Madame Tussaud

Chapter 52

JANUARY

25, 1793

I was a queen, and you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother, and you deprived me of my children. My blood alone remains: take it, but do not make me suffer long.

—MARIE ANTOINETTE

THE GUARDS SCRUTINIZE MY PAPERS AND ASK ME AGAIN WHAT I am doing here.

“I am visiting on the orders of Robespierre. I am to report on the conditions of the royal family.”

“I can read that,” the younger one snaps. But he has searched my basket and discovered the wax miniature of Saint Denis, the patron saint of Paris, and become suspicious. “And what business does Robespierre have in sending a woman? Did he ask that you bring a headless saint?”

I raise my chin. “I am here on Robespierre’s request,” I repeat. “I brought this as a warning,” I lie. Saint Denis was beheaded with a sword on Montmartre. He was the only saint I could plausibly bring. Although he is holding his head in his hands, like his image outside the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, he will give Madame Élisabeth comfort. “I am here to serve the Convention,” I tell him.

“Not to convey a message, or warn her of an uprising?”

“My uncle is a captain of the National Guard.”

“And Lafayette was their commander. That means nothing, Citizeness.”

The guard watches me, and I return his stare. I don’t know what they want from me. I have a pass with the words Officier Municipal written diagonally. It is obviously official. Clearly, it was a mistake to convince Robespierre that I should come. But if the guard is looking for tears, he will not find them. I have no more.

“You may go,” he says at last. Then adds threateningly, “My men will be watching.”

Four soldiers escort me into the Temple, and I follow them through the halls. Unlike the Tuileries, this is not a palace. It is a fortress built by the Knights Templars with cold, damp walls and rising turrets. Somewhere, far beneath my feet, the victims of the Inquisition were once imprisoned. Now this is where the royal family must live.

We reach a wooden door, and the guard pushes it open. “A guest!” he shouts, and inside the chamber a woman with white hair and a black taffeta gown rises to greet me. My God, it is the queen. I remind myself that I must not curtsy. She is Madame Capet now, not Queen Marie Antoinette.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she says kindly, but the soldier warns her that I shall not be staying long. The door is left open, and the queen takes my hands. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz.” After so many years, she still remembers me. “Or is it Madame now?”

I think of Henri and swallow my hurt. “No, still Mademoiselle.”

She guides me to a chair, and it feels very much like I am walking through a dream. Her children are sitting before the fireplace, reading books from the vast library spread along the walls. They look up at me, and while the boy smiles, the girl watches me with open suspicion. There is a small dog warming itself by the fire. I think of Madame Élisabeth’s little greyhounds. There is no sign of them here, and I wonder if they have been sent away.

“Marie-Thérèse, would you go and find your aunt? She will be very glad to see Mademoiselle Grosholtz.”

“Just Marie,” I correct her.

The princesse stands. “I don’t see why Louis can’t do it.”

The queen smiles self-consciously at me before turning to her daughter. “Because you are the one I asked.”

She doesn’t argue further. She stalks through the door, and I think to myself, What an unfortunate child. How is it fair to heap such losses on a child? The moment Madame Élisabeth appears I stand, but we do not embrace, since the guards are watching. She looks me over. “Marie, how did you come here?”

Unlike the queen, who has aged into an old woman, Madame Élisabeth is still in the full bloom of youth. But her eyes tell the truth. We sit across from each other near the fire, and the queen takes a chair next to her sister-in-law. The guard is lost in conversation with his friend.

“I begged a pass from Robespierre,” I say quietly. “I told him we were old friends and that if anyone could learn of an escape plan in the making, it would be me.”

“A spy?” Madame Élisabeth whispers.

“How clever,” the queen says. “And do you know, that’s what these men believe. We are imprisoned in a Templar fortress and they think that hordes of men are rushing to save us. If that were the case, wouldn’t someone have saved my husband?”

A deep heaviness settles over the room.

“That is what I came to tell you, Madame. Your husband met with an easy death.”

Madame Élisabeth stifles a sob.

“There was no pain,” I promise them. “No suffering.”

Both the dauphin—who is now Louis XVII—and Madame Royale are listening intently. The queen’s gaze is hollow. She is a shadow of herself. Pale and thin with sunken eyes. Around her neck, she wears her husband’s wedding ring on a simple ribbon. It is likely the only jewel she has left in the world. They have taken everything from her. “Do you know what they plan for us?” she whispers in German.

I look over my shoulder. But the guard has obviously heard enough weeping in this room to no longer be concerned by it.

“Life in a convent,” I mouth wordlessly. I have heard this news from Robespierre.

“And my children?”

Both of them are watching me. Louis-Charles, who looks like an angel, and Marie-Thérèse, whose future is uncertain. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.” I reach into my basket and take out the miniature of Saint Denis. I give it to Madame Élisabeth, and she puts a hand to her heart.

“Oh, Marie.”

Marie-Thérèse rises from the fireside. “Won’t you get in trouble for bringing that?” she asks curiously.

I meet Madame Royale’s narrowed eyes. “It is a miniature of a saint.”

“No one else brings gifts.” She watches me with a strange expression.

Madame Élisabeth reaches forward to take my hands. “You have no idea what this means to me. Please, will you pray for us?” she asks.

I am taken aback by the princesse’s request. What good will my prayers do? My brothers are dead, just like her brother. The National Guard murdered Yachin for nothing more than a square of silk. And Henri is gone. If God is listening, it is not to me.