WHEN THE LETTER COMES, I AM SITTING UPSTAIRS IN MY uncle’s salon. Thirty wooden steps divide the world of the wax museum on the first floor of our home from the richly paneled rooms where we live upstairs. I have seen enough houses of showmen and performers to know that we are fortunate. We live like merchants, with sturdy mahogany furniture and good china for guests. But if not for Curtius’s association with the Prince de Condé when both men were young, none of this would be.
My uncle was living in Switzerland when the cousin of King Louis XV visited his shop and saw what Curtius could do with wax. Impressed, the prince brought him to Paris and commissioned an entire collection of miniatures. But these were not like any other miniatures. De Condé wanted nude replicas of the women in the hundreds of portraits he had saved; blond, brunette, and auburn conquests from all across Europe. When the prince began showing off his collection, Curtius’s reputation grew. Before long, my uncle found himself hosting one of the most popular salons in Paris from his new apartment on the Rue Saint-Honoré. Of course, anyone—men, women, widowers, courtesans—may host their own salon, but who will come to enjoy the coffee and gossip depends entirely on the host’s influence and importance.
Tonight, in our house on the Boulevard du Temple, all of the familiar faces are here. Robespierre, with his blue silk stockings and neatly powdered wig. Camille Desmoulins, who goes by his forename and whose slight stutter seems strange in such a handsome man. Camille’s pretty fiancée, Lucile. Henri Charles, the ambitious young scientist who keeps a laboratory next door with his brother. The Duc d’Orléans, who is in constant disgrace with the king. And Jean-Paul Marat, with his feral eyes and unwashed clothes. I have repeatedly asked my uncle why he allows Marat to defile our home, and his answer is always the same. Like him, Marat is a Swiss physician, and they both share a fascination with optics and lighting. But I suspect the real reason Curtius allows him to dine with us is that they can talk about the old country together.
I have never been to Switzerland. Although my mother is Swiss, she was married to a soldier in Strasbourg. I remember nothing of him, but my brothers give out that he died from the wounds he received in the Seven Years’ War. When my mother was made a widow, she came to Paris looking for work and Curtius took her in as his housekeeper. But soon she became more to him than that, and though we call him uncle, Curtius is more like a father to us. We all—my brothers, who are in the Swiss Guard, the king’s elite corps of fighting men, and I—consider our family Swiss. So I am not averse to listening to Swiss tales. I simply wish they didn’t have to come from the reeking mouth of Marat.
As usual, he is sitting in the farthest corner of the room, silent, waiting for my mother to bring out the sausages and cabbage. He rarely speaks when Robespierre is here. He simply comes for the cooking and listens to the debates. Tonight, they are arguing about the Estates-General. The French have divided society into three separate orders. There is the First Estate, made up of the clergy. Then there is the Second Estate, made up of the nobility. And finally, there is the Third Estate, made up of common people like us. For the first time since 1614, the three estates are being called together to give advice to the monarchy. It is in such debt that only a miracle—or new taxes—will save them.
“And do you really think a m-meeting will change their minds?” Camille asks. His long hair is tied back in a simple leather band. He and his fiancée make an attractive pair, even if their cheeks are always hot with rage. They wish for a constitutional monarchy, like in England. Or even better, a republic like the one that has just been created in America. But I don’t see how this can ever come to pass. Camille pounds his fist against the table. “It’s all a charade! Those who are elected to represent our estate will be marched into a tiny room at Versailles and nothing will change! The clergy and the nobility will continue to be exempt from taxes—”
“While you will be left to pay for L’Autrichienne’s bonnets and poufs,” the Duc says. He enjoys sitting back with a glass of brandy and stirring an already heated pot. He has an unnatural hatred of Queen Marie Antoinette. Like many others, he refers to her insultingly as The Austrian. He smiles at Camille, knowing the fish has already been caught. “Why do you think that each estate has been given only one vote? To make sure nothing changes! The clergy and the nobility will vote together to preserve the current system, while the Third Estate will be left out in the cold.”
“Despite the fact that the Third Estate makes up most of this nation!” Camille shouts.
“Ninety-five percent,” the Duc puts in.
“So what can be done?” Robespierre asks levelly. He is a lawyer and has learned to control his voice. He never yells, but his timbre is arresting. The entire room listens.
The Duc makes a show of steepling his fingers in thought. “We must petition the king to allow each representative a vote. That is the only way the Third Estate can outvote the other two and prove that privilege is not a birthright.”
“We?” Henri asks. Henri and I were born in the same year, both in the month of December. But whereas I am artistic, and can tell any woman which color will make her appear young and which will bring out the circles beneath her eyes, Henri’s trade is science. He mistrusts the Duc’s intentions. He believes the Duc sees a turning in the tide and will swim whichever way the current takes him. “Aren’t you a part of that privileged estate?” he challenges.
“For now.” The Duc is not an attractive man. His lips are too small, his stomach too large, his legs too thin. He has inherited the Bourbon nose, prominent and hooked, the same as his cousin the king’s.
Lucile turns to me. “And you, Marie? What do you think?”
Everyone looks in my direction. What I think and what I am prepared to say are entirely different things. My uncle passes me a warning look. “I believe that I am better at judging art than politics.”
“Nonsense!” Lucile exclaims. She clenches her fists, and it’s a funny gesture for someone so petite. “Art is politics,” she proclaims. “Your museum is filled with political figures. Benjamin Franklin. Rousseau. Why include them if they are not important?”
“I only know what is important to the people,” I say carefully. “Our Salon reflects their desire for entertainment.”
“Ah,” my uncle cuts in swiftly. “The sausages and cabbage!”
My mother has appeared just in time with a tray laden with food, and when I get up to help her, I hear a knocking downstairs. I hurry to answer it and find a courtier dressed in the blue livery of the king. My God, has Rose Bertin done it? Has she convinced the queen to visit the Salon?
“Is Monsieur Curtius at home?”
“Yes,” I say hurriedly. “Follow me.”
I take him up the stairs, and when we reach the salon, the courtier clears his throat so that everyone can hear. “From Their Majesties, King Louis the Sixteenth and Queen Marie Antoinette.” My uncle rises, and the courtier hands him the letter with an exaggerated flourish.
He passes it to me. “You should open it.”
It is better paper than any I have ever seen, and the king’s seal is on it. I am trembling; I can barely break open the wax. When I’ve finished reading the letter, I turn to my uncle. “They want to come,” I say breathlessly. “In January, they wish to visit the Salon!” I look up, and the entire table has gone silent.
The Duc is the first to speak. “What? L’Autrichienne doesn’t have enough entertainment at Versailles?”
“Thank you,” I say to the courtier quickly, and my uncle is already tipping the man handsomely so that none of what has passed beneath this roof will make its way back to the palace. As soon as he is gone, everyone begins speaking at once.
“We should be here when they come!” Camille says. “We should challenge the king—”
“And let him know what his people are thinking!” Lucile adds.
“Do you wish to ruin Curtius and his Salon?” Henri demands.
Camille looks shamefacedly at my uncle. “Perhaps we could hand him a p-p-petiti
on.”
“He’s had dozens of petitions,” Henri says logically. “He could paper the walls of Versailles with them. You want a voice? Become a representative in the Estates-General.”
The Duc snorts into his brandy as my mother serves him a large helping of cabbage. “The king will never listen until the people rise up.”
“That may be,” Curtius says, “but the place to rise up is not here.”
The rest of our dinner is eaten in silence. Afterward, when everyone is leaving and the Duc is so drunk he requires assistance to make his way down the stairs, Henri takes my uncle and me aside. We stand together in the window embrasure, next to a sign advertising Madame du Barry. “Do you know when the royal family is coming?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him. “After the new year.”
His eyes are troubled. There’s no hint of the kind smile he normally reserves for me. “It may not bring the kind of publicity you want.”
“This is the queen,” I protest.
“Who is buried by half a dozen scandals. This is not the only salon proposing radical changes. Men like Camille and Robespierre are all across Paris.”
I turn to Curtius. He has never bothered with a wig, and his hair is copper in the evening light. For a man in his fifties, he is still handsome. “It is something to consider,” he says.
“But only good can come of this!” I exclaim, unable to believe I am hearing this from my uncle, the man who taught me that publicity, above all things, drives a business. I have been working toward this for a year. “Everyone will want to see what the queen has seen. Who cares about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace and whether she placed an order for two million livres of jewels or not?”
“The people might,” Henri says. He measures his words, like an experiment. Five years ago, he and his brother launched the first hydrogen balloon, and since then they have been working to prove Franklin’s experiments in electricity. Unlike my uncle, Henri is a scientist first and a showman second. “There is some publicity that isn’t worth the risk.”
But that is nonsense. “Not everyone may love the queen,” I say, “but they will always respect her.”
Chapter 3
JANUARY 16, 1789
[We brought the Cardinal] the famous necklace. He told us that Her Majesty the Queen was going to acquire the jewel, and he showed us that the proposals we had accepted were signed by Marie Antoinette of France.
—MEMORANDUM TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN
CONCERNING THE DIAMOND NECKLACE AFFAIR
I HAVE MODELED DOZENS OF FAMOUS MEN AND WOMEN, BUT NO one like Rose Bertin. She sweeps into the entrance hall of the Salon de Cire, and a train of servants follows behind her, each girl carrying two baskets filled with silks and lace and gauzy bows to decorate Rose’s wax figure. Curtius directs the young women to the back of the workshop while I lead Rose to the first room of the museum.
“It is crowded,” she says, and I can hear the surprise in her voice.
“We do good business,” I reply. “Tourists from all over Europe come here.”
We begin to walk, and her eyes are drawn to the high, vaulted ceilings. The Salon de Cire takes up ten of the eleven graciously proportioned rooms on the first floor of our house. “I don’t remember it being so grand,” she admits. “When did this happen?”
It is as if she is asking when an ugly child suddenly grew into a pretty adult. “We have been working toward this for years,” I say, a little tartly.
“Your exhibition in the Palais-Royal was not so big.”
“And that is one of the reasons we moved.” I explain how each room has been decorated to complement each tableau. Around the figure of Benjamin Franklin, for instance, Henri and Curtius built a mock laboratory. It is filled with images of the American’s inventions: a metal stove to replace the fireplace, an odometer to track the distances traveled by carriage, and a rod to protect buildings from lightning damage. Rose nods at the descriptions as we pass. I don’t know if she has understood any of this, or if only scientists like Henri and Curtius find it fascinating.
“And where is the new wax model of the queen?” she asks. We go to the tableau of Marie Antoinette in her nightdress, and Rose stands transfixed. The room has been decorated to look like the queen’s bedchamber. It is based on a painting I purchased in the Palais-Royal, and the artist swore it was an exact representation. I watch Rose’s face as she studies the chamber. A gilded chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and the manufacturer of the king’s own wallpaper—a merchant named Réveillon—sold us the pink floral design for the walls. “This is good,” she says. She circles the model of the queen like a vulture. “You’ve gotten the color of her eyes just right.”
“Thank you,” I say, but she isn’t listening.
“What is this?” She points to the chair on which the queen’s First Lady of the Bedchamber is sitting. “This chair should not have arms. No one except the king and queen is allowed a chair with arms. Even the king’s brother is not allowed this privilege!” Rose looks at me, aghast. “This must be changed. I want to see the rest of the royal models,” she announces.
We go from room to room, and I am forced to send for ink and paper to write down all of the ways in which we have erred. And there are many. In a tableau of the royal family at dinner, the king should be seated to the queen’s right, not to her left. And apparently, Her Majesty is no longer wearing white chemise gowns or feathered poufs.
“She is thirty-three years old,” Rose declares. “She has returned to her robes à la française.”
“But she hated those robes. Every woman in Paris has adopted her chemises.”
“And if she dares to wear the fashion that she made popular,” Rose replies, “the papers write that she is disrespecting her exalted station.”
Now we will have to search through storage to find the robes à la française we purchased from Le Grand Mogol years ago. There are more errors Rose points out. I write in shorthand what will need to be fixed. I cannot abide inaccuracies. Although Rose’s tone of superiority annoys me, I must be grateful for her knowledge. The public comes to our Salon to see royalty as they are, not as they were, and everything must be correct. Especially when Their Majesties arrive.
When we finally make our way into the workshop, I am nervous. I, who have taken the measurements of the Hapsburg emperor and chatted amiably with Benjamin Franklin, can feel a flutter in my stomach. But for once, the queen’s formidable marchande is silent. Her ladies watch while I use my caliper to take more than a hundred measurements: from the tip of her chin to the tops of her cheekbones, from the ends of her eyebrows to her delicate ears. When I am finished, I begin the clay model of her face. It is a curious trick of the mind that I am able to look at a person and know—even without these measurements—how wide the forehead should be and how long I should extend the nose.
As the afternoon passes, Rose begins to ask questions. She wants to know how I learned to make wax models, and I tell her that I was an apprentice to my uncle from the time that I could talk.
“You and I are not so different then,” she reflects. “I became apprenticed to a milliner at Trait Galant when I was young and eventually became her partner. Now I own Le Grand Mogol. No partners. Just me.” She is proud of what she’s done, and rightly so. For a woman to rise without a man’s support is rare. Even I have had the help of my uncle. “Did you know that I was the one who suggested the Pandoras?” she asks.
She means the little dolls dressed in the ever-changing fashions of the queen and sold in every shop from here to London. “No.”
Rose nods importantly. “They made her image famous. Even in America they can recognize her face.”
My sitter talks enough for two people as the long hours draw on and she is forced to hold still while I sculpt. When my mother arrives with a tray of warm drinks, Rose tries to engage her in conversation, but my mother’s French is poor, since our family uses German when we are together.
“How long has your mother bee
n in France?” Rose asks.
“Almost thirty years.” Then I add defensively, “She understands more than she speaks.”
“The queen has been here for twenty years. Her French is flawless.”
“The queen, I believe, had private tutors.”
Rose smiles. “You would do well at court. The queen likes her ladies to be quick.”
“And the king?”
Rose’s expression is less kind. “He likes men who build. If God were just, the king would spend his life in a construction yard, not a palace.”
I have heard this before and am not surprised. Then I draw her gaze to a practice bust of Franklin. “Is that why His Majesty didn’t like him?”
Rose leans forward, and I know I am about to hear something sensational. “No,” she reveals. “That was jealousy.”
I stop sculpting to listen.
“Do you remember, three and a half years ago, when Franklin was here and his face was on everything?”
“Of course.” Snuffboxes, necklaces, canes, buttons … His image was everywhere. The Countess Diana even wanted her hair à la Franklin.
“Well, when the king saw how Paris idolized Franklin, he grew upset, and for Christmas, he gave one of the courtiers who had praised Franklin’s hat a very special present.” She pauses, drawing out the suspense. “It was a chamber pot with a cameo of Franklin’s face—on the bottom of the bowl!”
I gasp, caught between laughter and horror. “But there are many men who are more popular than the king.”
“Men who dress in linen suits with fur caps?”
I return to the sculpture and think about this. “Was it his humble dress the king disliked, or his accomplishments?”
“Both,” she replies and doesn’t expound. But I imagine that Rose is fairly bursting with secrets whispered in her ear during intimate fittings. Another short silence stretches between us while she instructs her girls to unpack the baskets and lay the contents on a second table. She drums her fingers as she watches them unfold her dress. “What do you do to protect your hands from the clay?” she asks suddenly. “It must dry them out terribly.”