Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

Chapter 8

APRIL

2, 1789

The court lost no time in going à la mode. Every woman became a lesbian and a whore.

—ANONYMOUS LIBELLISTE

EVERYONE HAS COME TO SEE ME OFF, FROM OUR TAILOR AND Yachin to the chandler down the street. As I make my farewells to all these people, I remember why this is so important. I may be spending four days of my week in Montreuil, but my absence will only reinforce to the public that our models are worthy of the royal family’s notice. A freshly painted sign in the window now reads, NEW MODELS COMING SOON FROM MADEMOISELLE GROSHOLTZ, PERSONAL TUTOR AT VERSAILLES. I read it again, simply because it doesn’t seem real.

“Will you bring something back for me from the palace?” Yachin asks.

I laugh. “Like what?”

“How about playing cards?”

“What? Shall I steal a deck from the queen?”

“Okay, a pair of dice.”

“And how am I supposed to come across dice?” When his eagerness flags, I promise him, “I’ll see what I can do.”

My mother is looking increasingly worried. She thinks I won’t feed myself in Versailles. While everyone is chatting pleasantly, she takes me to one side. “Please, just remember to eat. No model is so important that you should skip dinner.”

“I will eat like a princesse,” I swear. “Or at least, the tutor of one.” But she doesn’t believe me. “Look at Johann,” I tell her. “Going to Versailles hasn’t done him any harm.”

“He is not you,” she says in German. “He does not become so busy that he forgets to eat.”

This is true. I doubt Johann has ever forgotten a meal. Whereas being a guard has kept Edmund fit, Johann has clearly indulged in the rich foods provided in the Grand Commune. He has the round, fat face of a German now, which pleases my mother.

“I will promise to eat,” I tell her, “if you promise to watch Curtius. Don’t let him give away tickets for free. If it’s the Empress of Russia herself, she pays.”

My mother heaves an exasperated sigh. “I will do what I can.”

“Forbid him from giving anything away.” I take her hands. “This is a business.”

She kisses my cheek. “Viel Glück,” she says warmly. “Give your brothers my love.”

I make the rest of my personal good-byes. I hug Curtius, then tell Henri that I will miss his rational talk of politics and science. And to Yachin I say, “I want to know if drunken theatergoers are still pissing in the urns.” Our new plants have become favorite places for uncouth men to relieve themselves.

“I’ll send a message,” he swears. He has been given a good education at his temple. Unlike many children, he can read and write. Then he adds, “If you find perfume, I would be happy to have that as well.”

“Have some manners,” Henri chastens, but the boy only grins.

I make my way through the crowd to the waiting berline. The luggage has been tied to the roof by the driver, and Curtius helps me into the coach. Already I feel different. Like a woman of some consequence. Curtius presses his lips to my hand, and I can see in his eyes that he is proud, which is important to me. I want him to know that I shall never disappoint him.

“Remember the honors,” he says, recalling the lessons I’ve had these two months. What he is truly saying is to mind myself at court.

“I will. If you finish the model of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe, and make a second one for the Salon. You will, won’t you?”

“There is nothing to worry about, Marie.” As the carriage rolls away, he calls, “Auf Wiedersehen!”

I look through the window and study the faces—most happy, some resentful—crowding the steps of the Salon de Cire. Then I sit back against the cushions of the expensive berline and wonder how much it cost my uncle to hire. It is a coach for four, and I am the only one inside. But it is for the greater good of the Salon, I remind myself. I am like a farmer who feeds his cow the best hay for the time when it will make his own dinner. I will not disgrace my brothers at Montreuil. And however secluded Madame Élisabeth may be, I will find a way of using this position to our advantage.

I stare out the window at the lines outside every bakery. Countless shops, which once teemed with women in lace-trimmed bonnets, have gone out of business. Dirty sans-culottes—men who cannot afford knee-length trousers with stockings—sit on the steps of these empty shops and roll dice. Their long pants hang around their ankles, unhemmed and trailing in the dirt. My mother believes this is God’s work. That last summer’s driving rain and hailstones destroyed France’s crops because of God’s sharp disapproval. But of what? Our Austrian queen? What has she done that a dozen mistresses have not? Our king? He pursues his hobbies of lock making and building the way previous kings bought horses and bedded women. No, I cannot agree with my mother’s reasoning. Nature has done this, and Nature will repair it. Already there are leaves on the trees.

By the time we reach the golden gates of Montreuil in the southeast of Versailles, I have put the hardships of Paris out of mind. I am here! It is real, and before me stretch the vast, manicured lawns of Princesse Élisabeth’s château. The king’s liveried guards stand at the gates. They are dressed in blue, with white silk stockings and silver lace at their cuffs. Their hair is powdered and worn in tails tied back with silver buckles. The carriage rolls abruptly to a stop.

“She is to be driven up to the porch,” I hear the guard say.

As the gates are thrown open and the berline passes through, I smooth the material of my blue gown with my palms. When the château comes into view, I am surprised. It is more rustic than majestic: a two-storied home nestled in the trees and painted a becoming hue of pink. The shutters have all been thrown open, and flowers spill from boxes on every window. I expected to be greeted by one of the dames du palais, but it is Madame Élisabeth herself who is standing beneath the colonnaded porch. She is dressed in a chestnut-colored gown of rich satin, and her thick blond hair is heavily powdered. She is twenty-five to the queen’s thirty-three, and in the fresh spring light, this difference is significant. I had not noticed it at the Salon, but as I descend from the carriage and approach the steps, I am surprised by how young Madame Élisabeth looks. The plumpness in her cheeks is rather becoming, and they are red without the aid of any rouge. Immediately, I descend into the curtsy I have practiced and wait for Madame to speak.

“Welcome to Versailles, Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Was it a pleasant ride?”

“Very pleasant, Madame.” Behind me, half a dozen servants are taking my baskets from the top of the berline and whisking them inside. “The wildflowers are bursting with color,” I tell her. “The countryside looks like an artist’s palette.”

“Do you paint then, Mademoiselle Grosholtz?”

“Please, just Marie,” I say humbly. “Yes. It is a necessary skill for wax modeling.”

“Then we have something in common already.” She turns and motions to a woman who has appeared in the doorway. “Marie, please meet the Marquise de Bombelles.”

The marquise is extraordinarily tall, and it is unfortunate that she has chosen to wear one of the queen’s fashionable poufs. On such a long face, it would have been better if she had simply powdered her own hair. I cannot determine how old she is. I could believe any number of ages, since she has not taken care to stay out of the sun, and wrinkles line her forehead and mouth. “A pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

“Please, it is just Marie,” I repeat and make a small curtsy.

She smiles thinly, and I wonder if I have done right. “I hear you have come to tutor our Élisabeth in wax modeling. She tells me you have an extraordinary gift.”

“Then Madame Élisabeth gives me too much credit,” I say. “I’ve simply come to teach her what little I know.”

“Such humility! I have seen Marie’s wax exhibition,” Madame Élisabeth replies, “and I promise you, I do not give her too much credit.” She links arms with the marquise; they make an odd pair: one blond and short, the other dark and tall. “Shall we show her Montreuil?”

I am given a tour of the grounds, beginning with the cheerful orangerie, painted white and gold as if to remind people of its purpose. The workers bow to us as we pass, and a gardener hurries to open the heavy white doors. “Madame,” he says reverently.

Madame Élisabeth smiles. “Thank you, Antoine.”

She knows his name, and I wonder if she is as familiar with everyone in Montreuil.

“Ah.” There is the warm, spring scent of orange blossoms in the air, and Madame Élisabeth inhales deeply. “It will be a good harvest this year,” she tells Antoine.

“Without doubt. Madame has a way with plants.”

As we step inside, I can see that the orangerie is for more than growing citrus. Besides the orange trees, whose shiny leaves and white blossoms catch the light of the sun, there are roses in every color. Jasmine and wisteria climb from ceramic pots to cover the ground. It is a riot of color and fragrances.

“This is de Bombelles’s favorite tree,” Madame Élisabeth says. “She planted it last year, and look how it’s grown.”

It is tall and thin, like its owner. I am guessing from its leaves that it will produce limes. “These must take a great deal of time and care,” I say.

The Marquise de Bombelles nods seriously. “We come here every morning to check on our fruits. This is a working farm.” We exit the orangerie and enter the dairy. “Madame Élisabeth helps to milk the cows and plants the crops herself.”

I turn to the king’s sister to see if this is true. I cannot imagine a princesse of France wishing to dirty her hands with such things.

“We do it for the villagers,” Madame Élisabeth explains. “They are in great want. The milk from this dairy can feed two hundred families every month. And the fruit keeps the local children healthy.”

I am surprised. “And they know this generosity comes from you?”

She looks puzzled. “Yes. I distribute the food myself.”

Yet the vicious libellistes would have the world believe that the king’s family shuts itself away in velvet rooms. During all of his time in our salon, I have never once heard the Duc mention the princesse’s generosity. I think of his self-satisfied grin when Robespierre and Camille rage against the monarchy, and how he sits back and swirls his brandy when Marat asks him what should be done about our king.

We step inside the sprawling château of Montreuil. Everywhere, there is religious art. Images of Christ and his virgin mother, and of the saints in their suffering. If not for the cheerful colors on the wall and the large bouquets at every table, it might be the interior of a convent.

“This is to be your room,” Madame Élisabeth says, showing me a first-floor chamber that is many times the size of mine at home. It is apple green with rich furnishings, and the windows face the handsome orangerie. I am entranced, listening to the birdsong and smelling the earthy fragrance.

“It’s enchanting, isn’t it?” Madame Élisabeth asks. She crosses the room and opens a pair of doors on the far side. “And this shall be our workshop,” she says.

We step inside, and the Marquise de Bombelles watches my expression. Windows stretch from ceiling to floor, letting in an abundance of natural light. A dozen cabinets have been arranged along the far wall, and each has been carefully labeled: paints, canvases, wax, plaster, tools, brushes. A specially designed counter in the middle of the room stands prepared for whatever takes Madame’s fancy. Immediately, I am imagining ways in which we can improve our workshop at home.

“What do you think?” Madame Élisabeth asks with sincerity. “Will it do?”

It is any artist’s dream. If it were Henri asking, or Curtius, I’d laugh. Instead, I school my features into an expression of great earnestness. “Yes, Madame, I think it will do nicely.”

She claps her hands. “Then we will begin tomorrow. Ten o’clock.” She looks at the Marquise de Bombelles. “Shall we give her the tour of Versailles?”

I am holding my breath, practically willing yes into the Marquise de Bombelles’s head. “It is already noon,” she says hesitantly, studying the clock. “If we take our dinner later than four, we will not be on time for vespers.”

I feel my heart sink.

“What if it’s just a quick drive?” Madame Élisabeth asks, though of course she needs no one’s approval.

I can see that the Marquise de Bombelles is caught between pleasing the princesse and routine. Life in Montreuil is well scheduled, and now I have come and interrupted it all.

“Oh, let’s go!” Madame Élisabeth decides. “We haven’t been to the palace in days. How often am I able to show another artist the splendor of Versailles?”

I try not to look too triumphant.

THE GLASS berline that takes us to the palace is lined in velvet. Its rich silk cushions are embroidered with gold, and the horses are as richly dressed as the king’s Swiss Guards, with white plumes that bob and sway in the breeze. I wish my mother could see me, sitting across from Madame Élisabeth and the Marquise de Bombelles as if I had been born and bred to court. We are chatting about the royal family’s paintings, and the art they have collected in Versailles since Louis XIV made this his home. I now realize how small our collection of paintings appeared to him, like visiting a rustic cottage when all you’ve known are châteaux.

I have not seen the palace in over a decade. I was sixteen when Curtius took me to sketch the Grand Couvert for a tableau. Although I can remember everything about the queen—down to the color of the ribbon in her hair—I recall very little about the work of the architect Louis Le Vau and the landscape architect André Le Nôtre except that it was magnificent. Now, as the carriage rounds the bend, the Palace of Versailles comes into view, and I am overwhelmed.

Perhaps I gasp, because Madame Élisabeth says, “It’s like a fairy-tale palace, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I breathe. At one time, when Louis XIII had determined to build his hunting lodge on this spot, the ground was marshy and unsuitable for living. But now! Now our Bourbon kings have tamed the wild, replacing the wetland with garden terraces and perfumed groves. Down Grand Avenue, bronze nymphets rise from the polished marble of a sprawling fountain. Like a giant mirror, the still waters reflect the entire length of the château. There could never be a more beautiful palace in all the world. No wonder the Duc d’Orléans covets his cousin’s crown.

The Swiss Guards recognize the princesse’s carriage, and we are allowed to pass directly into the Marble Courtyard. As we alight from the coach, courtiers are already crowding the upper windows of the palace, pointing and whispering behind their hands. I look down at my skirts, then at my shoes, to be certain I haven’t covered them in mud. What are they staring at? I look at the Marquise de Bombelles, who says archly, “Welcome to Versailles.”

“Ignore them,” Madame Élisabeth suggests.

“Are they staring at me?”

“Of course. You’re with us,” the marquise says as we walk toward the palace. “They want to know who you are and if you’re someone they should be plotting against.”

“They are simply ambitious,” Madame Élisabeth says with far more kindness than my brothers would have. “They all want grander and better privileges.”

“Yes,” the marquise adds bitterly, “such as the right to the candles.”

To light them? To snuff them out?

“Every evening,” she explains, “all of the candles in the palace are replaced.”

“Even if they’re unused?” I ask.

“That is the tradition,” Madame Élisabeth says gently.

The marquise looks at me, and I know at once she disagrees with this practice. “Only a few courtiers are allowed to collect them,” she says. “And the ones who do may make fifty thousand livres a year at the market.”

My God. That is ten times what we collect at the Salon de Cire, even in our best years. That is more than most noble families take in anywhere in France. No wonder the men and women here are scratching at each other’s eyes.

“And the clothes,” the marquise says, as we approach the doors. “Nothing the queen wears may ever be worn twice. So who is to get those taffeta dresses and silk riding habits? She must have five new pairs of shoes every week. If she doesn’t want them …”

“The dames order them anyway,” Madame Élisabeth finishes. “There is certainly waste.”

“Which is exactly how the courtiers want it!” the Marquise de Bombelles exclaims, suddenly passionate. “They are wolves, prowling around the henhouse. And when the hens are gone, they will blame the farmer that there were not enough hens and eat him, too!”

“So I should not expect a warm reception,” I say, trying to make light of it.

Madame Élisabeth puts her gloved hand on my arm. “It’s not anything to worry about, Marie. That is the true gift of Montreuil. We can stroll these grounds, then escape to tranquillity whenever we wish.” We have reached the château, and Madame Élisabeth says proudly, “My brother’s palace.”

A pair of guards open the doors, bowing as we enter. I am inside the Palace of Versailles, being led through the halls by the sister of the king. I take in everything. The wide murals, the gold-framed paintings, the Savonnerie carpets and rich velvet drapes. I must memorize the magnificent features of Versailles the way I memorize a person’s face. When I return to the Salon de Cire, we will re-create a different room each month!

Madame Élisabeth narrates as we walk, ignoring the bows of courtiers who stop talking as we pass to look longingly in our direction. They are like beggars, but there are no scraps to be had from her. It is not at all like I remember. I didn’t realize how many people were allowed to crowd these halls. Some of them are courtiers, but many, I can tell, are hangers-on. Others wear clothes that are ill-worn, and I am certain they have not bathed in many months. Their scent lingers heavily in the air, and even the violet powder and orange blossom pomade used by the courtiers cannot disguise it. They are looking for a handout, much like everyone else. How do my brothers keep the royal family safe when anyone may enter the grounds? I am shocked to see uncivilized men relieving themselves in the vases. I see feral cats and stray dogs marking territory and making deposits. Madame Élisabeth and the marquise fan themselves for air, and I do the same.

I am shown salons dedicated to the Greek gods Hercules and Mercury. Because I am an artist, like the female painter Vigée-Lebrun, who has painted many images of the queen, I am shown inside chambers that would otherwise be closed to me. Everywhere, there is art and references to the greater days of mankind, when men built temples of marble so high they kissed the brow of heaven. I commit it all to memory, from the Salon of Apollo, which served as the throne room for the Sun King himself, to the white-and-gold baroque chapel where Louis XVI wed our queen. Then I am taken to the Hall of Mirrors, and everything that has come before is suddenly erased in the face of such beauty. I stop walking.

“It is my favorite as well,” the princesse confides. She passes a triumphant look to the marquise.

The entire length of one side of the hall is lined with mirrors, seventeen mirrors so large that at night the light of the chandeliers must be reflected indefinitely. I can imagine the polished parquet floors gleaming beneath the candlelight like a lake. Like the wide sea of courtiers preening and posing in front of the mirrors, I am unable to keep from stealing a quick glance. I want to know what it looks like to be promenading through the palace with the king’s sister on one side and a marquise on the other. The rich fabrics of our gowns are reflected back to us in the glass. Everyone is watching, and the sharp clicks of courtier heels suddenly fall silent as they stop to bow before the princesse. I imagine the tableau I could create of this scene: The Princesse on Her Promenade!

But the hall is teeming with a hundred possibilities. There is The Courtier in White, a man dressed entirely in one color, from his silk stockings to the plumes in his hat. And The Man with Diamond Buckles, whose shoes reflect dazzlingly in the glass. I want to know these men’s names. I want to study their faces and re-create them in the privacy of my workshop at home. Imagine the fortune we could bring in if we could reconstruct the Hall of Mirrors inside our exhibition! But the high, frescoed ceiling alone would take a lifetime to imitate, even if we hired the best painters from the Palais-Royal. Still, it’s a thought I will tuck away. If Henri can create the illusion of magic, why can’t we create the illusion of a palace?

In front of everyone, Madame Élisabeth touches my arm and guides me toward a view of the gardens. The hall also possesses seventeen arched windows opposite its seventeen mirrors. Symmetry truly is the essence of beauty, not only in architecture but also in people. My most beautiful subjects have faces that are perfectly symmetrical. You can give me a group of people’s measurements, and without seeing them I can predict which man is the most handsome and which woman the most attractive. I told this once to Henri. When he refused to believe me, I asked him to use my caliper to take the measurements of two friends. He was to choose one of exceptional beauty, and one that Nature had overlooked. I forbade him from telling me which was which, and when I chose correctly, Henri was forced to admit that measurements never lie. I do not have a symmetrical face.

Dozens of women are walking the garden paths outside, and Madame Élisabeth says, “Those are the queen’s dames du palais.”

“Unfortunately,” the marquise breaks in, “we don’t have time to wander outside today.”

I turn to Madame Élisabeth, to see if the princesse might overrule her, but this time she nods. “Yes, we would not want to be late for vespers.”

I look back at the women laughing intimately behind their wide, jeweled fans. What’s the point of being at Versailles if my only view will be the orangerie outside of Montreuil? Madame Élisabeth smiles at me, and immediately I feel guilty for thinking this.

“Did you enjoy your tour?” she asks.

“There could not be a more splendid palace anywhere in existence.”

“Except in the kingdom of heaven.” Madame Élisabeth touches the cross at her neck. “Do you ever imagine what it will be like there?”

“I’m afraid my thoughts are more of this earth,” I admit.

“I imagine it always. The angels, the music, the gilded halls and crystal staircases …”

As we leave, each door is opened for us by a servant in blue and white silks. I wonder why the princesse would wish for heaven with all of this at her disposal. But perhaps there will be things mortals cannot imagine. Perhaps in heaven, I think rebelliously, the halls will not stink of urine.

I bring my square handkerchief to my nose again and see that Madame Élisabeth and the marquise have done the same. For all the beauty of the château, a stench has followed us throughout the halls, and here it is the worst. It is terrible, really. If I were better acquainted with Madame Élisabeth, I would ask why the king doesn’t insist that his private residence be private.

We leave the palace and ride back to Montreuil, arriving in time for vespers. Because Madame Élisabeth is sister to the king, she has been granted the privilege of her own private chapel. As the bell tolls four, everyone working in the small château gathers inside. There are at least two dozen of us, but I am the only one directed to the same pew as Madame Élisabeth. It is the place of honor for the newest guest, and I do not expect I will be seated here tomorrow. But today, I am at the side of Madame, praying with the greatest woman in the land after the queen herself.

While the priest sings Deus in adjutorium meum intende, I think of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. It is a few blocks from our Salon on the Boulevard du Temple, and certainly France’s greatest house of God. Everyone of means attends Mass there on Sunday, and it is a place I can study the nobility for as long as I please. I have modeled duchesses based on what I’ve seen of them in Notre-Dame. I’ve had men exclaim in utter astonishment at how well I’ve captured them in wax and ask how it was possible for a likeness to be so close when the subject had never done a sitting with me.

Unfortunately, there is no one to be seen in here. The chapel is small, and the pews are crowded with farmworkers and servants from the château. It is of no use to the Salon. I look over to study the princesse’s face while the rest of the chapel is deep in prayer and am surprised to see that she is staring at me.

“You do not attend vespers at home?” she whispers.

I flush. “No. Only Sunday’s Mass.”

She nods gently. “God appreciates seeing His flock whenever they come in, even if it’s only once a week. Whenever I cannot steady my mind,” she adds, “I think of the people of France, suffering without blankets in the bitter cold and tucking in their children at night without food. Perhaps, if you find that your mind is restless, you can pray for our people.”

I bow my head, humbled by the princesse’s request. There is no one in France with such a kind heart, and certainly her brother cannot be so different. The Duc d’Orléans must be a terrible man to whisper scandal about these people.