Madame Tussaud

Chapter 31

SEPTEMBER

7, 1789

I believe in the cutting off of heads.

—JEAN-PAUL MARAT

EVERY MAN WITH A LACK OF INCOME AND A TALENT FOR words now believes himself to be a journalist. In Loustalot’s Révolutions de Paris, we have been reading about the August Decrees, in which the National Assembly has abolished feudalism. There are to be no more special privileges for the aristocracy. All citizens, from whatever class or birth, are now eligible for any civil or military office, and tithes have been done away with. How the Church will continue without its source of revenue is anyone’s guess. Perhaps the French will find it in their hearts to be generous, since it’s the churches that run the hospitals and the poorhouses. In Camille’s weekly paper, Histoire des Révolutions, he has been writing about the adoption of Lafayette’s Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen. And now, Marat is writing as well.

He bursts into the Salon on Monday afternoon, frightening our patrons with his wild eyes and unwashed clothes. They step away from the caissier’s desk as he holds up a paper.

“L’Ami du Peuple,” I read the title aloud. Friend of the People.

“It’s going to be a daily,” he says. “I want you to include it in your exhibition. You can place it in your tableau of the National Assembly, or hang it on the wall, or even arrange it in front of Robespierre.”

“I’m not sure it would go in any of those places,” I say tersely. “We have enough accessories as it is.”

He looks behind me. “Where is Curtius?”

“I’m the one who determines what goes in each tableau.”

He lowers the paper, and his eyes meet mine. “No one writes like I do. Camille, Loustalot, Audouin, Fréron … They coat the truth with sugary words in their fear of offending. But I don’t care whom I offend! This paper is the voice of the people. I am the voice of the people!” he shouts. I am about to ask him to leave when he adds, “And you are their eyes. To be a part of your Salon will legitimize me. Everyone in Paris comes to your exhibition. Please. Just help me this once.”

I take the paper and look over its contents. Part reporting, but mostly encouragement for the Third Estate to stand strong.

“Please,” he repeats. “I have found my calling.”

“I’ll put it in the tableau with Robespierre.”

Marat’s eyes go wide. “I won’t forget your kindness,” he says swiftly. “The people will know that you are a true patriot!” He is about to leave when something occurs to him. “Will you be going to Versailles tonight?”

This morning, Marguerite David came to the Salon. We are not friends, or even acquaintances, but her husband is the painter Jacques-Louis David, and Curtius has purchased art from him. She wanted to know if I would join an extraordinary delegation. Eleven women, mostly artists’ wives, are going to appear before the National Assembly to present their jewels. “It will be celebrated in every newspaper in France,” she said. “Women giving up their jewels for the good of the patrie.”

I told her that a family like ours collected wax, not sapphires.

“Then it would mean a great deal if you could be in the audience. You have made a name for yourself. The Assembly would be surprised not to see you among so many important female artists.” When she saw me hesitating, she added frankly, “These are the men who make decisions now. No one cares that you were visited once by the king.”

I clenched my jaw, and when my mother saw that I was going to refuse, she agreed on my behalf.

Marguerite David smiled. “That’s wonderful news. We would like you to dress entirely in white. We are going as Roman wives. Muslin gowns and light fichus. We want to remind the country of a time in Europe’s history when men created a republic.”

I almost replied, And that republic died when Julius Caesar made himself emperor. When people are desperate, their republics don’t last. They vote themselves a king. But instead my mother said, “We will see you in Versailles.”

Now I look into Marat’s eager face and want to ask if this performance will bring back Foulon and Madame Berthier. Will it put bread in the bakeries? Flour in the mills?

“Yes, we are going,” my mother says. “We would never miss such a patriotic gathering.”

Even my mother has learned the right words.

“YOU HAVE BECOME hard,” my mother says as we are dressing. “God has a plan.” She turns from the mirror to look at me. “Do you question it?”

I think of Madame Élisabeth with her one hundred saints. Certainly, she doesn’t question God’s plan.

“When God wishes me to be with His angels,” she says, “He will summon me as well. And you. And Curtius. We are all going to die. It’s what you do before that call that makes the difference.”

“And do you think God would be pleased with what we’re doing tonight?”

My mother makes a dismissive noise. “God cares for people, not kingdoms. So we are sitting in the audience of the National Assembly. Do you think He cares about such petty things? You have a talent, Marie. A talent given to you by God—”

“And Curtius.”

“But first God. Look at how you have served Him with it. A hundred saints. A hundred!”

“We have only completed three.”

She gives me a long look. “There is no shame in what we do.”

We meet Henri and Curtius in the carriage downstairs, and as the coach drives away, I sit back and look at them in the sunset. They’re exquisite, really. In silk culottes and large tricolor cockades, they might belong to the halls of Versailles or the chambers of the National Assembly. Henri has decorated his walking stick with red ribbon—a color the women are now crassly calling sang de Foulon, or Foulon’s blood—and the buckles on his shoes gleam in the low light.

“That gown suits you well,” he compliments me.

I look down at my white dress and pearl necklace. “Gifts from Curtius,” I say.

“Well, your uncle has very fine taste.” He smiles at my mother, who blushes.

“So when do you become part of our family?” my mother asks.

Everyone looks to me. She’s done this on purpose, I think, because there’s no escaping from a moving carriage and I will have to answer. “We would like to wait for Curtius to leave the National Guard,” I reply.

“You are twenty-eight,” my mother says archly. “And who knows when he may leave the Guard?”

“It won’t be long,” Curtius promises. He pats my mother’s knee. “This is the price you pay for having a talented daughter.”

She wants grandchildren, I know. It’s not enough that Johann has Paschal. They are too many hours away. But still, I feel irritation at her intrusion.

We arrive behind a small delegation of women carrying chests weighted with gold and purses filled with jewels. A buzz of excitement fills the hall of the National Assembly. As directed, the women are dressed entirely in white, and the men have come with shoe buckles that read, LONG LIVE THE NATION and LIBERTY. Because we’ve painted this hall inside the Salon, it has become as familiar to me as the Palais-Royal. The president’s podium, the bright chandeliers, the heavy tapestries. But in truth, it’s been four months since I was here with Rose.

I search among the women for her distinctive figure, but she hasn’t come. Not surprising, really. While she’s made concessions to the Third Estate and its Revolution, she is betting that the queen will triumph. My uncle, however, has brought a purse filled with five hundred livres. Even Henri has come with a bribe. Of course, none of us are calling it that. Instead, we are to call it a charitable donation. We are taken to the front of the hall, where the families of other artists are seated on long benches. Curtius recognizes Jacques-Louis David and makes a point of sitting with him.

“Old friends?” Henri asks.

“David was made a member of the Académie Royale eight years ago,” I whisper. “He has a great deal of influence.”

“I thought the Académie would be made up of royalists,” Henri says, surprised.

“Even the world of art is changing.”

“Is this bench available, Citizeness?”

It is Lafayette. He is dressed as Commander in Chief of the National Guard, with white gloves and a dark blue coat. He has brought his wife and children with him. “Adrienne, I would like you to meet the sculptress Marie Grosholtz, and the scientist Henri Charles. On the other side of Henri are Marie’s mother and the artist Philippe Curtius.”

“The wax modeler?” Adrienne is clearly impressed.

“Yes. But it was Marie who sculpted my model.”

“I would like to see your Salon someday,” she says to me.

“You are welcome at any time.”

“This is my son, George Washington,” Lafayette continues, “and my daughters, Anastasie and Virginie.”

All three children have the same red hair as their father. They greet us politely, even the youngest, who cannot be more than six or seven. What a beautiful family. And two of them have been named for Lafayette’s time in America. I remember the story of Lafayette’s youth, how he left his wife while she was pregnant with their second child to help the Americans fight against the British. And now he’s Commander in Chief of the National Guard, with the dual responsibility of keeping the peace in France and keeping the royal family safe.

Lafayette takes his seat next to me, and we listen as the Assembly’s president calls forth the eleven women who have come with their jewels. It is a carefully orchestrated masque and will be reported in every paper tomorrow as reminiscent of Rome’s glorious republic, a time when women eschewed fashion for simplicity and jewels for honor.

Madame David leads the way to the wooden podium, then tells the Assembly that she has come to offer the trappings of her previous life to a country in desperate need. “We no longer wish to own adornments,” she proclaims, “that are reminders of a time when citizens were slaves to the monarchy and to fashion. Let virtue be our crowning jewel,” she declares, “and liberty our most glorious ornament.”

The hall erupts into cheers. Each woman in turn presents her jewels. Then deputies from all across the hall are rushing toward the podium to offer their diamond buckles and silver walking sticks. Curtius and Henri make a great show of handing over their purses, and with each person who approaches the podium, there is a new surge of cheering and applause. Women who have come simply to watch the proceedings find themselves caught up in the moment and are offering their rings, bracelets, lockets.

I turn to Lafayette. “You must be very proud.”

“The path to a constitutional monarchy is never easy, but we are fortunate to be on this journey with many courageous citizens.”

“I didn’t realize you were in favor of a constitutional monarchy,” I say. When I sketched him in Jefferson’s study, Lafayette had wanted to be rid of the king altogether.

“I have come to see things differently,” he admits. “There is tradition here. A court that goes back to the Treaty of Verdun. Are we going to throw it all away and risk anarchy?” He is thinking of Foulon. He couldn’t stop his own men from committing murder. “The Americans never had a king on their soil. They’d been ruling themselves for several hundred years. Jefferson is right. Our nation is different.”

For the first time in months, I am filled with optimism. Like Lafayette, I have never seen the purpose of trampling on so many hundreds of years of tradition. But perhaps there can be a compromise. Something that could benefit both Madame Élisabeth and Camille, the Second Estate and the Third.