Madame Tussaud's Apprentice by Kathleen Benner Duble Page A

here, places and people to memorize and recall. I cannot let thoughts of Algernon distract me.
    There is a knock on my slightly open door. A little boy dressed in the blue livery of the king stands there, my valise by his side. For a moment, I believe he is my brother Jacques brought back to life, and my breath leaves me.
    Then the little boy bows to me, and reality hits me, hard. Of course he is not my brother. My brother is dead.
    I sit down stiffly on the bed. I think of Jacques’s wide smile and his dancing brown eyes, the way he was always tripping over the water pail in our house when he ran in from the fields, or breaking the crockery when he dug in to eat supper. And I am confronted once more with the fact that I will never see my brother alive again.
    “
Mademoiselle
,” the boy says, “are you all right?”
    I almost laugh. This little boy is so formal—not at all like Jacques was.
    “How old are you?” I ask, my voice cracking with suppressed emotion.
    The boy frowns. “Eight, not that it’s any of your business.”
    He
is
Jacques’s age, though—or Jacques’s age, should my brother have lived. Once again, his loss scrapes unmercifully at my heart.
    “What is your name?” I ask.
    If I am to be alone here, I would like to make a friend who reminds me of my brother. Though the memories might hurt, keeping them alive is important. I never want to forget my brother, or my mother and father.
    “Jean-Louis,” he replies. He tries to brush past me with my suitcase. But the valise is heavy, and he stumbles.
    “Here,” I say, standing. “Let me help you.”
    “
Non
,” Jean-Louis cries, his face whitening. “My
papa
is one of the porters, and he will be angry if I do not carry the luggage myself. It is what I am paid for.”
    “All right,” I say, “if you wish. Though no one can see you in my room if I close the door.”
    Jean-Louis looks at me uncertainly. I grab his momentary hesitation to shut the door firmly. Then I bend down and take one end of the suitcase. Together, we lift the valise across the room, nearer to the bed.
    “
Merci
,” Jean-Louis says as we set the bag down.
    He looks up at me. “That was heavy. What have you got in there?”
    I laugh. “Drawing paper, pencils, brushes, paints, some underthings, and my one other dress.”
    “That’s all?” Jean-Louis asks, and he looks completely crestfallen.
    “The paints are heavy,” I lie.
    Jean-Louis nods solemnly. “It took all my strength to get them up the stairs.”
    “You did a fine job,” I assure him.
    There is a heavy knocking on the door.
    Jean-Louis turns frightened eyes on me.
    “Come in,” I say.
    Another porter is standing there. “What is taking you so long, Jean-Louis?” he demands.
    Jean-Louis pales.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping in. “He was helping me with my suitcase.”
    “
Oui
, and that is all he is to do,” the porter sniffs angrily. “There are other more important people he must see to. Hurry now, Jean-Louis.
Vite
.
Vite
. Or I will see you replaced.”
    He claps his hands, and Jean-Louis goes running from the room, terrified.
    I stare at this man, appalled. I expected unkind behavior from the royals, but from one of their staff?
    “Was that necessary?” I ask. “To frighten him like that?”
    The porter gives me a contemptuous look. “I am the man in charge of the porters. It is my job on the line if he is not quick enough. If the boy cannot perform, there are others waiting to take his job. I cannot afford to coddle him.”
    Manon comes in then. “Ah, your bags are here. Good. Freshen up now. Madame Élisabeth will see you straightaway.”
    The porter bows slightly to Manon, who nods at him. Then he goes to the door, looking back once at me.
    I catch his look, and see in his eyes a bit of shame. But I know that he is right. In this world we live in, we all must fight for a chance to live and eat.
    “Celie?” Manon says, bringing me out of my thoughts. “Come along.”
    And now I,