Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution by Michelle Moran Page A

create a complete figure. It takes two weeks to perfect the clay model of any head, then another week to create the mold. Once the mold is ready, it is a week before a wax head is finished. Already then, a month has passed. By the time the hair and teeth are added and a custom body is built, two months have gone by. Today, when Émilie comes to claim her model, she will be very pleased. The head and body are a perfect match. All I need do is join the two.
    “This is good,” I tell Curtius. “Exceptional.”
    “Now let’s hear about Versailles!” my mother exclaims. She hurries up the stairs, and Curtius and I follow and sit at the table. She brings us coffee and asks eagerly, “So what is it like? How does our king live? Are there hundreds of servants?”
    I describe the richness of the palace to her. The marble halls, the sweeping stairs, the English gardens that extend to the horizon, though I leave out the stench of the hallways. Then I tell her about Montreuil, how the princesse keeps her own farm and the produce from her orangerie goes to the poor. “She is a kind woman. Not at all what they say in the libelles.”
    “I knew it,” my mother says passionately. “She is a woman of God.”
    “And your work?” Curtius asks.
    “When we’re not attending Mass, we’re modeling the saints.” I imagine I wore the same look when the princesse informed me of her intentions as my uncle wears now. “But I was thinking we could do something original. A tableau of how they died, perhaps.” When I see his brows come together, I add swiftly, “We could bring in a few implements of torture. Cages, irons—”
    But Curtius is shaking his head. “That is common stuff. People can see that in any church in France.”
    “Not a roasting pot,” I say.
    “It’s not enough.”
    “Well, perhaps she will grow tired of saints,” my mother offers. She seats herself next to me. “But tell us about your brothers. Did you see them?”
    “No,” I’m sorry to reply. “Montreuil is some distance from the palace. Madame Élisabeth only goes on special occasions.”
    “Perhaps you can catch a glimpse of Jacques Necker?” Curtius says. “The Minister of Finance is popular with the people, and the model we have is too old.”
    Necker was first to expose royal expenditures in a daring publication called Compte Rendu au Roi . The king’s finances have always been private. Yet he is supported by the taxes of the Third Estate. Is it disloyal to wonder what we are paying for? I am not sure what to think of Necker. Or if I can convince Madame Élisabeth to go back to Versailles. “I can also sketch the Hall of Mirrors. I was thinking …”
    “No more royal tableaux. In a year or two, perhaps, but not now.”
    I frown and look to my mother.
    “The Duc came last night,” she explains gravely.
    “He is actively encouraging revolt,” Curtius says. “He wants us to be a part of it.”
    I am shocked. “Doesn’t he know that you have sons in the Guard?”
    “Yes. But he wants to know if we will be ready to rise should he call upon us.”
    “In what way?” This is treachery. Edmund would say he should be sent to the scaffold. “What does he think to do?”
    My uncle hesitates. “He thinks the revolt must begin with the people.”
    “Things have changed,” my mother adds quietly. “Even I can see that. They’ve taken down the king’s portrait in the Hôtel de Ville. I saw it yesterday on my way to the shops.”
    “They are a good family,” I argue.
    “It’s not about good or bad,” Curtius says. “It’s about who has the money. And right now, that is the Duc d’Orléans. The monarchy is having to borrow money,” he tells me. “They are taking out loans. It may not be prudent to keep making models of them in their silk stockings and diamond aigrettes.”
    And what else are they supposed to wear, I want to ask? When the queen economizes, the nobles cry out. They want the right to the candles, the silk stockings,