Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

Chapter 45

JULY

6, 1792

You are young, Camille Desmoulins, candor is on your lips … but you are often fooled by that very candor.

—JACQUES-PIERRE BRISSOT, REVOLUTIONARY LEADER

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MORE THAN THREE MONTHS, GOOD news is delivered to our doorstep. Camille has come to tell us that Lucile has survived childbirth and a healthy son, Horace, has been delivered. We are all overjoyed for him. Despite our vast differences in politics, he is a good man at heart. And for all of Lucile’s impassioned speeches, she has only wanted a better future for France.

“I know you are b-b-busy with the Salon,” Camille says. He is so excited that his stutter has returned. “But I was wondering if you might come to our ap-p-partment and sketch my son. We would like to have a wax model done of him.”

It is not an unusual request. If parents can afford it, many times they will want wax sculptures of their infants. Particularly if the children are stillborn.

I gather my papers while Camille goes next door to give Henri the news. When I step outside, he is trying to convince Henri to leave his caissier’s desk to visit Horace and Lucile. “Why not?” I encourage him. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“Are you suggesting I close the exhibition early and risk profit?”

I grin. “Of course not. Your assistant can stay here. That’s what he’s for.”

The three of us make our way through the streets. On every lamppost is a red and blue sign encouraging young men to enlist in the army. One of the posters catches Camille’s eye, and the color rises on his neck. “We are losing this war!” he says angrily. Several passersby turn to look at us. “I have a son to take care of, and the Austro-Prussian army is advancing. Every National Guardsman has been ordered to protect Paris, but with what weapons?” he asks. “With what cannon?”

“Is there any news from the fronts?” Henri asks cautiously.

It is not wise to appear too eager for word, especially if it is dire. The Assembly has ordered the closure of every theater, and our exhibits must show our patriotism in new ways: every model must wear a bonnet rouge, which the commoners are calling a liberty cap, and shoes that lace instead of buckle. Men’s knee breeches have been replaced with long striped pants, and women’s skirts must be white, red, and blue. Poor Madame du Barry, in her beautiful court dress, has been reduced to skirts à la circassienne, as if she’s wrapped herself in a tricolor flag. Only Robespierre, who stands at the Jacobin podium and preaches against hypocrisy, is allowed to retain his silk culottes and powdered wig.

“The news is not good,” Camille replies as we reach his apartment. “The Comte de Provence and the Comte d’Artois have joined forces with the Austrians and are commanding an army of émigrés.” He stops on the stairs. “Please do not mention any of this to Lucile.”

Inside of Camille’s beautifully decorated salon, more than two dozen people are celebrating. There are spirits, wine, and bowls of tobacco for the men who are lighting up pipes. Lucile reclines in a chaise lounge at the center of the room, and the infant Horace is at her breast. The image is so striking that I ask Camille if he would like mother and son sculpted together.

“What do you think?” he asks Lucile. “A wax b-b-bust of mother and child?”

She looks lovingly into her little son’s face. “Why not?” she asks tenderly. “Then we can keep this moment forever.”

Camille finds me a chair, and while I take out my paper and ink, he introduces Henri to his friends. “Congratulations,” I tell Lucile.

She beams up at me with a mother’s pride. “It was all done so quickly. Everyone told me to expect labor pains for twenty-four hours, but it was over before it even began.”

“You are fortunate,” I say, beginning to sketch. She did not gain much weight in her pregnancy. She appears much the same, with her dark hair falling around her shoulders and her sharp eyes darting about the room.

“Well, soon it will be you.” She runs her finger down her son’s little nose, and her expression changes. “Do you think we have done right in naming him Horace Camille?” She searches the room. “His godfather is to be Robespierre, but he hasn’t come. Perhaps he is angry?”

“It has nothing to do with the name,” I promise her.

“Is it politics then?”

I look across the salon at Camille, who has his arm around Henri’s shoulders and is laughing. He specifically asked us not to speak about war. This is supposed to be a happy day, a time of new life, not of loss and death. “Yes,” I reply. “Politics.”

“You can tell me,” she says. “I’m not a delicate flower just because I’ve become a mother.”

Now I am caught between the truth and my promise. Finally, I say, “They have a difference of opinion on the war.”

Lucile leans back against the couch and groans. “It is always this way with Robespierre. You are either with him or against him, a traitor to the country or a defender of liberty. There is no in between. And he never forgets an indignity or a slight.”

I nod quietly and do not say anything.

“Now that Camille can live on my dowry, he has dedicated himself to the Jacobin Club. He is no longer a journalist, and I think this makes Robespierre envious,” she confides.

In place of Camille’s paper, a dozen new journals have sprung up, including Robespierre’s weekly La Défenseur de la Constitution. The bloodred cover symbolizes the bloodshed that liberty and equality require. I can imagine Robespierre being jealous now that Camille has both the money and the time to dedicate himself exclusively to politics, while he must still work for his living.

“This feud cannot continue,” Lucile says. “Camille and Robespierre have known each other since they were children. Marie, will you do a favor for me?”

I put down my sketch and wait for her to go on.

“Will you deliver something to Robespierre?”

“Without your husband knowing?” I ask.

“It would only be a letter. I could write it now, and it would make peace between them.”

“I have no idea where he lives,” I confess.

“With Maurice Duplay. He is a cabinetmaker in the Rue Saint-Honoré. His wife and daughters take care of Robespierre.” She looks at Camille while I wonder what sort of care Robespierre needs. “Please,” she begs. “You can say you are leaving to find new paper or ink.”

I nod, and while she puts Horace in his bassinet to write, I finish the sketch. When she is done, she folds the paper neatly in half. “It isn’t far, only a few doors from the Jacobin Club.” She gives me the address: 366 Rue Saint-Honoré. “Thank you, Marie.”

“He doesn’t want to make this peace on his own?” I ask.

“He is fire and brimstone. I fell in love with that, but sometimes it blinds him.”

I cross the room full of warmongers and politicians from the Jacobin Club to whisper where I’m going into Henri’s ear. “You don’t have to come with me,” I say. He gives me a wry look, and I have to suppress a laugh.

Outside, the sky is a brilliant blue, and women are fanning themselves in the heat. “Summer is my favorite time of year,” Henri admits. “There’s nothing better than sitting on the porch and counting the stars.”

“You told me winter was the best time for stargazing.”

He squeezes my arm. “In winter,” he explains, “the sky is clear and the air is dry. But in summer, you have the benefit of not freezing to death.”

We reach the Duplay house and stop in front of a small, cluttered courtyard filled with wood-making tools and a narrow saw pit. We knock on the door, and a young woman answers. She has long dark hair and striking green eyes. I would guess her age to be twenty-four or twenty-five. “My father is not at home,” she says.

“We have come to see Robespierre,” I tell her. She narrows her eyes as she looks at me. Is there jealousy in them?

“What are your names?” she demands.

“Marie Grosholtz, and this is Henri Charles. We have come to deliver a letter.”

She holds out her hand. “I will give to him.”

“If we cannot deliver this to Robespierre himself, we will try another place and time.”

She is not used to being spoken to like this. She hesitates while she considers what to do. “Maximilien,” she calls finally, using his first name. “You have visitors.” She steps to the side. “He is up the stairs. I will take you to him, but only if you are brief.”

I look at Henri and wonder if he is thinking what I am. “We can be brief,” I say.

The three of us climb the stairs, and the young woman pauses before an open door. Inside, Robespierre is hunched over a desk, writing furiously. “Your visitors,” she says.

Robespierre pushes his glasses back on his nose and rises. “Thank you, Éléonore.” It is obvious that he is surprised to see us. “Henri. Marie. What are you doing here?” There is tension in his voice. He is worried that we have come to deliver ill news.

“From Lucile Desmoulins.” I hold out the letter to him, and he takes it.

“Oh.” He sounds relieved. “Please … come inside.”

We enter the small room, with its blue and white curtains and plain wooden bed. There is nothing remarkable about the furniture. Just a pair of tattered chairs, a used mahogany desk, and a broken commode. But it’s the décor that is the most interesting. I exchange a look with Henri, who is having trouble concealing his shock.

Robespierre has papered the walls with every award he has ever received and any honor he has ever been given. Letters, keys, ribbons, cockades—even a dried laurel wreath he wore on the day the Constitution was signed—it is all here. Some of the awards, I am astonished to see, date back to his childhood and are signed by the headmaster who officiated at Camille’s wedding. Robespierre is thirty-four years old! What sort of troubled ego needs to see these affirmations daily?

He unfolds the letter, and we wait while he reads. When he is finished, there are tears in his eyes. “This came from Lucile herself?” he questions.

“She wrote it while I was watching,” I tell him. “She would not let me out of the house without promising that I would take it to you.”

He nods sagely, pushing the glasses back on his nose. “I must go to see my godson,” he says. “I must go to see him right now.”

Whatever Lucile has written has moved him to forgiveness. He follows us down the stairs, and when we part company in the streets, Henri stares at me.

“I know,” I say.

“What sort of man turns his room into a shrine to himself?”

“The kind of man who is terribly insecure,” I tell him. Then I add darkly, “And this is who the revolutionaries believe will deliver them from tyranny.”