“Ah, you have brought her,” she cries. “Come in, child. Come in.”
I walk slowly toward her, remembering to keep my back straight, my chin high. But my senses are so overwhelmed that I feel I might faint. Gold glitters from the woodwork. Life-size paintings adorn the walls. Rich brocades decorate the windows and chairs. Mirrors reflect the sunshine from tall windows. Wallpaper, rich in floral decoration, runs from floor to ceiling. The colors, the light, the grandeur of the furnishings all swirl about me, filling my senses to the point of explosion. Yet when I reach the lady, I somehow manage to drop into a curtsy so perfect, I know Manon will be proud of me.
“Rise, child,” Madame Élisabeth commands.
I stand and find Madame Élisabeth regarding me frankly as she strokes the head of one of her dogs. “I hear you have some very special talents.”
I don’t know what to say. If I respond oui, it will sound like bragging. I stand there, frozen.
Madame Élisabeth lets out a light laugh. “Have I scared her, Manon?”
Manon glides up to me. “I am sure she is just a bit overwhelmed, madame.”
I feel something cold and wet on my hand, and I jump. Then I realize that one of Madame Élisabeth’s dogs has nuzzled up against me. Without thinking, I bend over and stroke the animal. The dog licks my hand, and I laugh merrily, reminded of Algernon and his strays.
“Ah, you are a dog lover, n’est-çe pas?” Madame Élisabeth asks. “Then, Celie, you and I shall be good friends, for I adore them.”
With Madame Élisabeth’s kind words, my earlier fear seems to fly right out one of the large windows of the room, and I am relieved to have it gone.
“What is his name?” I ask her.
“Her name is Daphné,” Madame Élisabeth corrects. “And she likes you.”
I smile at this woman. “I like her, too.”
“Come, Celie,” Manon says. “Let us not waste Madame Élisabeth’s valuable time. We must show her what you can do. Take a moment to look at the room.”
I straighten and glance about me. How am I to remember all these details?
“Celie,” Manon says. She points to a table near Madame Élisabeth. “Please sit when you are ready. You will draw without looking up. Do you understand?”
She gives me a look that lets me know that she is well aware of the nervousness I feel. The look steadies me. I have been brought to do this, and so I must do it right—for Manon’s sake, and for Algernon’s.
I take a deep breath and begin to look about the room. It will not be hard to do if I only take in one thing at a time, if I can just forget where I actually am. How is this so different from drawing at the Palais-Royal, or sketching in the dirt after scouting out a wealthy family’s parlor? More elaborate? Maybe. More detailed? Definitely. But I am good. I know I can handle this.
Confidence fills me. I continue to gaze about the room, turning slowly in a circle, looking at table, chair, mirror, curtains, fireplace, wallpaper, paintings. At last, I am satisfied; I can sense it imprinted on my mind. So I take my place at the table, and begin to draw.
As time goes by, I am dimly aware of people coming and going, and of someone looking over my shoulder several times. I hear the clinking of china and smell the sweet scent of warm bread. But I do not look up, nor stop what I am doing. My fingers fly across the paper. My mind dances with the images I have seen down to the very last detail—a tiny rose on the tenth chair in the room, the thin thread running through the curtains that move gently in the spring breeze, the scratch marks at the bottom of the legs of the table at which Madame Élisabeth sits.
Hours later, I am finally finished. I sit back and rub my eyes, shrugging my shoulders to relieve the tension in them. The brightness has faded from the room, leaving much of it in shadows.
“You are done?”
I look up.
Madame Élisabeth is standing next to me. “May I see?”
I nod.
Madame Élisabeth picks up the drawing and slowly looks around the room, her eye moving from drawing to room and back again.
“Amazing,” she finally whispers. “Such talent you have, child.”
I grow warm from Madame Élisabeth’s praise.
“She will teach you all she knows,” Manon says.
Madame Élisabeth laughs lightly. “She may show me all she knows, but I highly doubt I will learn it, Manon. Memorizing such as this is rare, not a thing to be taught. Still, I will value having her as a drawing tutor, and I can see why she is such a valuable asset to your museum. She will draw many scenes here for you to display in Paris.”
She turns to me, her eyes warm. “But now, child, it is way past teatime, and you did not move from your spot. Come have a pastry and some hot chocolate.”
I look over at Manon, who inclines her head. I follow Madame Élisabeth to a small table on which lie the remnants of food and drink.
“Please clear this, and lay a new place,” Madame Élisabeth orders.
Three servants in the room scurry about, picking up the dirty plates and used cups. Another servant puts down a clean plate for me, and a fourth delivers a tray of fresh, hot pastries. Another brings a pot of hot liquid, and a sixth pours it. After each has finished their task, they curtsy to Madame Élisabeth. My head swims as the servants swirl about us. There are so many of them!
“Hot chocolate is the queen’s favorite,” Madame Élisabeth tells me. “She has it for breakfast every day. Do you like it?”
I take a sip of the dark brown drink. I have never had hot chocolate, and the sweet, smooth, unusual flavor of it swims about my mouth.
“I like it very much, madame,” I say, enchanted by the taste. “I would have it for breakfast every day, too, if I could.”
“A pastry?” Madame Élisabeth smiles, holding out a plate of croissants.
The roll melts in my mouth. I have never tasted a croissant so full of butter. I take my time, taking a bite of the pastry and then drinking a sip of the chocolate.
But even though I wish to make the moment continue forever, at last all the chocolate is gone, and there isn’t a flake of croissant remaining on the plate.
Madame Élisabeth stands up. “I shall see you tomorrow afternoon, then.”
Manon signals to me to get up from my seat. Together, we drop into a curtsy as Madame Élisabeth leaves the room.
When Manon rises, she smiles at me. “You did well, Celie. I am pleased.”
Glad of this, I follow Manon back up the stairs to our rooms. But when she opens my door and I see the plainness and the cramped space of it, I am appalled at how easily I have been swept up by Madame Élisabeth’s charm and the ease of her world. And I remind myself never to forget that the lifestyle of Madame Élisabeth is for Madame Élisabeth and her family alone, and that the rest of France lives like this—or worse.
Chapter Eight
The following morning, when we arrive at Madame Élisabeth’s apartments, we find the king’s sister on her knees, praying. I am surprised to see this, as Algernon has told me the whole court is ungodly and decadent.
“Bonjour,” Madame Élisabeth says. Her ladies-in-waiting hurry to help her rise.
Manon and I curtsy.
“I thought today we would go outside and do some drawing,” Madame Élisabeth suggests. “The walk might give Celie some ideas for a new royal scene in your museum.”
Manon smiles. “That is very kind, Madame Élisabeth. Did you have anywhere in mind?”
“I thought the grotto might be cool and pleasant,” Madame Élisabeth says. “But we could stop at the Petit Hameau first, as Celie is an animal lover.”
She smiles at me, then turns to her servants. “Have food brought to us at the grotto in two hours’ time. And bring my drawing items with me now.”
Three servants bow and leave the room. Three more curtsy and gather up Madame Élisabeth’s drawing tools. Manon and I follow Madame Élisabeth and her ladies-in-waiting outside into the bright sunshine. Behind us, the servants totter w
ith their arms full of easels, paper, paints, and brushes. Madame Élisabeth’s dogs scamper about. Daphné nudges me before running to join the others as they nose about the palace grounds.
As we make our way through the gardens of Versailles, courtiers and ladies walk the paths around us, each curtsying or bowing deeply to Madame Élisabeth and her ladies-in-waiting, and Manon and I curtsying to them. It makes our walk a very long and tedious process. But at last we reach what seems to be a small village, with a thatched cottage and several farm outbuildings. In a meadow further away, sheep and cows graze.
I am enchanted. I have never seen a farm so clean or peaceful looking. “Is this where they collect milk and cheese for the palace?”
Madame Élisabeth’s ladies-in-waiting giggle.
Madame Élisabeth smiles. “Non, ma petite. This farm was designed especially for the queen. She likes to come here and pretend she is a commoner.”
“The queen thinks this is what a French farm looks like?” I say, laughing along with the others at the joke. “If she really wants to live like a commoner, she should add missing thatch to the roof, or have the doors hanging half open because no French farmer can afford the nails to fix them, and ….”
I stop when I see the dismay in Madame Élisabeth’s eyes and the anger in Manon’s, and I realize that I’ve let my mouth run on.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
The door to the cottage suddenly opens, and five women in white muslin dresses spill out. They run to the distant meadow and begin picking wildflowers. When they have gathered armfuls, they sit upon the ground and begin weaving them in their hair, laughing. One of the women looks toward us and waves merrily.
“Ah,” Madame Élisabeth says. “I did not know the queen would be here.”
I stare at the woman dressed as the others. This is the queen? Marie Antoinette? This woman who is prancing about and clapping her hands above her head, like a gypsy dancer?
“Élisabeth!” the queen calls. “We are to picnic today. Come eat with us.”
“Shall we join them, madame?” one of the ladies-in-waiting asks, her face lit up with anticipation.
Madame Élisabeth shakes her head. “I think not. Let us go to the grotto instead. I would prefer to do some drawing there. I am sorry, Celie. I will bring you to the Petit Hameau another time, so that you may see the sheep and cows.”
I am disappointed not to see Marie Antoinette up close, but I am not sorry we have come. I am already thinking about drawing the scene for Mirabeau—a queen dancing about and pretending to be a commoner, while her subjects—true commoners—go hungry. Surely a drawing such as that will encourage the people to stand up to their king, and force him to pay attention to their plight.
Now the question is—how do I get my hands on some drawing paper without Manon noticing? And even more importantly, how do I get my drawings to Algernon?
• • •
My dilemma is solved for me one morning several weeks later, when a servant comes to find me. “Mademoiselle Manon wishes to see you,” she tells me.
I go and find Manon sitting with the man who reads her letters to her. Manon looks up as I enter, and holds out a small piece of paper. “It seems your accomplice in crime would like to communicate with you.”
I look down at the scrap of paper. On it is nothing but a question mark, and though the mark is crude, I know Algernon’s hand has drawn it. I can almost see him as he bends over the paper, his brown hair falling into his eyes. My breath catches as I gaze at it, and I am suddenly homesick for him and for Paris.
While it is nice at Versailles, I have let my commitment to change languish. Algernon must be wondering by now if I have given up our fight and succumbed to the pleasures of an easy life. Thinking that maybe he was right to wish me to focus on the cause makes me feel guilty. I cannot let him down—nor my own family.
“L’Oncle says Algernon wished you to receive this,” Manon says. “Tell me, Celie, you are not plotting anything while you are here, are you? And do not lie to me. There is talk all over France of rebellion, and I refuse to be a part of it. Nor will I have my apprentices involved, either.”
I shake my head, but my mind is racing. If I am smart, I can work this to my advantage. “I promised Algernon I would write to him.”
I see Manon’s eyes narrow and curse my own stupidity. I can’t write to Algernon, for Algernon can’t read, and I can’t write.
“I mean that I promised to send him some drawings, so that he might see where I was and how things are here,” I stammer out.
Again, Manon’s head lifts as if she senses some untruth. I know I am walking on shaky ground. If Manon suspects that I am planning on sending pictures so that Algernon and Mirabeau can use them in their pamphlets for their crusade to force the king to be more reasonable in his spending and lavishness, I will be trundled back to Paris and be out on the streets faster than Algernon can lift a few coins from a woman’s porte-monnaie. I steady myself.
“Algernon worries about me and about the care I receive,” I say. “I would like to draw him a picture or two so that I may ease his mind.”
Manon scowls. “It seems to me he has always been more interested in your abilities than your welfare.”
I bite my tongue to stop myself from responding, As are you. Too much is riding on Manon’s answer. If Manon says non, I will have to resort to stealing paper and still will have no way to send my drawings to Algernon.
“Fine,” Manon finally says, “but it will be on your own time, and I will give you only one piece of my parchment paper. It is expensive. If you ruin it, it will be your problem, not mine.”
I try to keep the glow of satisfaction I feel from spreading to my face. I have convinced Manon. And that is not an easy task.
• • •
The next day, Madame Élisabeth decides that once more, we will do our drawing out of doors. The day is warm for May, and a steady breeze blows our dresses about. We walk the short path toward the large canal that leads to the great palace of Versailles. There, near the water, we find servants scurrying back and forth, and crowds of brilliantly dressed courtiers gathering.
“What is happening here?” Madame Élisabeth calls to one of the servants.
The woman curtsies low to Madame Élisabeth. “There is to be a naval battle on the water today. Lunch is to be served outside for everyone.”
“A naval battle?” I ask, my heart racing. “Are we at war?”
I have heard no rumors of an attack. And how would an enemy’s ships sail to Versailles, which is landlocked? It makes no sense.
Madame Élisabeth laughs. “Non, ma petite. Occasionally my brother re-enacts a famous naval battle out on these waters for the court’s viewing pleasure. Perhaps we could watch. Would you like that?”
“Oh, oui,” I say at once, for Madame Élisabeth does not often vary her schedule.
“Then come,” Madame Élisabeth says. “Let us find a spot from which we may view the proceedings.”
I feel a thrill of anticipation. I am about to see some court entertainment.
We come upon a gathering of gilt chairs surrounding two larger throne-like seats. A tent has been erected above the furniture to provide shade from the late spring sun. Madame Élisabeth motions for Manon and me to stand behind her. Then she moves forward and seats herself gracefully on one of the smaller gilt chairs.
I strain to look around the gathering crowds. Already I can see that two naval ships have been launched out onto the water. They are certainly not as large as the military ships I have seen in Paris, but still, they look exactly like them in all their detail. Actors, dressed as sailors, clamber about the vessels.
There is a commotion in the crowd, and Manon touches my hand, indicating that we should curtsy. I follow her lead and watch through lowered lashes as the rest of the crowd drops into bows and curtsies, like a wave sweeping the shore.
And then the king and queen are passing by, and my thoughts tumble about as I try to memorize every detail
of our sovereigns. The king is surprisingly ugly—short and rotund, with an unremarkable chin and squinty eyes. His waistcoat strains against his belly, but it is made of fine cloth. His shoes are polished, and fitted with diamond buckles. The king peers about, looking rather bored, as if this is the last place in the world he wants to be.
The queen, on the other hand, is beautifully and regally dressed in pale yellow silk, trimmed with buttons of pearls in the shape of daisies, and a white satin stomacher. Her light hair is piled high. At the very top of her elaborate tresses, rests a model naval ship, identical in every detail to the ships that are lying in the waters of the canal. Her young face is beaming with pleasure as she says bonjour to person after person, whispering a quick confidence to one and laughing slightly with another.
When the king and queen have passed, I start to rise, but Manon stays me with a hand, for behind the king and queen come their children. I look at them with curiosity, for the princess is only a few years younger than I am. She is clothed much like the queen, her dress a light pink, a necklace of rubies and diamonds around her neck. Holding her hand is her youngest brother, age eight, skipping along as if he has not a care in the world. Ringlets of gold circle his head, and his eyes dance with excitement. Behind his brother and sister comes the heir to the throne, Louis-Joseph, looking tired but excited. He has been sick of late, battling tuberculosis. He walks slowly, but still I feel some sense of awe to get a glimpse of the boy who will be king.
Again I go to rise when the royal children have passed, and again Manon stays me as the companions to the children follow behind.
“My legs are shaking,” I say. “Can’t I stand up just for a second?”
“Non,” Manon says. “Not until the entire royal family has gone by.”
At that moment there is a parting of the crowd, and the Comte d’Artois strolls past. He pauses for a moment when he sees me, and then walks on without acknowledging us. I have to resist the urge to stick out a foot and trip him.
Madame Tussaud's Apprentice Page 9
