“How many paintings are in your exhibition?” the king asks.
“A hundred and fifty, Your Majesty. I am somewhat of a collector,” Curtius admits.
“And have you always been interested in wax, Dr. Curtius?”
“Yes. Since I first came across it in medical school.”
“Ah.” The king turns to his children. “And do you know what he would have used it for in school?”
The boys shake their heads. But Madame Royale, who is eleven and thinks herself too grand for this place, simply rolls her eyes.
“He would have used it for making anatomical models.” The king looks at my uncle. “Am I correct?”
“Exactly so, Your Majesty.” As we stop in front of the dinner tableau, expressions of delight pass through our group of royal guests. I was right. The queen is pleased with what she sees. She is smiling and asks if she may have a closer look. “Certainly, Your Majesty.” My uncle opens a little gate in the wooden balustrade, and the queen passes through, followed by the rest of her family. We do not allow visitors to touch the models, but in this case, neither Curtius nor I complain.
“Exceptional,” the queen breathes, caressing her wax face. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
“I knew Your Majesty would approve,” Rose gloats, as if I hadn’t begged her for a year to invite them. She indicates the headdress made of satin and trimmed with bejeweled aigrettes. “Like the one you wore to your last masquerade.”
The look on the queen’s face is one of pain, but just as quickly it is gone and she has schooled her features into serenity. “Show me everything!” She claps eagerly. “Even your Cavern of Great Thieves.”
We are more than happy to oblige. There are thirty full-size models in our exhibition, and a dozen busts on short marble columns. We have positioned a floor-length mirror across from each tableau to give the impression that the Salon is larger than it really is. Come evening, these mirrors will reflect the glow of the chandeliers, casting double the light over the exhibits.
The king stops before a group of figures depicting the Eastern envoys of Tippoo Sahib in their colorful costumes. “Remember this?” He turns to his wife. “They were the funniest men who ever came to Versailles.” That was six months ago. The king summoned Paris’s best artists to sculpt the envoys, and he was so impressed by my uncle’s wax model that he had it installed in a tent outside the Grand Trianon for more than a month. Now, he holds his belly and laughs, sending his young sons into fits of giggles. The girl, I notice, never smiles.
“Those mustaches!” The queen laughs, and it’s a merry sound, not high and false like those of some of the important women I have modeled.
“They smelled,” Madame Royale puts in nastily.
“That was the scent of the East,” her father says.
The queen’s cheeks have gone pink. “And you, Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Which of these wonderful models are you responsible for?”
“This dinner scene that Her Majesty saw. And this one as well.” I lead the group into the next room. It is a family portrait with all of the children. I made the decision last night to remove the princesse Sophie-Hélène Béatrix, who died a year and a half ago at eleven months old. Now I see that this was the right choice, since the queen goes at once to the model of her youngest son and caresses his cheek. I believe she is feeling sentimental, for this model was made when Louis-Charles was only three years old. I based it on a bust in the Paris Salon, and since then his face has matured.
“Look, there I am!” Madame Royale marches toward the model I have made of her and inspects it. She looks from me to the wax image and back again. “You did this?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And how did you know what I look like? I’ve never met you before.”
“There are images of Her Highness in many galleries. I based this model on one of those.”
The queen puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, but the girl shrugs it off. “I wish to take this home.”
“This is a museum,” the queen replies, “not a shop.”
“And we do not take things from museums,” Madame Élisabeth says. The king’s younger sister has been silent until now, and when Madame Royale hears her aunt speak, she is quieted. “Why don’t you go inside the Cavern of Great Thieves?” Madame Élisabeth asks the queen. “I will stay here and watch the children.”
Madame Royale stomps her foot and whines, “I want to go, too.”
“When you are older,” her father says. “Not now.”
I lead the adults into the Cavern of Great Thieves, and immediately, the mood changes. The room is lit by only a few candles, and the walls have been constructed to look like a dungeon. I steal a look at Curtius and Henri, who both nod encouragingly at me. I am the one who gives this speech to important patrons. I lick my lips and begin. “Here are the men who have terrorized the good people of France. Thieves, forgers, and even murderers of children.”
I see the king exchange a worried look with Rose. The queen, however, steps forward.
“This is Antoine François Desrues. In 1744, he was born to humble parents not far from here. After many years of hard work, Desrues purchased his own grocery. Although the business was successful, he spent far more than he could ever take in. He fancied himself part of the nobility and arranged to purchase a château from the kind and friendly Monsieur de la Motte. When Monsieur sent his wife to collect the payment, Desrues invited the pretty woman to dinner.”
Curtius leads the group to the next model. She is a woman in her thirties in a beautiful gown and a fashionable hat.
“At first, the evening went well. Desrues was charming, as men like him can be. But as soon as Madame de la Motte wasn’t looking, Desrues slipped poison into her wine. Within the evening, Madame de la Motte was dead!”
The queen inhales sharply.
“The next week, Madame de la Motte’s sixteen-year-old son came searching for her. Enticing the boy into his home, Desrues offered the child a cup of chocolate. Like his mother, the boy was soon dead. The next week, Desrues forged a receipt and attempted to take possession of the beautiful château. But the sudden disappearance of his wife and son aroused Monsieur de la Motte’s suspicion. The police were summoned, and the bodies were discovered stuffed into chests and buried inside Desrues’s own cellar. In 1777, Desrues was executed by burning.”
“Which is exactly what he deserved,” the king says.
“His wife,” I add, “is currently imprisoned in the Salpêtrière.”
“But was she part of the conspiracy?” Rose Bertin asks.
I turn up my palms. “That, no one can know.”
We go to the next model, and I tell them the story of the famous forger who sold works of art supposedly produced by the great Italian master Leonardo da Vinci. For twenty years he conned wealthy noblemen, delivering pieces to their homes and taking their money—two, three, sometimes four thousand livres for a single painting. Henri points out that this forger should have known better than to try to imitate one of the greatest artists—and scientists—ever to have lived.
“Then you are an admirer of his work?” the king asks.
Henri nods. “I am.”
“Many years ago I saw a reproduction of The Vitruvian Man,” the king recalls. “It was fascinating.”
“What is The Vitruvian Man?” the queen asks.
The king looks to Henri, allowing him to answer.
“It is a drawing of man that is perfectly proportional to a real human body. Da Vinci based it on the writings of the Roman architect Vitruvius, who discovered that the proportions of nearly every human body are similar.”
“Do you have an example of this?” the queen wants to know.
Henri smiles. “Certainly, Your Majesty. Vitruvius discovered that the length of a man’s ear is one-third of the length of his face, and the length of a man’s foot is one-sixth of his height. As a child, I was asked to measure the distance from the tip of my head to the floor and divide it by t
he distance from my belly button to the ground. The number I came up with is the same number that nearly everyone will. A ratio of 1.618.”
The queen turns to her husband. “Have you ever done this? And is it true? Was the number 1.618?”
“It was when I was young.” The king looks down at his protruding stomach. “I’m not sure it would be now.”
“I want to try it,” she exclaims, “as soon as we are home!” She looks up at the wax model of the forger again. “There are so many stories,” she reflects quietly.
“All of these thieves and murderers,” the king says uneasily. “You modeled them?”
I nod. “But not always in person.”
“They are very …” He searches for the right word.
“Realistic,” the queen puts in.
We go from tableau to tableau, and I explain the disturbing tale behind each sculpture. There are men here whose names are synonymous with murder, and others whose faces are immediately recognizable. As we exit the Cavern of Great Thieves, Madame Royale demands, “Was it fun?”
“Yes …” The king shivers playfully. “But only for a few minutes.”
I lead our visitors to my model of Rousseau and tell them how my mother spent many nights cooking dishes for the Swiss philosopher.
“So tell me,” the king says, “was the man himself as brilliant as his writing?”
Everyone turns to me, and I can see that Henri is holding his breath. “There has never been a more remarkable man,” I reply. “With the exception, of course, of Your Majesty.”
The king smiles widely, and the queen steps so close to me that I catch the scent of her jasmine perfume. “Did he really dress like an Armenian?” she asks.
“In vests and caftans.” I am careful not to add that he sometimes adopted the American habit of wearing a fur cap. “And he was enormously fond of my mother’s Käsespätzle.”
“Käsespätzle,” she repeats, and I wonder how long it’s been since she has tasted the food of her homeland. “I would love some Käsespätzle.”
My mother gasps, then says in her best French, “It would be an honor to prepare some for Your Majesty.”
“You understand,” the king says sorrowfully, “that we cannot eat here.”
But my mother is already shaking her head. “I shall make some to take home with you.”
I look at Curtius, and neither of us can believe what is happening. It is one thing to feed philosophers, but to provide food for queens … We will have customers beating a path to our door for days. Perhaps even weeks! After the Duchesse de Polignac visited the snuff shop on the Rue Saint-Honoré, the owner had to hire extra help for a month. My mother rushes off to begin a batch of Käsespätzle, and I smile at Rose, who brought this all about. I take the royal family to the last tableau. It is covered with white sheets, and as Curtius unveils the final scene, Rose puts her hand to her mouth. It is always a shock for clients to see themselves as they truly are, and I have spared nothing—neither cost nor vanity. She is excessively plump, with a second chin and pudgy eyes. But her lips are beautiful, and her dress is fit for the halls of Versailles. She is part of an intimate tableau with the queen in her dressing room. The wax Antoinette stares at herself in a handsome mirror, dressed in a heavy linen shift that will be changed into a revealing gauze nightgown tomorrow. Meanwhile, the wax Rose is holding a gazette des atours, a heavy book filled with swatches from which the queen chooses her outfits each morning.
The queen approaches her seated figure with awe. Unlike the previous models, with their horsehair bodies, this one has been made entirely of wax, from her Hapsburg lip to her painted toes. “You are responsible for this?” the queen asks.
I can see that Henri is nervous, but there is nothing to be ashamed of. “Yes,” I reply.
“And who thought of this?” the king questions.
“I did,” I say, before Curtius can answer. “I wished to show Her Majesty as she truly is, full of grace and beauty even before she is dressed in her robes à la française.”
The queen smiles, and then her daughter speaks. “I think it is improper.”
“There is nothing improper,” the king overrules. “The queen is covered, and the act of dressing is a part of life.”
“What about her feet?” Madame Royale sticks out her lower lip, an unattractive gesture on any child, but particularly on her. Hands on her hips, she feels obliged to add, “Madame Campan says—”
“It is quite fine,” the queen says impatiently. “Dr. Curtius, Mademoiselle Grosholtz, you have an exceptional museum.”
My uncle leads the royal family to the last stop on our tour. “The Curiosity Shop,” he says, and both princes clap their hands in delight. Filling the shelves are miniature wax models of all the figures in our museum. There are little wax kings and tiny wax princes. There are also models of houses and theaters. On the highest shelves are the wax figures for adults. When the queen’s brother Emperor Joseph II came to visit, he bought two miniatures of Venus in the nude. The princes want to see and touch everything, while Madame Royale stands back, surveying the shop from the entrance.
“You are welcome to take whatever you wish,” Curtius says.
“Only one figure,” the king adds. “Everything in moderation.”
The princes choose wax soldiers, and Madame Royale takes an image of a sleeping cat.
My mother appears with our best china bowl, covered with a square napkin of silk. “For Her Majesty.” She curtsies very low. “May she enjoy it in the best of health.” She holds it out for the queen, and one of the Swiss Guards who have been following us steps forward to take it.
“I am deeply grateful, Madame Grosholtz. We shall not soon forget this trip.”
Outside, the royal carriage is waiting for its charges. The sleek horses and liveried guards look like something from another world on the bleak Boulevard du Temple. We watch as the royal family is escorted into their gold and velvet coach, and when they are gone, we return to the Salon. My mother goes upstairs to our private quarters, and I’m grateful that Henri helps Curtius move the tableau of the sleeping du Barry back into its empty space. Rose, however, is standing in front of her waxen image.
“I would like to be thinner,” she says critically.
“And I would like to be more buxom,” I reply.
She stares at me, then breaks into laughter. “Very well, Mademoiselle Grosholtz. Very well.”
Chapter 5
FEBRUARY 3, 1789
Man was born free and everywhere he is in shackles.
–JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU
IT IS THE GREATEST SUCCESS WE HAVE EVER HAD. DESPITE THE pouring rain, the line for our Salon has stretched to the Rue Saint-Honoré for nearly three days. It is as if all of Paris has heard that the king and queen have visited our waxworks, and no one wants to miss the chance to see what the royals themselves have laid eyes on. While I have rushed to complete a new model of young Louis-Charles for display, there is no need to sculpt his older brother. The dauphin’s sickness has kept him small and thin; he has hardly aged at all. I hope the court physicians are watching him closely. It will destroy the queen to lose two children in such a short time.
I am about to tell our barker, Yachin, to come in from the rain when Curtius stops me at the door. “Let him shout,” he says. He is smiling. All of his effort in teaching me as a child was not in vain. Someday, he can retire from the Salon knowing that his life’s work will not be shoved away in some attic; that I will do whatever is required to keep our waxworks in the public eye. “Let the line grow.”
“We can’t possibly accommodate so many customers! There are at least three hundred people out there.” I have done the calculations. “Even if we let in twenty an hour—”
“We’ll give anyone who doesn’t make it inside a front-of-line ticket for tomorrow.”
Of course. It’s brilliant. And then it occurs to me. “What about a helping of Käsespätzle? Three extra sous for the Käsespätzle eaten by the queen!”<
br />
We grin at each other. He and I could sell ice to the Empress of Russia, and in the salon that evening, while Robespierre is announcing that he and Camille have passed the first round of elections to nominate the deputies to the Estates-General, I am thinking of how tomorrow we will have Yachin shout that the queen’s Käsespätzle is being served. I am so wrapped up in this image that I don’t hear the conversation pass on to the subject of the king’s recent visit. Everyone is looking in my direction. I hope I haven’t spoken my thoughts out loud.
“Mademoiselle Grosholtz?” Robespierre repeats. “I asked what the king said when he came face-to-face with the bust of Rousseau.”
This is an obsession of Robespierre’s. A week doesn’t pass without him questioning us over what Rousseau was like when he visited: how he dressed, what he ate, and where he went to play chess when he wasn’t playing in our salon. “The king asked if the man was as brilliant as his writing,” I tell him.
Robespierre sits back as if I have slapped him. “The king has read Rousseau?” His glasses have slipped down his nose. He pushes them up with his thumb. “What does he know about the Social Contract? Or La Nouvelle Héloïse? Or the Confessions?”
“Nothing!” the Duc exclaims. “My cousin has always been an impostor.”
“And the queen?” Robespierre demands. “What did the queen have to say?”
I wish I had another answer for him, since I know how this will reflect on Her Majesty, but I don’t lie. “She asked if he dressed like an Armenian.”
Robespierre looks triumphantly around the room, pausing to nod meaningfully to Camille and my uncle. “What have I told you?” He has neglected his food, and while everyone else eats, he pushes back his chair. “Vanity! And while our countrymen are starving, she is decorating herself with diamond aigrettes! Did she mention,” he asks rhetorically, “that his Armenian robes would bar him from attending her Grand Couvert? That he would be laughed at in her gilded halls at Versailles?” My mother and I exchange looks across the table. “Do you think she cares that we are suffering from the worst harvest in living memory? That candles are to be had only by the wealthy and flour by the even wealthier?”