Madame Tussaud

Chapter 14

APRIL

30, 1789

My crimson vest will be superb; I still need the trimming for the garment and for the coat. But the hat is expensive.

—MARQUIS DE FERRIÈRES,

LETTER TO HIS WIFE REGARDING THE ESTATES-GENERAL

CURTIUS READS PRINCESSE ÉLISABETH’S LETTER ALOUD, ONCE for my benefit, then a second time when my mother appears.

If you should like to stay until the ninth of May, I would be an incredibly grateful host. It is only five extra days, and your presence would be a most welcome distraction.

He puts down the letter to see my mother’s face. Of course, she is thrilled. She wants to know when it came, by whom, how he was dressed, and why no one thought to get her from her bath.

“He looked exactly like the man who came in February,” I promise. “In fact, he might have been the same messenger.”

There is no discussion of whether or not I shall stay the extra five days with Madame Élisabeth. Of course I will. It is the greatest chance I have ever been given: all of France’s most important people gathered in one place! Thousands of faces, and each a possibility for the Salon.

As soon as breakfast is done, my mother is carefully folding my gowns while Curtius and I are collecting paper and ink. “Everything you see,” he is telling me, “sketch. Perhaps you will be there tomorrow while the king officially greets the three estates!”

“I’ve been invited as a distraction,” I say. “I doubt the princesse will want to hold court with her brother.”

“She may have to. Be prepared.” He’s been reading about this daily in the Journal de Paris. “On Monday, there will be a procession through Versailles beginning at the Church of Notre-Dame and ending at the Church of Saint-Louis. Everyone will be there. The princesse, the queen, Lafayette, Robespierre …”

“I can’t bring paper and ink for that!”

“Why not? You won’t be part of the procession. Find a place to sit and draw. On Tuesday,” Curtius continues, “is the official opening of the Estates-General. The next day, the king will address the assembly. The princesse will certainly be there for his speech. Find a place in the public galleries. By the time you return, everyone will want to know what’s happening in Versailles. And where will they be going for their news?”

“To us.” I am so excited my hands are shaking. We draft a list of the people I must try to find, beginning with Necker, whom I’ve yet to see. When the carriage arrives, we are still writing names.

“I will write to you if I think of any others,” Curtius promises.

I lean out of the carriage window to wave good-bye, and my mother shouts, “The pink gown is for Tuesday! Wear the blue tomorrow.” Pink is my mother’s favorite color, and she wants me to look good in the public galleries. I blow them both a kiss as the carriage pulls away.

I open the leather bag I have with me and take out several sheets of paper. I must send Curtius a list of all the things that need to be done while I am gone. First, and most important, are the bodies of Jefferson and Lafayette. I am desperate to begin their models, but they will have to wait until the ninth, when I return. And then who knows what important drawings I’ll have brought home with me? Still, Jefferson and Lafayette must take precedence. A new tableau must be built. Jefferson’s Desk, I think. Or even better, Jefferson’s Study.

The road to Versailles is choked with carriages, and all of the drivers are impatient, some using the grassy verges to cut off other riders. I close my windows against the stink of horses and excrement, and try not to imagine what it is like in the Palace of Versailles, where the heat of the day will only intensify the scent of urine and sweat in the halls. Thousands of people will want a glimpse of the palace when they arrive.

By the time I reach Montreuil, I am two hours late. Madame Élisabeth and the Marquise de Bombelles are sitting on the colonnaded porch, watching the princesse’s six dogs leap and play in the grass. When my carriage appears, the little greyhounds come running. “Put them inside,” I hear Madame Élisabeth tell the marquise, and when I descend from the carriage, she says, “Marie! I thought you weren’t going to come.”

“I am very sorry, Madame. The roads—”

“Of course. It’s April nineteenth all over again.”

Her brother’s wedding day. “You remember that?” I’m surprised. “You were only six.”

“Almost seven,” she corrects. “But I can still recall all of the carriages and people. Thousands of people,” her voice grows distant. “Only they were happy. Happy, and hopeful for the future and a dauphin. My sister-in-law has given France two princes, yet here we are.” Her eyes darken. “It was kind of you to come. My sister-in-law’s dressmaker could not manage it today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Mademoiselle Bertin?”

She nods, and I want to ask whether she could not or would not. Imagine, being so certain of the queen’s love that you refuse an offer to come to Versailles.

We enter Montreuil, and I inhale deeply. The servants have placed fresh flowers in the vases—thick bunches of roses and branches of jasmine. We spend the morning and most of the afternoon in the workshop, laughing over de Bombelles’s version of a foot, which might be a very short-fingered hand. There is a visit from young Madame Royale, who has brought her little brother. Madame Élisabeth makes a great fuss over her nephew, giving him pieces of wax to play with and showing him how to fashion a ball. He is four years old, with the sweetest temperament and the roundest eyes. When Madame Royale feels that he’s been too much the center of attention, she takes his hand and announces that it is time for them to go. “I wish to see all the carriages and noblemen,” she tells us. “They are arriving by the hundreds, and Maman says I shall have a new dress for tomorrow, and the day after that, because everyone will be watching me.”

“I believe that they will be watching your father, the king,” Madame Élisabeth observes.

“But we will be sitting with the king,” Madame Royale says as she leads her brother toward the door.

“Vanity can be a sin,” Madame Élisabeth cautions.

“Oh, it’s not vanity,” Madame Royale promises. “We must all dress according to our station. That is why the Second Estate has been asked to wear white silks and gold vests, and the Third Estate black coats and breeches.”

“I can tell you,” Madame Élisabeth replies with certainty, “that if the queen could have her way, we would all be wearing muslin and taffeta.”

Madame Royale wrinkles her nose. “Even commoners?”

It is as if I am not here. Or perhaps it is because I am here, occupying her aunt’s time, that she is saying these things.

“Everyone,” Madame Élisabeth repeats.

Madame Royale thinks on this, then pulls her little brother’s hand and leaves.

“She is not like her mother,” the marquise remarks.

“No,” Madame Élisabeth says softly.