Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution by Michelle Moran
Authors: Michelle Moran
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The princesse turns to the marquise. “Angélique, what do you think?”
“Perhaps the face of our Lord Jesus Christ?”
I am sure my heart stops in my chest.
“I was thinking Saint Cecilia,” the princesse admits. “But it is far more appropriate to begin with our Lord. We can do Cecilia next.”
I am forced to appear jolly as a servant fetches a portrait of Christ, but this is a catastrophe. People pay to see princesses and kings, not the faces of saints! Those can be seen in any church in France. As we wait, the princesse elaborates on which saints she would like to model in the future: Saint Cyprian, who was beheaded with a sword. And Saint Sebastian, who was stoned to death. Plus a tableau of Saint Potamiaena, an Alexandrian slave boiled alive after refusing the advances of her licentious master. It is all very gruesome. Even worse, I think, than our Cavern of Great Thieves. The princesse would like to take her finished models to the Churches of Saint-Geneviève and Saint-Sulpice in Paris. If this is all we are to do, attend Mass and model saints, I must find a way to salvage my time here. Perhaps we can do a different kind of tableau, like The Saints and Their Slaughter . I will have to ask Curtius what he thinks.
W HEN THE CARRIAGE returns me to the Boulevard du Temple, I am shocked by how dull the buildings appear. Many are in desperate need of paint, and none have the cheerful look of Madame Élisabeth’s golden orangerie. I have been gone for only four days, but already I have become accustomed to the grandeur of Montreuil.
As the driver stops in front of the Salon de Cire, Yachin puts down his sign. The kippah he is wearing is black today, the same color as his curls. When he first came to us I asked him why he wore the little hat, and he told me that it was a tradition among the Jews, a sign of respect for God. It has not been easy for Yachin’s family to be foreigners in this country. Only two years ago our king overturned Louis XIV’s law that forbade the exercise of any religion outside the Catholic faith. But this Edict of Tolerance has not granted Jews the right to citizenship. Perhaps the Estates-General will change this as well.
As I open the door, Yachin offers me his hand. “You’re back already?” he exclaims when I step out.
“I am a tutor from Thursday to Sunday. So tell me,” I say quickly, before my mother and Curtius can come outside. They will have heard the horses and carriage even from the workshop in the back of the house. “How was business?”
“There were thirty-five people yesterday. At least.”
Thirty-five times twelve sous is four hundred and twenty. That’s good. Very good. “And drunks pissing in our urns?”
“None,” he promises. “So did you bring me something? Did you see the queen? What about the king? Is the château as big as it is in paintings?”
“No, no, no, and yes,” I reply. My mother and Curtius come out, dressed in work clothes. My mother embraces me, then pulls back to look at my face. In four days, I am certain I have not changed, but she shakes her head. “Already you are getting thin.”
“I eat every meal.”
“I don’t care!” She raises a finger. “I can see from your face.” She points to my cheekbones, which have always been high, then to my collarbone above the lace fichu.
“Let her be.” Curtius smiles. He pays the driver, then embraces me warmly. “You look the same to me.”
Inside, I search the rooms for any sign of change. But everything is the same. My mother and Curtius follow me into the workshop so I can inspect a pair of headless bodies dressed in muslin gowns. Curtius has completed the two figures of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe. One will go home with Émilie today, and the other will be placed next to her mother and our sleeping model of du Barry. I study the hands and feet, then examine the chests to be sure that the faces I began two months ago will be the same color. It is a long process to
The princesse turns to the marquise. “Angélique, what do you think?”
“Perhaps the face of our Lord Jesus Christ?”
I am sure my heart stops in my chest.
“I was thinking Saint Cecilia,” the princesse admits. “But it is far more appropriate to begin with our Lord. We can do Cecilia next.”
I am forced to appear jolly as a servant fetches a portrait of Christ, but this is a catastrophe. People pay to see princesses and kings, not the faces of saints! Those can be seen in any church in France. As we wait, the princesse elaborates on which saints she would like to model in the future: Saint Cyprian, who was beheaded with a sword. And Saint Sebastian, who was stoned to death. Plus a tableau of Saint Potamiaena, an Alexandrian slave boiled alive after refusing the advances of her licentious master. It is all very gruesome. Even worse, I think, than our Cavern of Great Thieves. The princesse would like to take her finished models to the Churches of Saint-Geneviève and Saint-Sulpice in Paris. If this is all we are to do, attend Mass and model saints, I must find a way to salvage my time here. Perhaps we can do a different kind of tableau, like The Saints and Their Slaughter . I will have to ask Curtius what he thinks.
W HEN THE CARRIAGE returns me to the Boulevard du Temple, I am shocked by how dull the buildings appear. Many are in desperate need of paint, and none have the cheerful look of Madame Élisabeth’s golden orangerie. I have been gone for only four days, but already I have become accustomed to the grandeur of Montreuil.
As the driver stops in front of the Salon de Cire, Yachin puts down his sign. The kippah he is wearing is black today, the same color as his curls. When he first came to us I asked him why he wore the little hat, and he told me that it was a tradition among the Jews, a sign of respect for God. It has not been easy for Yachin’s family to be foreigners in this country. Only two years ago our king overturned Louis XIV’s law that forbade the exercise of any religion outside the Catholic faith. But this Edict of Tolerance has not granted Jews the right to citizenship. Perhaps the Estates-General will change this as well.
As I open the door, Yachin offers me his hand. “You’re back already?” he exclaims when I step out.
“I am a tutor from Thursday to Sunday. So tell me,” I say quickly, before my mother and Curtius can come outside. They will have heard the horses and carriage even from the workshop in the back of the house. “How was business?”
“There were thirty-five people yesterday. At least.”
Thirty-five times twelve sous is four hundred and twenty. That’s good. Very good. “And drunks pissing in our urns?”
“None,” he promises. “So did you bring me something? Did you see the queen? What about the king? Is the château as big as it is in paintings?”
“No, no, no, and yes,” I reply. My mother and Curtius come out, dressed in work clothes. My mother embraces me, then pulls back to look at my face. In four days, I am certain I have not changed, but she shakes her head. “Already you are getting thin.”
“I eat every meal.”
“I don’t care!” She raises a finger. “I can see from your face.” She points to my cheekbones, which have always been high, then to my collarbone above the lace fichu.
“Let her be.” Curtius smiles. He pays the driver, then embraces me warmly. “You look the same to me.”
Inside, I search the rooms for any sign of change. But everything is the same. My mother and Curtius follow me into the workshop so I can inspect a pair of headless bodies dressed in muslin gowns. Curtius has completed the two figures of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe. One will go home with Émilie today, and the other will be placed next to her mother and our sleeping model of du Barry. I study the hands and feet, then examine the chests to be sure that the faces I began two months ago will be the same color. It is a long process to
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