Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

Chapter 9

APRIL

3, 1789

Man’s natural character is to imitate: that of the sensitive man is to resemble as closely as possible the person whom he loves. It is only by imitating the vices of others that I have earned my misfortunes.

—MARQUIS DE SADE

THERE ARE MOLTEN WAX AND ROWS OF CALIPERS, PLASTER molds, and oil paints in small glass jars. Someone has laid out every necessity so that the princesse will not have to do it herself. It is our first day in the palace workshop, and as I watch Madame Élisabeth tie the Marquise de Bombelles’s apron into a bow, it is so reminiscent of home that immediately I am at ease. Madame Élisabeth turns to me, and I see that blond curls have escaped from her bonnet. They put me in mind of Charles Perrault’s story “Little Red Riding Hood.”

“We will start with something simple,” I tell her. The longer I stay in Montreuil, the more molds I will be able to take back to the Salon. So first it will be fruit. When she has mastered that, we shall go on to larger objects. Then, after several months, we will begin faces. I imagine she will want to model her brother and possibly her niece, Madame Royale. If I am very lucky, we shall model them live. “Fruit,” I say, “is very easy to create.”

“Yes,” Madame Élisabeth agrees. “We have done fruit. And flowers in vases.”

I am shocked. “Madame knows the basics of wax modeling?”

“Oh yes,” the marquise says. “She is very good at flowers. But it is faces and bodies she wishes to do.”

“Then you know about calipers and plaster molds?”

“Certainly,” Madame Élisabeth replies. Then she adds, “We would not have called upon someone of such talent to waste time with fruit.”

Then perhaps I will have a new figure for the Salon before the month is out! “Then we will proceed to sculpting faces in clay,” I reply.

“Whose face does Madame wish to begin with?” The king, I wish her to say; the king. There are hardly any angles on his face. Just round, wide planes as easy to mold as an apple.

The princesse turns to the marquise. “Angélique, what do you think?”

“Perhaps the face of our Lord Jesus Christ?”

I am sure my heart stops in my chest.

“I was thinking Saint Cecilia,” the princesse admits. “But it is far more appropriate to begin with our Lord. We can do Cecilia next.”

I am forced to appear jolly as a servant fetches a portrait of Christ, but this is a catastrophe. People pay to see princesses and kings, not the faces of saints! Those can be seen in any church in France. As we wait, the princesse elaborates on which saints she would like to model in the future: Saint Cyprian, who was beheaded with a sword. And Saint Sebastian, who was stoned to death. Plus a tableau of Saint Potamiaena, an Alexandrian slave boiled alive after refusing the advances of her licentious master. It is all very gruesome. Even worse, I think, than our Cavern of Great Thieves. The princesse would like to take her finished models to the Churches of Saint-Geneviève and Saint-Sulpice in Paris. If this is all we are to do, attend Mass and model saints, I must find a way to salvage my time here. Perhaps we can do a different kind of tableau, like The Saints and Their Slaughter. I will have to ask Curtius what he thinks.

WHEN THE CARRIAGE returns me to the Boulevard du Temple, I am shocked by how dull the buildings appear. Many are in desperate need of paint, and none have the cheerful look of Madame Élisabeth’s golden orangerie. I have been gone for only four days, but already I have become accustomed to the grandeur of Montreuil.

As the driver stops in front of the Salon de Cire, Yachin puts down his sign. The kippah he is wearing is black today, the same color as his curls. When he first came to us I asked him why he wore the little hat, and he told me that it was a tradition among the Jews, a sign of respect for God. It has not been easy for Yachin’s family to be foreigners in this country. Only two years ago our king overturned Louis XIV’s law that forbade the exercise of any religion outside the Catholic faith. But this Edict of Tolerance has not granted Jews the right to citizenship. Perhaps the Estates-General will change this as well.

As I open the door, Yachin offers me his hand. “You’re back already?” he exclaims when I step out.

“I am a tutor from Thursday to Sunday. So tell me,” I say quickly, before my mother and Curtius can come outside. They will have heard the horses and carriage even from the workshop in the back of the house. “How was business?”

“There were thirty-five people yesterday. At least.”

Thirty-five times twelve sous is four hundred and twenty. That’s good. Very good. “And drunks pissing in our urns?”

“None,” he promises. “So did you bring me something? Did you see the queen? What about the king? Is the château as big as it is in paintings?”

“No, no, no, and yes,” I reply. My mother and Curtius come out, dressed in work clothes. My mother embraces me, then pulls back to look at my face. In four days, I am certain I have not changed, but she shakes her head. “Already you are getting thin.”

“I eat every meal.”

“I don’t care!” She raises a finger. “I can see from your face.” She points to my cheekbones, which have always been high, then to my collarbone above the lace fichu.

“Let her be.” Curtius smiles. He pays the driver, then embraces me warmly. “You look the same to me.”

Inside, I search the rooms for any sign of change. But everything is the same. My mother and Curtius follow me into the workshop so I can inspect a pair of headless bodies dressed in muslin gowns. Curtius has completed the two figures of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe. One will go home with Émilie today, and the other will be placed next to her mother and our sleeping model of du Barry. I study the hands and feet, then examine the chests to be sure that the faces I began two months ago will be the same color. It is a long process to create a complete figure. It takes two weeks to perfect the clay model of any head, then another week to create the mold. Once the mold is ready, it is a week before a wax head is finished. Already then, a month has passed. By the time the hair and teeth are added and a custom body is built, two months have gone by. Today, when Émilie comes to claim her model, she will be very pleased. The head and body are a perfect match. All I need do is join the two.

“This is good,” I tell Curtius. “Exceptional.”

“Now let’s hear about Versailles!” my mother exclaims. She hurries up the stairs, and Curtius and I follow and sit at the table. She brings us coffee and asks eagerly, “So what is it like? How does our king live? Are there hundreds of servants?”

I describe the richness of the palace to her. The marble halls, the sweeping stairs, the English gardens that extend to the horizon, though I leave out the stench of the hallways. Then I tell her about Montreuil, how the princesse keeps her own farm and the produce from her orangerie goes to the poor. “She is a kind woman. Not at all what they say in the libelles.”

“I knew it,” my mother says passionately. “She is a woman of God.”

“And your work?” Curtius asks.

“When we’re not attending Mass, we’re modeling the saints.” I imagine I wore the same look when the princesse informed me of her intentions as my uncle wears now. “But I was thinking we could do something original. A tableau of how they died, perhaps.” When I see his brows come together, I add swiftly, “We could bring in a few implements of torture. Cages, irons—”

But Curtius is shaking his head. “That is common stuff. People can see that in any church in France.”

“Not a roasting pot,” I say.

“It’s not enough.”

“Well, perhaps she will grow tired of saints,” my mother offers. She seats herself next to me. “But tell us about your brothers. Did you see them?”

“No,” I’m sorry to reply. “Montreuil is some distance from the palace. Madame Élisabeth only goes on special occasions.”

“Perhaps you can catch a glimpse of Jacques Necker?” Curtius says. “The Minister of Finance is popular with the people, and the model we have is too old.”

Necker was first to expose royal expenditures in a daring publication called Compte Rendu au Roi. The king’s finances have always been private. Yet he is supported by the taxes of the Third Estate. Is it disloyal to wonder what we are paying for? I am not sure what to think of Necker. Or if I can convince Madame Élisabeth to go back to Versailles. “I can also sketch the Hall of Mirrors. I was thinking …”

“No more royal tableaux. In a year or two, perhaps, but not now.”

I frown and look to my mother.

“The Duc came last night,” she explains gravely.

“He is actively encouraging revolt,” Curtius says. “He wants us to be a part of it.”

I am shocked. “Doesn’t he know that you have sons in the Guard?”

“Yes. But he wants to know if we will be ready to rise should he call upon us.”

“In what way?” This is treachery. Edmund would say he should be sent to the scaffold. “What does he think to do?”

My uncle hesitates. “He thinks the revolt must begin with the people.”

“Things have changed,” my mother adds quietly. “Even I can see that. They’ve taken down the king’s portrait in the Hôtel de Ville. I saw it yesterday on my way to the shops.”

“They are a good family,” I argue.

“It’s not about good or bad,” Curtius says. “It’s about who has the money. And right now, that is the Duc d’Orléans. The monarchy is having to borrow money,” he tells me. “They are taking out loans. It may not be prudent to keep making models of them in their silk stockings and diamond aigrettes.”

And what else are they supposed to wear, I want to ask? When the queen economizes, the nobles cry out. They want the right to the candles, the silk stockings, and the clothes. They want the right to sell off whichever dresses the queen has already worn. The larger, the lacier, the more elaborate, the better. But instead, I say evenly, “I hope you did not give the Duc your assurance.”

“No.”

“And what was his reaction?”

Curtius takes up his pipe from a nearby table and searches for a candle. Suddenly, I realize how dark it is, despite the open windows. “Where are the candles?” we ask in unison.

“There are no more,” my mother says. “I am saving the ones we have for the exhibit.”

“What do you mean?” I protest. “We have the money.”

My mother smiles primly. “And all the money in the world can’t buy them if they’re not available.”

I think of the thouands of candles in Versailles and the greedy courtiers with the rights to sell them. “What about the black market?”

“I sent Yachin looking yesterday, and I will send him again tomorrow.”

Yachin lives just south in the Rue Sainte-Avoye, a fifteen-minute walk. He comes to us at sunrise and leaves at sunset. I wonder how his family is faring. I must remember to ask. I know that he has sisters still too young to work and that his father makes a meager wage as a printer.

“You should see the shops,” my mother continues. “Yachin stood in line for three hours. I expect we’ll be buying corn on the black market soon as well.”

Curtius turns up his palms, as if there’s nothing to be done. “The people’s deputies will make their complaints heard next month at Versailles.”

“So the votes have already been counted? Did Camille—”

But my mother shakes her head. “No. He didn’t win.”

“So there will be no marriage after all.” Poor Lucile. I think of her pretty face and trusting brown eyes. Had she given herself to a trade, there would not be this heartbreak. Money and ambition never disappoint. “And Robespierre?”

“Won easily,” Curtius says.

I am not surprised. He is the kind of deputy who will represent the Third Estate well. “We should be very careful with our expenditures from this day forward,” I say. “If Parisians can’t afford candles, they certainly won’t be able to afford wax exhibitions.”

“I don’t know,” Curtius replies. “They are still paying to see the bust of Rousseau, who inspired so many of the Third Estate’s deputies. Perhaps we should make a tableau in honor of the first meeting of the Estates-General. Or perhaps a library scene, with the busts of Rousseau and Franklin on the shelves.”

Edmund wouldn’t like this. “And whose library would it be?” I ask.

“How about the Duc d’Orléans?” he offers.

“The people love him,” my mother remarks.

“They also love peep shows and dancing monkeys! You don’t see us featuring those.”

“Then the Marquis de Lafayette,” my uncle says firmly. The hero of the American Revolution, the man who helped France embarrass the British and sever their ties to their American colonies. It was Lafayette who suggested the meeting of the Estates-General. “He was elected as a deputy of the Second Estate.”

“Is there a painting of Lafayette in the Académie Royale?” If so I can make a sketch, and from that a clay model, and eventually a mold.

“Even better. I shall invite him to Tuesday’s salon. He is a friend of the Duc.”

“And he would do this,” I question, “even after you refused him help?”

“I did not refuse it. I told him that the needs of the Salon must come first.”

I hold my tongue. If the Duc can persuade Lafayette to come, we can ask the marquis to a sitting. I imagine the tableau: The Library of Lafayette.

My mother asks, “And what of the Cavern of Great Thieves? Two men came yesterday hoping to see the Marquis de Sade.”

“There is only so much that Marie can do.”

My mother gives a little shrug. The kind that tells us we can do as we wish, but it will be to our detriment. “And there was another one the day before that.”

My uncle looks at me. “Isn’t he imprisoned in the Bastille?”

“Yes.” I hesitate. It is one thing to model prisoners who are about to be hanged, another to model a madman who may someday prevail upon wealthy relatives to set him free. What would the marquis do if he should be released and see himself among the great thieves and murderers of France? “Still, I’m sure we could arrange a meeting.”

“It is up to you,” my mother says temptingly.

She is right. If we do not keep up with the times, we might as well exhibit old paintings.

“PLEASE, MAY I come?” Yachin begs. “Please.”

It was a mistake to tell him we were going to visit the Marquis de Sade.

“Absolutely not,” Curtius says firmly. “We are going to see a murderer, not a circus.”

“But I can carry the bags.” The offer is tempting. “I can hold the ink while you dip the quill.”

My uncle laughs. “Perhaps you can carry the umbrella over my head.” It is pouring, great sheets of rain that haven’t let up since dawn.

“Yes!” Yachin exclaims. “I can do that.”

I give him a look, and his shoulders sag. “I never get to go anywhere,” he grumbles.

Curtius and I walk on, ignoring his plaintive cries from the door of the Salon. “Did you bring him back something from Versailles?” my uncle asks.

“Not yet. I’ll find something this week.”

“Please. Or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

As we pass the sign for The Auricular Communications of the Invisible Girl, I notice that the potted plants on either side of the steps look waterlogged and forlorn. Even the ferns disagree with this downpour. Henri emerges from the doorway, and his long frock coat with silk-faced lapels is already wet. I watch as a raindrop glides down his nose and lands on his mouth. Without noticing, he licks his lips gently and pulls his hat farther down on his head.

“We tried to hire a cabriolet,” my uncle says cheerfully. “But in this weather—”

“A little rain doesn’t frighten me,” Henri says, though it will likely be a thirty-minute walk. “But the Marquis de Sade … are you sure?”

It is me he is asking, as if I am likely to be deterred by a madman in a cell. “Of course. Patrons have been asking for him.”

“He’s a rapist, Marie.” Henri falls into step with me. “They say he paints his cell with—”

“I know.” I have heard the stories. Everyone has heard them. This is why we are going. “They’ve warned him we are coming, and he’s agreed.”

“I’m sure he’s agreed to many things. That doesn’t make him less dangerous.”

“You can admit it,” I tease him. “A part of you wants to know if the rumors are true.”

We are the only group outside for some distance. Even the écailles, who sell sugared barley water in the winter and oysters in the spring, have taken shelter beneath the eaves.

“Not everyone has the same prurient interests as you.”

“It wasn’t my idea! It was my mother’s.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Curtius tells Henri, who looks astonished.

Because my mother spends her time cooking, everyone who comes to our Tuesday salon imagines she has no interest in the world outside her kitchen. The only man who has never underestimated her is Curtius.

I look around the gloomy streets and think of Versailles, where everything is bright and cheerful. How will the deputies of the Third Estate feel when they arrive, dirty and hungry, to see the well-fed courtiers in their diamond buckles and ermine muffs? It is bound to be a disaster, and will certainly cause resentment. I recall my introduction to the palace, when the women whispered behind their bejeweled fans and courtiers watched me through the high, arched windows. Though I had been dressed by one of the finest marchandes in Paris and was walking with the sister of the king, it is a place where I could never belong. All the silk and taffeta in the world cannot change the fact that I am untitled.

As we near the Bastille, the rain drives harder. The streets have turned into rivers, carrying along mud and excrement. Even the boys who are normally crying Passez, payez have abandoned their jobs of laying down boards for passersby who pay a small fee to spare their shoes. So we are forced to cross the streets without them. I lift my hem, and we choose the least waterlogged paths. Henri’s coat is all but ruined. It will take days to clean and then dry by the fire. I had thought to make an agreeable figure in my new hat and rabbit’s fur muff, but I see that I shall be lucky simply to look presentable.

As we reach the Bastille, I look up at the mighty stone walls. What must it be like to be locked away in a tower so tall that only birds may reach it? The marquis has been in and out of prison for more than twenty years. First, for the brutalization of a young prostitute named Mademoiselle Testard, who was whipped nearly to death by a cat-o’-nine-tails heated in the fire. There were other atrocities committed against the woman, actions with crucifixes so vile that Madame Élisabeth would faint to hear of them. Myself, I wonder if they are true. I wonder, too, about his wife, who is supposed to have hired six young girls at his behest and taken them to the remote Château de Coste, where the women believed they were to act as servants. Instead, they were taken in chains to a dungeon, where it is said that the marquis used whips and heated irons to satisfy himself with them. If this is true, then I will see it in his face. I will know by the eyes and the set of his jaw.

We cross the drawbridge and pass beneath the portcullis. Henri reaches out to take my arm under the pretense that the ground may be slippery. But I know the truth. This is a haunted place, where men have lost their lives for nothing more than offending the king, a place where no one wants to be alone.

“Have you been here before?” I ask him.

“No. My family was kind enough not to request a lettre de cachet when I told them I wanted to follow in Jacques’s footsteps.”

I laugh, despite the solemnity of the moment. We approach a long table where a dozen guards are playing dice. The men wear the riband of the Order of Saint Louis, and none of them appear the way I would expect prison guards to be, fiendish or cruel. Their wigs are heavily powdered, and their golden military badges catch the light of the candles.

“I wish to speak with the governor of the prison,” Curtius says. When one of the men asks what sort of business we have inside, my uncle replies, “We have come to visit the Marquis de Sade.”

A middle-aged man separates himself from the group. The bejeweled hilt of the sword at his side is extraordinary, and his attire is more befitting the court than a prison. “I am the Marquis de Launay,” he replies, “and I am the governor here.” He has dark eyes and a strong, square jaw. He must have been a handsome man in his youth. He looks at our clothes and is obviously shocked that we have chosen to walk in the rain.

“There were no cabriolets to be had,” Henri explains.

The marquis sighs heavily. “No. Not on days like this. I will have my men find one for your return.”

After introductions are made and we pass through the prison, Henri releases his hold on my arm. Despite the forbidding entrance with its iron gate, there is almost nothing menacing about this place. Heavy tapestries have been hung along the walls to keep in the heat, and somewhere—perhaps in one of the cells—a man is playing the violin.

“Are prisoners allowed instruments?” Curtius asks.

“Of course,” de Launay says. “Books as well. What else would keep them occupied?”

“But they must pay for these privileges,” I guess. Why else should the king care if his prisoners are entertained unless it’s to make money?

De Launay turns to my uncle. “She is quick. Yes,” he says to me as we walk. “They must pay a fee to bring an instrument inside. They may also have coffee, and wine, and their own fire … for the right price.” He winks, and I wonder what else may be had for the right price.

“It’s not what I expected,” Henri admits.

“No,” my uncle says thoughtfully.

Perhaps there are prisoners languishing in the dungeons below our feet. But the ones shut behind these doors of heavy wood and iron do not seem to be suffering. “How many prisoners do you have?” I ask.

“Oh, not many,” de Launay confides. “Only seven.”

“I thought there would be hundreds of prisoners,” I admit. “Thousands.”

“Did you think we were imprisoning a foreign army? How would hundreds fit on the bowling green? There must be room for socializing. Imagine hundreds of prisoners at billiards.”

Bowling and billiards? “And do all of the men belong in here?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” de Launay answers me. “These are rapists and murderers. A few are vicious thieves.”

“None have come unfairly?” Curtius asks. “Shut up for offending the king?”

De Launay stops. “Our king is just, Monsieur. Such things do not happen.”

“What about Voltaire?” Curtius challenges. “Voltaire was sent here.”

“More than sixty years ago. Those mistakes don’t happen in this reign.”

“So, for all of Marat’s ranting,” Henri says quietly in my ear, and the warmth of his breath on my skin makes my heart race, “there are only seven prisoners, all of whom belong here.”

I nod, thinking about the small, enraged man. What would he say if he were walking through these richly decorated passageways and inhaling the aroma of spiced venison in stew? I wonder if the king knows that his prisons smell better than his palace. A clap of thunder echoes through the walls, and although I should be afraid, I’m not. Since my childhood, this fortress has loomed large in my nightmares as a place of interminable suffering. The reality is even more shocking. Tomorrow, I will tell Marat the truth. I will tell them all—Robespierre, Camille, even the Duc, with all of his conspiracy theories.

“You are the only people who have come to see the marquis today,” de Launay says, then sighs again, since he charges all visitors a handsome fee. We stop outside an unmarked door. “Mademoiselle. About the marquis … I feel I must warn you. He may be old and fat—”

“So what should we be afraid of?”

De Launay looks at me as if he’s never heard such an ignorant question. “His words, Mademoiselle. They are his weapons now.” He takes out a key and opens the door.

I hold my breath, expecting to see a monster, a prisoner with wild hair and unwashed clothes. Instead, there is a corpulent man nearing fifty, sitting at his desk with ink and a quill. He turns slowly, and I see that it pains him to move. A lifetime of excess has stiffened his joints and ravaged his face. But his eyes. My God. They are the piercing blue of an icy winter’s sky.

“Your guests,” de Launay says.

The marquis rises and doffs his hat to us. “I hear you have come to make me immortal.”

“We have come to sketch your likeness,” my uncle replies.

The marquis looks at me. I think of a vulture, the way it studies its meal. “And is this your lovely assistant?”

“She is the artist,” Henri says shortly.

“A lady artist!” His brows raise. “Well, why not? The queen’s painter is a woman. Not as pretty as you, of course. And certainly not—”

“Are you going to ask us to sit?” There is a hardness in Henri’s voice, but the marquis is not offended. He is interested only in me.

“Yes, sit,” he says distractedly, for his eyes never leave my face. “Here are three chairs. And Mademoiselle the Artist may take my desk.” He pushes his papers to one side and makes a tidy pile in the corner.

I cross the room to his leather chair, and the marquis seats himself across from me. The cell has been decorated with handsome bookshelves and an embroidered settee, a wealthy nobleman’s chamber. The bed is of fine wood, and I can see that the linens are of high quality. A cheerful fire burns in the fireplace, where the marquis has hung out his stockings to dry. I cannot imagine how he has gotten them wet. On the bowling green, perhaps? On his way to billiards? Curtius hands me his leather bag, and I take out my supplies, arranging them on the marquis’s table. Then I turn and study the old man’s face. He is smiling—no, leering—at me, but I am not afraid. He is a shark with no teeth, a hawk without its claws, and I refuse to become unnerved. “I would like to sketch you,” I say.

“Many women do.”

“Then you know what I require. Sit still, do not fidget, and I will study your face.”

“Only if I may study yours.”

“That is enough!” Henri exclaims.

The marquis is laughing. “Would you prefer that I put on a blindfold?” He is like a child who cannot hold his tongue. “Or perhaps a blindfold and some chains?”

Curtius rises, and the marquis says quickly, “Stay!”

“Then keep civil,” my uncle warns.

“If that is the price of infamy.” The marquis leans forward, and I can see his strange features up close. “I hear I am to be added to the Cavern of Great Thieves.”

He is a madman. That much is certain. His eyes are spaced too close together, the way they are in children who will grow up to be imbeciles. Only there is cunning reflected in them instead of ignorance.

“But tell me”—the marquis holds up his hands in protest—“what have I stolen?”

“A great deal, I hear. Lives. Innocence.” I study his face while we talk. There is no symmetry in it at all. I have brought my caliper, but I have not yet decided whether I should use it. Perhaps I will ask Curtius to take the measurements.

“Ah.” The marquis sits back. “Yes. A great deal of innocence.”

“Which is why you are here,” Henri says harshly.

The marquis stares at him. “You have never had a longing you wished to satisfy? A longing for Mademoiselle the Artist, perhaps? I noticed that you escorted her into my cell with the care that only—”

“Enough,” I say sharply.

“Oh. So the feelings are not returned.”

I don’t dare to look at Henri. I look down at my hands, at the paper and the quill. “Curtius, will you take his measurements?” I ask.

My uncle takes the caliper while the marquis reaches beneath the waist of his culottes.

“What are you doing?” my uncle demands.

“Mademoiselle says you wish to take my measurements.”

The marquis is so crass, so subhuman, that I burst into laughter.

“You see,” the marquis says cheerfully. “Already, we have broken the tension.”

“Let Curtius take his measurements,” Henri says to me, “and then we will leave.”

“No sketch?” the marquis exclaims.

“No,” I say flatly.

I have memorized his features. With the measurements, that is all I will need.

“I will be still,” the marquis promises. “As quiet as a virgin on her wedding night.”

“Then begin now,” Henri warns.

Curtius calls out numbers, and I write them down. As I wait for the figures, I study a large roll of paper on the desk. It is covered in writing and so thick that it must be at least ten meters in length when it’s fully unrolled. The marquis sees the direction of my gaze and says quietly, “My masterpiece. I call it The One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom.”

I can see the muscles working in Henri’s jaw, and Curtius is frowning over his caliper. He thinks he has taken the measurements wrong—that the marquis’s eyes cannot be so close together. “A very interesting title,” I say.

“For an immensely interesting story. Would you like a peek?”

I should say no. Nothing good can come of seeing the contents of a story entitled The 120 Days of Sodom. But I scribble the last of Curtius’s measurements, then motion for Curtius and Henri to sit beside me. They pull up their chairs, and Henri whispers, “Why do you want to see this?”

“It will be offensive,” my uncle warns.

But I want to see the truth of this man. I want to know what lurks behind those close-set eyes, what sort of devilry humans are capable of.

The marquis crosses the room and unfurls the manuscript across his long desk. He has drawn pictures on separate pieces of paper to accompany the story.

“What sort of perversion is this?” Curtius asks, aghast.

“Oh, every kind,” the marquis says with pride.

There are images of urination, whippings, cross-dressing, and anal sex with boys who are clearly being forced into submission. Girls are chained naked to walls while the flames of lighted candles are applied to their nipples. Excrement is everywhere, as if no fantasy can be fulfilled without this.

“I’ve had enough,” Curtius says.

“But you haven’t even seen my favorite!” he exclaims and unveils an image of a girl being scalped while her attackers fondle her genitals and breasts. Beneath the picture the Marquis de Sade has written, “How delicious to corrupt, to stifle all semblances of virtue and religion in that young heart.”

I put on my showman’s mask, determined not to give him what he wants. “I hope you know you have not corrupted me.”

“But I’ve surprised you.”

“No. Nothing surprises me about human depravity.”

“These are not just dreams. I enacted them in the Château de Coste.”

Behind us, de Launay clears his throat. I had forgotten he was there.

“I run a show on the Boulevard du Temple, Monsieur. What you have created,” I say, and I wave my hand, indicating the pictures and the manuscript, “is theater. No more real than my Cavern of Great Thieves.”

“It happened,” he says hotly.

“Perhaps. But now it’s over, and the actor must return to his room and face the truth that for all of the masks, and all of the applause, there is only him. Your performance couldn’t last, and now that it’s done, all that’s left is your own company. Do you enjoy it?”

The marquis is silent. Now I am the one who has surprised him.

“NO LADY SHOULD ever have to see—”

“I am not a lady. I am the daughter of a common soldier,” I tell Henri from the comfort of the carriage de Launay has secured for us. “Everyone has secrets. His are simply darker. And it makes me a better artist.”

Henri shakes his head. “You are a puzzle.”

“It’s an insight into the man,” Curtius explains. “Art is not like science. It’s a product of emotion. It makes the viewer feel something. Jealousy, awe—”

“Revulsion,” I say. “Now that I know who he is, what he is, I know how to sculpt him.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence, watching the rain fall slantways onto the dirty streets. I know he doesn’t understand, but when Henri sees the wax model—the set of the eyes, the tension in the mouth—he will know.

When we reach the Boulevard du Temple, Curtius hurries into the warmth of the Salon while I stop with Henri beneath the awning of his shop. “I know you didn’t wish to go. You went for me, and I’m incredibly grateful.”

“How do these interviews not give you nightmares?” he asks. “Doesn’t it make you sad to hear such stories?”

I have to think, because no one has ever asked me this before. “I don’t believe in Rousseau’s philosophy,” I say, “if that’s what you mean.”

Henri laughs. “The natural goodness of man? Well, only fools like Robespierre and Marat believe that.”

“And the king.”

Henri smiles briefly but doesn’t reply.

“I will see you tomorrow,” I say. “The Duc may be bringing a guest to our salon.”

“The American?” Henri asks. “Thomas Jefferson?”

Now that would be something. Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, beginning the war with England. A model of him would do very well. “No. The Marquis de Lafayette.”

“I didn’t realize they were friends.”

I step forward, so close that I can smell rain in his hair. “Curtius says that they are. I don’t know what it means for France.”

“Probably that the Duc sees himself at the head of rebellion which will demand an end to the monarchy,” Henri replies.

“And how would that serve him? Without the monarchy, he has lost all privilege. He will go from being the Duc D’Orléans to being simply Monsieur Philippe.”

“Not if he can convince the people that he should be king instead. A new kind of king, who will grant them the same rights as the English.”

“It’s what he’s aiming for, isn’t it?” I ask. Henri has said this before, but it’s hard to believe that the man who sits to dinner with us is a traitor. I have never known a traitor.

“Yes.”

“So why doesn’t King Louis stop it?”

“He’s trying. That’s why he’s called the Estates-General. If he grants the French the same rights as the English, what will the Duc have to shout against?”

“But the English have a constitutional monarchy!” I exclaim.

“And that may be the compromise he will have to come to if he doesn’t wish to lose the crown to his cousin.”

“Then you agree with the rights the people are demanding?”

“I believe the nobility and the clergy should be taxed,” Henri says cautiously, “just as we are. Do you know what you send to the king every year?”

I know exactly. “A third of our income.”

“And what does he do with it? The streets of Paris are crumbling, the hospitals are in ruins.… The Americans are right: there should not be taxation unless the people consent to it. And it should be fair, which means the nobility and clergy should be taxed as well. The dîme, the taille—the nobility don’t have to pay any of these—not to mention the péage and the gabelle. The Duc has found a way of riling the people. With the Third Estate’s rage behind him …”

We look at each other in silence. “Perhaps Lafayette will help,” I say finally. “He is greatly esteemed.”

“He’ll only be of help if he has the ear of the king. His friendship with the Duc is worrisome.”

“Well, if he comes, I shall ask to make a model of him.”

“All the country may fall to pieces,” Henri observes archly, “but at least Lafayette will be preserved in wax.”

I am shocked he would say such a thing. “I care deeply for France.”

Henri smiles. “And your accounts.”

I STOKE THE fire in the workshop and place my boots as near as I dare without burning them.

“You really want the table this close to the fire?” Yachin confirms.

“Yes,” I tell him. “That’s good.” I must use these daylight hours to sculpt. Without sufficient candles, the models need to be made while the sun is up.

Yachin puts the table down, then crosses his arms over his chest. “Now will you tell me about the marquis?”

“He was terrible,” I say. “An absolute monster.”

Yachin gasps. “Really?”

I nod. “He likes to eat little boys.”

“Oh, stop it! Just tell me the truth.”

“The truth,” I say soberly, “is that he is a very old man who did horrible things in his life.”

Yachin’s eyes go wide. “Like what?”

“Like taking little boys and girls by force. You understand what that means?”

He nods silently.

“He liked to kidnap innocent children, then beat them until they ran away or died.”

“A feier zol im trefen,” he whispers in Yiddish, then translates for me. “The marquis deserves to meet with fire. And you are going to sculpt him?”

“Yes. People are cruel at heart,” I explain, “so cruelty fascinates them. Secretly, they fear that if not for their good upbringing or their religion, they might have turned out to be the marquis.”

“Do you think if I stopped going to temple that would happen to me?”

“I do,” I say with mock earnestness. “I think you would develop a craving for human flesh and suddenly want to eat small children!” I lunge forward, and he dashes away, shrieking.