Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

Chapter 56

JUNE

1, 1793–J

ULY

5, 1793

Clemency is also a revolutionary measure.

—CAMILLE DESMOULINS

NO ONE CAN TELL ME WHY THE SAINTE-AMARANTHE FAMILY has been arrested. Finally, when I pay a visit to Lucile, she closes the doors to her salon so that no one may hear us speak. “I would not appear too interested in their fate.”

I study her face. “The day you gave birth,” I say, “you said that Robespierre never forgets a slight.”

She moves her hand through the air. “That was nearly a year ago.”

“And has Robespierre changed? He sits on the Revolutionary Tribunal,” I remind her. “He’s as responsible for their fate as Danton and his Committee. Perhaps Camille—”

“No.” She is firm in this. “He has other problems. We need more soldiers.”

“From where? There are no young men left in the streets.”

She puts a hand to her forehead. “I know. But they must be found somewhere.”

I discover where they will be found the next morning. When my mother hands Curtius his morning coffee, he does not appear in any rush to finish. He drinks it slowly, allowing Paschal to sit on his knee and read his newspaper. When Isabel asks if Curtius will be needing the button on his military coat sewn, he tells her, “Rather sooner than later I’m afraid.”

We all stop what we are doing. My mother puts her hand to her chest. “What does that mean?”

“I’m being sent on a mission,” he says. “A trip to Mayence to report on the patriotism of General Custine. They want me to leave in seven days.”

Paschal asks, “Will you be fighting?”

Curtius smiles. “I am too old for that.”

“And you are too old for any mission,” my mother says angrily. “Are they so desperate that they need old men?”

“It would seem that way.”

“You will be careful,” I worry. “You won’t be mistaken for an actual soldier?”

He laughs. “I doubt there’s any chance of that.” He lifts Paschal from his lap and goes to my mother. “It will only be few months.” He leans over and wraps his arms around her. But she is weeping. “I will return before Michaelmas,” he promises.

“What Michaelmas?” she cries. “It’s now the day of the cat, or the tree, or some pebble.”

He holds her tightly. “It’s only for a few months.” But I know he is putting a cheerful face on a dangerous situation, and the night before he leaves, he takes me to his room and unlocks a metal chest. “These are all of our most important documents,” he says. “If anything should happen to me—”

“You shouldn’t talk like that.”

“We don’t know, Marie. Who would think that two of your brothers would be gone?”

Or that war would separate us from Wolfgang and Henri so that any correspondence would look like treason. It has been months since we have had a letter from them, and who knows how much longer it will be before they are able to send word.

“In here is the deed to the house.” Curtius shows it to me. “Now it is fully paid. And this is my will, along with your inheritance.” He puts away his papers. “Things are changing rapidly. Do not be surprised if they put the queen on trial.”

“You can’t go,” I say desperately, and for the first time in many years, I see his resolution waiver. “What will we do without you?” I ask. “How will Maman survive?”

“She has Paschal and Isabel. And, above all, she has you.”

“It’s not the same.”

His eyes fill with tears. “I know.”

When our family gathers outside the Salon to see him off, the neighbors come to bid him farewell. There is the chandler, the grocer, a handful of actors who have remained on the Boulevard, and of course, there is Jacques. I remember the last time so many people gathered on this street to bid a carriage farewell. It was my first trip to Montreuil. Yachin had stood here, where I am standing now, and begged me for playing cards. But instead of bringing cards, I brought him death.

I go to the lamppost where the carriage driver is waiting and tear off Marat’s most recent placard. It is a list of suspects he believes should be guillotined. I fold the paper and tuck it inside my sleeve.

“I wish we could walk across this city,” Isabel admits, “and tear every one down. Last week, he wrote against the Polish Princesse Lubomirska, and someone posted it on this lamppost. They arrested her on suspicion of treason last night. It was in this morning’s paper.”

He is like God. He has the power of life and death. Princesse Lubomirska came from Poland in a golden berline to help fight for the cause of liberty. I keep the placard tucked in my sleeve, and the next morning I compare it to the list printed in the Chronique. Every name on Marat’s placard is there. Wealthy, poor, women, men—they have all been arrested.