Madame Tussaud

Chapter 38

APRIL

–JUNE

1791

War is the national industry of Prussia.

—COMTE DE MIRABEAU

MIRABEAU IS DEAD.

I am in the workshop when I hear the news that the great voice of the Revolution has passed. A year ago, almost to this date, it was Benjamin Franklin. Now, it is the man who was only recently made president of the National Assembly. At first, there is the hope that the news is wrong. Then there is talk that perhaps he has gone to the countryside to escape from politics and live incognito. But when Mirabeau’s body is displayed to the public, the wailing and beating of chests begins.

Immediately, we make the bust of Mirabeau the centerpiece of our Salon, and the people who come dressed in black to mourn his passing would fill a stadium. On the day his ashes are interred inside the Panthéon—built to reflect the great masterpiece in Rome—the Assembly requests our bust for their procession.

“The Revolution has been the making of us,” Curtius says as Robespierre carries away the wax head.

I reflect on this. While good men like de Flesselles and de Launay have died, we have thrived. While the Swiss Guards are mistrusted for being the king’s men, Curtius and Wolfgang are greatly respected as captains of the National Guard. Why does life carry some people on the crest of the wave while others drown beneath the water?

I look across the room to a white certificate hanging above the caissier’s desk. It is the Assembly’s official recognition of Curtius as one of the Vainqueurs de la Bastille. In a splendid ceremony at Notre-Dame, he was given this document along with a sword inscribed with his name. We are good patriots. That is clear for anyone to see. And perhaps this is why Jacques-Louis David helped Curtius become a member of the Académie.

I remember the moment when the news arrived—as exciting as the night the letter came from the king to say that he’d be visiting our Salon. At last, the recognition of my uncle’s talent has come. It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t made a member as well. What matters is that the Salon de Cire will finally be in every guidebook to Paris. We have been recognized by the Académie as worthy of being seen, and for the rest of his life, perhaps on his gravestone, my uncle will be Philippe Curtius, member of the Académie Royale.

But Austrian and Prussian troops are amassing at our border. The fear that the Revolution may be crushed drives two men to break into the Tuileries and attempt to take the queen’s life. Marat, now a master of sensationalism, has written on the front page of his Ami du Peuple:

Five or six hundred heads would have guaranteed your freedom and happiness, but a false humanity has restrained your arms and stopped your blows. If you don’t strike now, millions of your brothers will die, your enemies will triumph, and your blood will flood the streets. They’ll slit your throats without mercy and disembowel your wives. And their bloody hands will rip out your children’s entrails to erase your love of liberty forever.

All of Paris is in a frenzy. Our family has cleverly played both sides, and if the queen’s Austrian allies march into France, we will not have much to fear. But men who’ve been outspoken against the king? They’ve gambled everything, and they have no choice but to press forward. It will be their lives in danger if the queen’s brother Leopold II gathers his troops to restore the monarchy. So now, more than ever, the Assembly appreciates the men in the National Guard. They will be the ones to fight against any invading army hoping to prevent a Constitution from being signed. The king’s aunts have both escaped to Rome, and each day is more dangerous for the royal family. When I visit Madame Élisabeth in June, she confides in me that everyone in the Tuileries is despondent.

“The National Assembly means to take my brother’s power and leave him with nothing more than a veto. Why not just strip him of everything right now?” she asks. “Because, in the end, that’s what they plan to do.”

We are in the workshop with de Bombelles, who must no longer be referred to as the marquise. At every door, along every hall, the National Guardsmen who have been posted to the Tuileries have found a hundred ways of making life miserable for the royal family. They whisper threats under their breath as the family dines. They warn the innocent and impressionable dauphin to be careful in the gardens, because assassins might be waiting behind every bush. They leave behind crude drawings for Madame Royale to find, and they threaten anyone who mistakenly addresses them with a hereditary title.

“It’s become unbearable,” de Bombelles agrees, taking from me a pair of glass eyes. “And now they’ve forbidden the royal family to leave. Élisabeth can no longer go out to deliver her saints.”

I look up in surprise. “Not even to a church?”

Madame Élisabeth shakes her head. “We are prisoners in here,” she says, repeating something she told me two years ago. “I predicted this, and my brother wouldn’t believe me.”

“We will find someone to deliver your models,” I promise. She has completed thirty-three to date. Now we are working on a figure of Saint Stephen, who was stoned to death for his visions of God. His head is crowned with thorns, and his upturned palms are filled with rocks.

“Now I know how it felt for Daniel, pacing the lions’ den with no chance of escape.”

“Except through God,” de Bombelles adds immediately.

“Yes.” Madame Élisabeth hesitates. “Except through God.”

On June seventeenth, when I return to her workshop, a new mood has settled over the Tuileries. From down the hall, I can hear the king whistling. Madame Élisabeth is insistent that we finish the model of Saint Stephen today, even though there’s no time to paint on his sandals.

“He’ll go barefoot,” she decides. “That’s not so terrible, is it?” I laugh. “No, Madame.”

“So tell me,” she says, and her voice is full of intrigue and hope. “The queen says that there are shops now that sell ready-made clothing at the Palais-Royal. Is it true?”

“Yes. You can walk in and purchase a dress without hiring a tailor or having to be fitted.”

“Imagine!” She looks at de Bombelles. “A world without tailors.”

De Bombelles wrinkles her nose. She wants to say, A world run by commoners.

“And what do they charge?” Madame Élisabeth asks.

“They have a list,” I tell her. “Fancy chemise gowns trimmed with pearls are more expensive than plain ones, and the same goes for bonnets and fichus.”

“And the men? Are there shops for ready-made men’s clothing as well?”

“Yes. They can pick out wool jackets or choose culottes in three different sizes.”

This is something de Bombelles cannot conceive of. “And if someone is gigantically fat?” she demands. “What do they do?”

“Well, if they look like the Duc d’Orléans,” I whisper, “they continue to hire a tailor.”

Both women laugh uproariously. There’s no love between them and the Duc—or Philippe Égalité, as he wishes to be called, though I shall never think of him this way. Madame Élisabeth wipes tears from her eyes. “Things are truly changing,” she says. Her face becomes serious. “Thank you, Marie, for everything you’ve done for us.”

“It is nothing, Madame.”

“It is. And I want you to know I will never forget it.”

That evening, as I make my way down the hall, I recognize a woman’s voice on the stairs. Rose is talking to Léonard while half a dozen women trail behind them with baskets of accessories and heavy dresses. “Rose!” I exclaim.

Everyone freezes, as if they’ve been caught in a shameful act. “Go.” She motions for the others to continue, and when they’ve disappeared down the hall, she turns to me. “So you are helping them prepare as well?”

I frown. “Who?”

“The royal family,” she whispers impatiently. “Did they want something I couldn’t bring?” When I am silent, she realizes the mistake she has made. “Never mind,” she says quickly.

“Why? What are they planning?”

“Nothing.” Rose levels me with her gaze. “I never said anything.”