Madame Tussaud's Apprentice

by Kathleen Benner Duble

  I rise unsteadily to my feet. “Fine. Let’s get it over with, then.”

  The Comte chuckles. “Get what over with? Telling the king?”

  My legs suddenly wobble beneath me. Tell the king? I had not even thought of that. What will happen to me then? Madame Élisabeth has said that the king is distraught over someone opening his locks. If the Comte reveals that I have done it, I will surely hang. And hanging had been not been a pleasant idea when I was living in the alley by the Palais-Royal. It is even less appealing now that I am doing a job I love, have a decent place to sleep, and have food in my belly.

  I take a deep breath, push aside my panic, and turn to face the Comte. “That hardly seems necessary,” I say. “Manon will be angry enough, I’m sure.”

  The Comte throws back his head and lets out a laugh. “Of that you are right, for if I tell the king that she has brought a thief to his court, she will lose her job.”

  Fear snakes its way through me with his words.

  The Comte pauses. “Though not her life … as you will.” He begins to pace about the room. “Non. Telling Manon is not the punishment I envision for you.”

  He turns to face me. “But perhaps it is not necessary to tell the king, either.”

  I look warily at the Comte, feeling like the animals caged in the king’s menagerie. What is he planning?

  The Comte sighs. “Ah, little urchin, you do not seem interested in my idea. I guess I shall just have to wake the king.”

  “I’m interested,” I snap. “I just don’t think I’ll like it if you are suggesting it.”

  The Comte laughs.

  “What are you offering?” I ask.

  “The use of your skills for my silence,” the Comte says.

  “My drawing skills?” I ask, hope rising within me. Could it be that simple? “Do you want me to do a picture of you and your family?”

  The Comte smiles and shakes his head. “I think not, although I have heard your abilities in that area highly praised. Non, Mademoiselle Celie. I was thinking more along the lines of your talent at cheating your fellow man.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

  “As nothing is secret in this haven of intrigue where we live,” the Comte says, walking about the room, “I am sure you are aware that I have a few gambling debts. I should like to rid myself of them.”

  “And you want me to help,” I finish.

  The Comte smiles again. “You may be a thief, but you are not dimwitted.”

  “Fine,” I snap. “If it will keep you quiet, I will help you, although I don’t see how you plan on having me attend your card parties. From what I have heard, they take place at the main palace, and Manon doesn’t like me wandering off too far.”

  The Comte lets out another loud laugh. “Unless she is unawares … as it seems she is at present.”

  I scowl. “But you won’t be playing cards at this time of night, now, will you?”

  The Comte nods. “This is true. However, I shall tell Mademoiselle Manon that I need to observe you more closely. I will insist on your presence in the evenings, seeing as you are busy attending my sister during the day.”

  “You have this all figured out, don’t you?” I ask.

  “Ever since I heard about the locks being undone about the palace,” the Comte replies. “So sit, little urchin. We have much to do to prepare for the next card game. We’ll need to devise a system for you to relay to me my opponent’s hand. You obviously can’t be a blind beggar girl, so let us put our heads together and come up with a plan that will work.”

  I have no choice. Even if I were willing to face the king in order to avoid helping the Comte, I cannot risk Manon losing her job. The woman has been kind to me, and does not deserve to fall from favor because I have been foolish enough to think I could outwit royalty. And, too, there is just the sliver of hope in me that Jean-Louis is right, and Manon truly does care about me.

  So I sit down on a chair beside the Comte, and spend an hour devising a way to help him cheat his friends.

  • • •

  The Great Hall shimmers with the light of a thousand candles that reflect in the mirrors, as well as the silks and jewels of the ladies and men who laugh and talk, gamble and flirt. The smell of roast duck, fresh bread, and asparagus wafts through the room. Servants thread their way through the crowd, pouring wine, moving chairs, and delivering trays of sweetmeats, chocolates, and pastries.

  In one corner, a group of musicians plays waltzes, and some men and women, depending on their rowdiness and inebriation, romp about and have a go at this new dance.

  Round tables are set up all around the room, each containing courtiers gambling at cards or dice. Dogs lie at the feet of their masters as their owners smile at their winnings or frown at their losses.

  I pause at the entrance to all this glamour and glitter. I have dressed as inconspicuously as I can. Still, I feel as noticeable as if I wear nothing at all. Never have I seen such an elaborate party. To think this happens every night horrifies me—the money it must cost, the lavishness and waste, are unconscionable.

  In my hand, I carry a piece of paper, my board, and charcoal pencils. The Comte has managed to convince Manon to send me to him, but only by agreeing that I am to spend the evening drawing events in the Great Hall of Mirrors. Manon looked at me with such suspicion that sweat broke out on my brow.

  The Comte and I have agreed that he will not acknowledge me when I enter the room. Still, I notice him glance my way as I delay at the doorway. So I pluck up my courage, take a deep breath, and enter the fray. I push my way through the crowds of people, being careful not to meet anyone’s eye. When I get close to the Comte’s table, I find a seat behind his opponent and settle down, my skirts tucked neatly around me.

  A servant appears immediately at my side. “Would mademoiselle like some warm chocolate to drink?”

  I instantly remember my first sip of that lovely brown liquid.

  “Oh, oui,” I respond without thinking.

  I see the Comte frown and realize how silly I have been. How can I tap with a pencil if I have a chocolate in my hand?

  “I mean non, merci,” I say before the servant can leave. I nod toward my board. “I am here to draw.”

  He bows and walks away to serve the next person who seems empty-handed.

  I roll out my paper and place it on my board. The noise level around me is deafening, with people laughing and talking and the musicians playing, and I feel a sudden stab of loneliness. How I wish Algernon were with me now! I can almost hear him grumbling over this display of wealth. If Algernon were here, he would have come up with a solution to my dilemma.

  But I am alone with this problem, and for now there is nothing to do but play along with the Comte. And so I begin to draw, but slowly. I cannot get so caught up in my work that I do not pay attention to the Comte’s opponent’s cards. Yet the idea that I am actually helping the Comte makes me sick with loathing.

  With my head lowered over my paper, I sneak a quick look at the Comte’s table. The Comte’s eyes are gleaming with pleasure. His opponent takes a drink, letting his cards sway toward me. I see them and immediately begin to tap on my board, trying to look as if I am in deep concentration and stuck on a problem with my work. I have to tap loudly to be heard above the other noises, but no one seems to pay me any notice.

  When I have finished, I begin to draw again.

  “Ah ha, my win!” the Comte exclaims loudly, slapping his cards on the table.

  “The night is early yet, my friend,” his unsuspecting adversary says. “I wouldn’t count on relieving your debt to me on one hand alone.”

  The Comte lets out a loud laugh. “Ah, dear cousin, I feel my luck is about to change for good.”

  “You are incorrigible,” the Comte’s cousin says, shaking his head and laughing. “But go on. Deal the next hand, and let us see if you can sustain this tiny winning streak of yours.”

  The Comte’s cousin raises his finger, and a servant h
urries over to him.

  “Oui, Monsieur le Duc?” he asks, bowing low.

  “More wine, please,” the Comte’s cousin commands.

  The servant scurries off.

  Two ladies come and sit beside me. They glance at me a moment, then seem to dismiss me as no one of importance and begin to talk between themselves.

  “There are protests every day now in Paris,” the one woman says. “My husband is afraid and wants us to leave France for my parents’ home in Austria.”

  “What is the king to do?” the other woman says. “The commoners want a say in the government. Impossible! Can you imagine such a thing?”

  “Those savages in America have put ideas into the people’s heads,” the other lady says. “And the king is too weak to squash these radical ideas. Until he stands up to these troublemakers, I fear we will be hearing of more unrest in the city.”

  I pause in my drawing. Can what they are saying be true? Are there protests in Paris? Has the time for the people’s rebellion arrived? I will have to send Algernon another drawing quickly to help Mirabeau fuel the flames. I wonder why I have heard nothing of it in the servants’ quarters?

  A cough brings me out of my reverie. I have forgotten the card game. I bend over so that I can see the Duc’s cards. When I straighten up, I find the two women looking at me oddly. Nervously, I make myself smile at them.

  “A stitch in my side,” I say. “I have been working so long at my drawing.”

  The women give me a nod, then go back to their conversation.

  Quickly, I begin to tap out the cards before the Comte has to place his bet. When I finish, I go back to my drawing, hoping this will stop the women from noticing me at all. And soon, they are deep in conversation once again.

  “The king takes no notice of anything that is happening around him,” one of the women complains. “Look at him, sitting there, staring off into space. He hates these parties and doesn’t mind showing it. Really, so inconsiderate of him.”

  I follow the woman’s gaze and see the king, sitting alone and looking decidedly unhappy. I think back to the animals in his menagerie. How similar they look at this moment. Perhaps the king does not enjoy these spectacles at all. The idea that this might be true startles me.

  “He was in a very jolly mood this morning,” the other woman says, sniffing a bit. “It seems someone has discovered a way to undo those blasted locks of his.”

  I pause in my drawing, my attention now turned totally to the conversation of the two women beside me.

  “He was like a child,” the woman continues, “delighted that at last he has a worthy adversary with whom he can spar by creating better and tighter locks.”

  “Perhaps he could create a lock strong enough to muzzle the rabble of Paris,” her partner comments, and the two women laugh.

  I hear the Comte cough again and realize he has probably been trying to get my attention for quite some time. I ignore him and lean toward the two women. “Are you saying that the king was happy someone has unlocked his creations?”

  The woman beside me pulls back, as if she has smelled something nasty. “It is inappropriate to eavesdrop.”

  “Please,” I beg. “The king was truly happy about this?”

  Beside me, the Comte bangs his drink down loudly on the table.

  “Come now, cousin,” the Duc says. “Place your bet. Or are you running a bit scared? Not a good hand, I suppose.” The Duc chuckles.

  “Please,” I say again.

  “Mais oui, he was happy,” the woman snaps. “It is a game to him, one he has always enjoyed. Creating locks soothes him, he says.”

  “It’s the only thing he seems to enjoy or spend time on,” sniffs the other woman.

  The Comte is coughing again and calling for water in a very angry voice.

  Slowly, I rise from my place near his table. I turn and fix my eyes on the Comte. Then I walk to his table, pick up the Duc’s drink, and throw the contents in the Comte’s face.

  I bang the empty glass down on the table and turn to the Duc, who is staring up at me with wide, startled eyes.

  “He cheats,” I say loudly, and without waiting to see what will happen, I walk from the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  I run to my room at the Petit Trianon, proud of having embarrassed the Comte, not bothering to stay and see what effect my words had on the Duc, and knowing the Comte will be furious. I am pleased to have let my anger finally roar out of me.

  But as soon as the thrill of letting go has abated, I see the folly of my actions. Manon will be fired. And I will certainly be arrested. Now my stomach aches with fear, and there is nothing to do but ready myself for the guards to arrive.

  I walk back and forth in my room, waiting, cursing myself for not controlling myself better, for not using my head. What have I done? What have I accomplished with my bravado?

  But the Comte does not come, and this makes me worry more. Several times during the night, I hear noises outside my door. The blood pounds in my ears as I wait for the door to slam open, and the Comte’s men to enter with their swords.

  But in the end, it is not the guards who come for me. It is Manon.

  “Get dressed,” she commands, “and gather together all your things.”

  “Manon, I—” I manage to squeak out.

  “Shush,” Manon interrupts in a whisper. “Just do as I say, and do it quickly. Bring your suitcase to me when you are finished.”

  Manon walks out of my room without another word.

  I rise and begin to pack. The room is already warm with summer heat, and my hands shake as I throw my few dresses into my suitcase. If the king forces Manon to leave, I cannot bear it.

  At last, I finish. I drag my suitcase as quietly as I can across the hallway to Manon’s room and knock softly. Manon opens the door.

  She, too, is packed, her suitcase sitting on the floor of her room, her cupboard empty of clothes. I am mortified to have brought dismissal down on us both.

  “Manon, I’m so sorry ….” I begin, my voice shaking.

  Manon motions for me to be quiet. She goes to the window, pulls back the curtains, and looks out into the courtyard below.

  “What is it?” I ask, wondering why Manon is acting so strangely, why she does not rant and rave and simply yell at me for my foolish act.

  “Quiet, Celie!” Manon snaps. “I need to think.”

  I stand there, confused and uncertain.

  There is a knock on the door, and a servant stands outside.

  “Your carriage is ready, mademoiselle.” He bows and then comes in to collect our bags. Behind him stands Jean-Louis. He looks at me with wide, frightened eyes.

  Manon pauses on the threshold and looks about her. Abruptly, she turns toward the servant. “Hold the carriage for me. I won’t be long.”

  “There are others waiting, mademoiselle,” the servant begins.

  “Jean-Louis, go and hold the carriage for us,” Manon instructs, ignoring the servant. “Do not leave it, or give it to anyone else. Do you understand?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” Jean-Louis says, and he runs quickly from the room.

  “Load our bags into that carriage,” Manon commands the servant. “Come along, Celie, but keep quiet.”

  I realize then that whatever is wrong, it is something that does not involve Manon and me alone.

  Dutifully, I follow Manon down the back winding staircase to Madame Élisabeth’s rooms, curiosity making me forget my folly of that evening. What is happening? Why is Manon going to Madame Élisabeth at this hour? Manon scratches lightly upon the door, but it takes several minutes before an usher answers.

  “Madame is praying,” the usher says.

  “I must speak with her,” Manon says. “Now.”

  The usher looks insulted, but obeys Manon. For once, my mouth seems sewn shut with a thread that is strong and tight.

  When Madame Élisabeth comes to the door, I see that she is fully dressed, though it is hours before dawn.
r />   “Manon, my friend,” Madame Élisabeth whispers, “you are leaving?”

  “You are aware of what is happening?” Manon asks.

  Madame Élisabeth nods. “Oui, I have been up and praying for hours.”

  “But I had heard that the court was unaware,” Manon says.

  Madame Élisabeth laughs lightly. “In this den of spies, do you think that I am not informed when there are public protests everywhere in the streets of Paris?”

  My breath leaves me. So it is true. At last!

  “Come with us then, madame,” Manon urges. “You may stay at my uncle’s house. He has bid me to return, but he has not said that I may not bring others. You could be in danger if this thing turns ugly. Please let me take you from here.”

  Why would it turn ugly, I wonder?

  “I cannot leave my brother, Manon,” Madame Élisabeth says gently. “But if your uncle has bid you return, go with my blessing. And when this issue is at last resolved, return to me, and we shall take up where we have left off.”

  “I cannot convince you otherwise?” Manon asks.

  Madame Élisabeth gives a small smile and shakes her head. She turns to me and takes my hand. “It has been an honor to work with you, Celie. I hope to see you again very soon.”

  I nod, and then Madame Élisabeth shuts the door on us. I look over at Manon to see what we should do next, and to my amazement, there are tears on her cheeks. Whatever is Manon crying about?

  • • •

  There is an even bigger surprise in store for me when we reach the kitchen and its door to the courtyard. Servants run hither and thither, clothing in their arms, bags being dragged behind them. They are arguing with one another and shoving one another. All seems to be in a state of confusion.

  “Come, Celie,” Manon orders, pushing her way through the crowd.

  Outside, it is even more chaotic than in the kitchens. Darkness still hangs heavy in the sky, but the courtyard bristles with servants loading up bags and parcels and baskets of food.

  “Manon,” I finally ask, “what is happening?”

  “You heard what I told Madame Élisabeth,” Manon says. “There are public protests in the streets of Paris.”