nothing you say remains secret in Versailles. The royal family is never left alone. There is always someone listening—always.”

I look across the table at Wolfgang, who does not contradict him.

“When the queen begins her toilette in the morning,” Edmund continues, “there are separate attendants for her hair, her powder, her dress. When she bathes at night, it is in a long flannel gown in front of her women. When she prepares for bed during her coucher, the Mistress of the Robes, the dames d’honneur, the Superintendent of the Queen’s Household—they are all present.”

“How unbearable.” To be surrounded by people all day. When is there time to be alone with your thoughts?

“It is her job,” Johann says. “From the moment she arrived from Austria, she was trained in these rules of etiquette.”

“Those are the rules of court,” Edmund stresses. “That is what separates Their Majesties from everyone else.”

Suddenly, I am nervous. It is one thing to model and display the royal family, but to have to live their life, that is something else. “I will be discreet,” I promise.

“You must understand the queen’s lever,” Johann says. “There are different women to help her dress. The première femme must hand the queen’s chemise to the dame d’honneur, who then takes off her glove in order to hand the chemise to the queen. However, if a Princesse of the Blood should arrive in the middle, it must all be started over again so that the princesse can be the one to present the queen with her chemise.”

“But that is not all,” Wolfgang says quickly. “The queen is not allowed to reach for anything herself. If she wants water, it must be fetched by the dame d’honneur.”

“And if the dame d’honneur isn’t present?” I ask.

“Then she goes thirsty.”

Ludicrous! “And this happens every day?”

My brothers exchange looks. “Less frequently now that Her Majesty spends her time at the Trianon,” Johann replies.

The king gifted Marie Antoinette with the Petit Trianon as a private residence. It is a quarter league from Versailles, and though I have never seen it, I am told that it is the most charming château in Paris, surrounded by orange trees and an English garden. The queen has turned it into her private palace, with its own special livery of silver and scarlet. “Who can blame her?” I say. “Who wouldn’t want time for themselves?”

“She has a responsibility to the court,” Edmund replies.

“To live like a wax model?” my mother asks, surprising everyone. None of us saw her sit down. “To be dressed and redressed like a doll?”

“She belongs to the people,” Edmund says stiffly. “The king rules by God’s will, and the queen reflects his glory. Whether or not she likes the rules, she must abide by them.”

“But who made them?” Wolfgang challenges. “Not God. Man. Courtiers,” he adds, “who want to know that their place in the royal hierarchy is assured. What should it matter who hands the queen her underwear so long as she’s wearing some?”

My mother smiles, but Edmund has gone red in the face.

“Leave it for another time,” Curtius suggests, and Johann puts a restraining hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “He only says it to rile you up. Like Marie.”

Wolfgang grins at me, and I suppress a laugh, since I know it will simply make Edmund more enraged and upset my mother. We see my brothers rarely enough. It would be foolish to spend what little time we have with them arguing over whether the queen deserves privacy.

There is no more talk of Versailles as we eat. My mother has prepared sauerkraut and sausages, potatoes, and warm Viennese bread. For dessert, I help her serve Bavarian crème we purchased in the Palais-Royal. There are no fruits to accompany it, since there are none to be had for any amount of money, but it is delicious. By the time the sun has set, even Edmund has relaxed.

“So when will you bring your son to see his grandmother?” my mother implores Johann.

“Next month,” he promises.

My mother sighs. “And how will he know me if I see him only for Christmas and Easter?”

“I tell him stories all the time.”

“Pffff.” She waves her hand through the air. “It is not the same.”

“We will try to come in summer.”

I see that my mother is already making plans in her head: where Isabel and Paschal will stay, what she will cook, and how she will entertain her four-year-old grandson.

The church bell of Saint-Merri sounds, and Wolfgang looks out the window. “It’s a shame we can’t stay longer.”

“But we’ll see each other soon, at Versailles,” I say.

Wolfgang looks uncertain. “We eat in the Grand Commune with the courtiers. Madame Élisabeth may want to you to dine in Montreuil, the little house the king gave her. It’s at the entrance to Versailles. But—”

“It might as well be in another country,” Johann finishes. “She is very religious, Marie. If she were not the king’s sister, she would have entered a convent years ago.”

“But her aunt is a Carmelite nun,” I say. “Certainly she could enter a convent, if she wished.”

“She does. But the king needs her,” Johann says bluntly.

I look at Edmund, and when he doesn’t protest, I realize what Johann is saying. “So she’s given up her life for her brother.”

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that,” Johann says, uncomfortably. “She is happy to devote her life to him. But she is very religious,” he repeats.

“She dines at four and retires when the sun is set,” Wolfgang clarifies. “She almost never goes to the palace. So it’s unlikely we will see much of each other.”

“It doesn’t matter, Marie,” Curtius says reassuringly. “Montreuil, Versailles, you are working for the king.”

“The king’s nunlike sister,” I say with disappointment. I had imagined seeing the king riding out to the hunt and the queen in her latest coiffures. “How will this serve us?”

“She is a good woman,” Edmund says sternly. “It may not serve the Salon de Cire. But you will be serving her, and that should be enough.”

My brothers rise to leave, and when I embrace Wolfgang farewell he whispers in my ear, “If we don’t see each other, write to me. You can trust Madame Élisabeth’s lady-in-waiting, the Marquise de Bombelles, to deliver a message.”

“I will,” I promise. There must be some advantage to this, I think. There has to be!

I hug Johann fiercely, but I do not embrace Edmund. Instead, we stand across from each other as if oceans separate us. It has always been this way. “A safe journey,” I tell him.

He nods formally. “And you.” As my mother and Curtius embrace the others, Edmund speaks quietly to me. “It would do the Salon great credit if you were to clothe the queen in something modest.”

“It is business, Edmund! It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything. I am not mistaken. I have told Curtius many times. He doesn’t care. I am hoping you have more sense.”

As we watch the carriage roll away, bound for the Palace of Versailles, we hear Wolfgang’s and Johann’s cheerful voices carried on the night air. But I am silently arguing with my eldest brother. There are images of the queen in every corner of Paris. What separates ours from all other images is the illusion of flesh. The tantalizing curve of the queen’s neck, the softness of her hand, the painted toenails peeking out from beneath her lacy shift. The people want to see this. We are simply giving them what they want. Where is the harm in that?