to be a proficient waxworker, I suppose.”
“And what then? Will you open your own exhibit?”
“I’ve honestly given it no thought. I’ve hardly started to learn how to even work with the figures, much less put much reflection into what the future may bring. Right now I’m happy just to be continuing on with life.”
“Of course, of course. But you should eventually consider breaking away from Madame Tussaud. I could help you do so.”
After Mr. Philipsthal had returned her to her lodgings, Marguerite sat quietly in contemplation.
What a strange man,
she thought. She couldn’t decide if he was genuine in his friendship, or lurking about with the intent of starting a love affair.
Well, he won’t get very far on that score. My devotion now is for waxworks, not love affairs.
“Tomfoolery and nonsense,” was Marie’s full summation of Marguerite’s report of the Phantasmagoria show the next morning as they walked to the Lyceum. “Idiotic entertainment for the equally stupid. Waste of time. Tomorrow we close the show to do a special modeling. I show you how to do life masks.”
Life masks! Finally, an opportunity to truly get involved in waxworking. Marguerite tried to suppress her excitement throughout the day as she stayed stationed at the entrance of the Cabinet, collecting admissions.
Exhibit visitors were charged a shilling to walk through and gawp at the wax figures. Marie was not satisfied with her clientele, desiring the more elegant members of society to traverse through the gallery instead of setting up private visits to commission figures, but her debts were high and the lower social orders were happy to spend a shilling for such exciting entertainment. Marie constantly reminded Marguerite that one day her gallery would be in demand by the upper class, and that they must constantly work toward that aim.
When the appointed hour for closing the exhibit came, the two women and young boy returned to Surrey Street, where Marie asked Mrs. Slade to watch her son for a few days while she andMarguerite went out on a special commission. Joseph’s face registered first his shock, then his complete displeasure at having been left out of whatever special sale his mother had made.
“But Maman, I am your helper. I should go with you. You need me to translate for you.”
“No, Nini, this is work for the apprentice. She will help with my words. You stay here.”
Mrs. Slade’s offers of cakes and lemon candies could not remove the boy’s scowl, and he stomped off to the quarters he shared with his mother.
Still Marie beamed with pride. “My boy is such a hard worker. Wants to be with his mother.”
Inside their hired coach the next morning, along with their traveling cases, crate of modeling tools, and two other anonymous passengers, Marie explained their destination as that of Oatlands Park in Surrey. The Duchess of York was now living there, separated from her husband, the favorite son of the king. She had ventured into London some time before Marguerite’s arrival and visited the exhibition after closing hours, so as not to be seen visiting with commoners. She now wished to have her own wax portrait made to amuse herself. Marie was hopeful that a royal commission such as this one would help turn her exhibition into one that was more exclusive.
Marguerite understood. As the quasi proprietor of Aunt Claudette’s shop, she knew that it was receiving the royal warrant from the House of Hanover that had truly launched the doll shop into its most successful period.
During the long and bumpy ride, Marguerite assisted Marie with the practice of her English. Her mentor was slowly developing her speaking skills, but always slipped into her choppy English when upset or excited.
The coach stopped for an hour at an inn on the outskirts of Richmond to enable its passengers to have a light supper. Marguerite used some of the time to walk and stretch her legs, while Marie chatted up her exhibition with the
“And what then? Will you open your own exhibit?”
“I’ve honestly given it no thought. I’ve hardly started to learn how to even work with the figures, much less put much reflection into what the future may bring. Right now I’m happy just to be continuing on with life.”
“Of course, of course. But you should eventually consider breaking away from Madame Tussaud. I could help you do so.”
After Mr. Philipsthal had returned her to her lodgings, Marguerite sat quietly in contemplation.
What a strange man,
she thought. She couldn’t decide if he was genuine in his friendship, or lurking about with the intent of starting a love affair.
Well, he won’t get very far on that score. My devotion now is for waxworks, not love affairs.
“Tomfoolery and nonsense,” was Marie’s full summation of Marguerite’s report of the Phantasmagoria show the next morning as they walked to the Lyceum. “Idiotic entertainment for the equally stupid. Waste of time. Tomorrow we close the show to do a special modeling. I show you how to do life masks.”
Life masks! Finally, an opportunity to truly get involved in waxworking. Marguerite tried to suppress her excitement throughout the day as she stayed stationed at the entrance of the Cabinet, collecting admissions.
Exhibit visitors were charged a shilling to walk through and gawp at the wax figures. Marie was not satisfied with her clientele, desiring the more elegant members of society to traverse through the gallery instead of setting up private visits to commission figures, but her debts were high and the lower social orders were happy to spend a shilling for such exciting entertainment. Marie constantly reminded Marguerite that one day her gallery would be in demand by the upper class, and that they must constantly work toward that aim.
When the appointed hour for closing the exhibit came, the two women and young boy returned to Surrey Street, where Marie asked Mrs. Slade to watch her son for a few days while she andMarguerite went out on a special commission. Joseph’s face registered first his shock, then his complete displeasure at having been left out of whatever special sale his mother had made.
“But Maman, I am your helper. I should go with you. You need me to translate for you.”
“No, Nini, this is work for the apprentice. She will help with my words. You stay here.”
Mrs. Slade’s offers of cakes and lemon candies could not remove the boy’s scowl, and he stomped off to the quarters he shared with his mother.
Still Marie beamed with pride. “My boy is such a hard worker. Wants to be with his mother.”
Inside their hired coach the next morning, along with their traveling cases, crate of modeling tools, and two other anonymous passengers, Marie explained their destination as that of Oatlands Park in Surrey. The Duchess of York was now living there, separated from her husband, the favorite son of the king. She had ventured into London some time before Marguerite’s arrival and visited the exhibition after closing hours, so as not to be seen visiting with commoners. She now wished to have her own wax portrait made to amuse herself. Marie was hopeful that a royal commission such as this one would help turn her exhibition into one that was more exclusive.
Marguerite understood. As the quasi proprietor of Aunt Claudette’s shop, she knew that it was receiving the royal warrant from the House of Hanover that had truly launched the doll shop into its most successful period.
During the long and bumpy ride, Marguerite assisted Marie with the practice of her English. Her mentor was slowly developing her speaking skills, but always slipped into her choppy English when upset or excited.
The coach stopped for an hour at an inn on the outskirts of Richmond to enable its passengers to have a light supper. Marguerite used some of the time to walk and stretch her legs, while Marie chatted up her exhibition with the
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