“But that is Paris, not here. And they are only protests,” I say.
Manon does not answer me. Instead, she pushes me on ahead of her until she finds the carriage that Jean-Louis is holding for us.
“Merci, Jean-Louis,” Manon says.
Jean-Louis bows low to us, but I can see fear in his eyes.
I cannot understand what everyone is so frightened about, but I look at the chaos surrounding us and do not want to leave Jean-Louis here on his own in all this bedlam. He can come with us now, and we can bring him back when the king has settled his differences with the people of Paris.
“We must take Jean-Louis with us,” I say to Manon.
Manon halts her climb into the carriage. She turns to face me. “We dare not go back to ask Madame Élisabeth’s permission to take him. We have tarried too long as it is.”
“I’ll be all right, Celie,” Jean-Louis pipes up, but his voice cracks. “Don’t worry about me.”
I cannot look at his face and leave him behind. I have lost my little brother. I cannot leave Jean-Louis here alone to fend for himself.
“I’m staying with Jean-Louis,” I announce.
“No, you’re not,” Manon says. “Get in this carriage now, Celie.”
“Non,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
“Celie,” Manon says, “I am your employer. Get in this carriage at once.”
“Not without Jean-Louis,” I say.
Suddenly, someone shouts. “There’s a carriage that’s not left yet. Grab it!”
“Celie, get in this carriage now, or we will have to fight people off to get out of here.” Manon’s voice is high and shrill.
“Non. Go on ahead if you wish. I will not leave Jean-Louis behind,” I persist.
Without another word, Manon climbs down from the carriage. She reaches out an arm and grabs Jean-Louis, picking him up and shoving him into the carriage.
“Get in, Celie,” Manon shouts. “Now!”
With Jean-Louis safely inside, I do not need to be asked twice. Several servants are running toward our carriage, bags in hand, angry looks on their faces. I scurry up the steps. Manon slams the door shut and raps on the carriage roof.
“To Paris,” she yells.
The carriage rolls away, just as the servants who had intended to abscond with it reach us. It picks up speed until it is careening out the gates of Versailles, rocking back and forth on the road to the city.
Manon leans back against the cushions of the carriage, her face white. “If you ever do something like that again ….”
“I didn’t want him to be there all alone,” I say, defending myself.
Manon glances over at Jean-Louis, and after a moment, she sighs. “Perhaps you are right. There, he would have had no one to look after him.”
“I don’t understand. Why is everyone running about and trying to leave the palace, anyway?” I ask. “The people in Paris just want the king to help them. If he does that, everything will be all right.”
Manon shrugs. “Perhaps. There has been trouble brewing in Paris for some time now. L’Oncle’s letters to me have indicated that it is serious. He has had to make many changes, which is why he has been so accommodating with dresses for us and drawings for your brother. I don’t know all the facts, but l’Oncle sent me a message during the night, telling me to get out as soon as possible. And when I went to the kitchen to gather some clothes I had left drying, the place was a madhouse. And I knew then that we had to hurry. Something is definitely astir.”
I glance over at Jean-Louis. He hasn’t said a word. He is just gazing out the carriage window as we speed along, but his brow is creased with uncertainty.
“Are you all right, Jean-Louis?” I ask.
“I am worried about the king and queen,” Jean-Louis whispers. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left. Some of the servants said the people would do away with them.”
“That’s nonsense,” I tell him. “The people are starving, and they are angry. But the king is our king, and the people know that. It has been that way forever. There is no other way for it to be.”
“Papa told me that in America they have no king or queen,” Jean-Louis says. “He said that they rule themselves.”
“But this is France,” I say. “And we have always had a king. He just needs to pay attention to what is happening around him. He will talk to the people. It will be better for us all soon, right, Manon?”
“I don’t know,” Manon answers, her eyebrows knit with worry. “I don’t know.”
• • •
The gates to the city are open and unguarded. I feel uneasy as we pass through them. What can have happened to make the guards leave their posts?
When we enter the city itself, we find the streets filled with the king’s soldiers and groups of people huddled together, casting angry looks toward them. Everyone is wearing red, white, and blue rosettes pinned to their clothing.
“Why are they all wearing that?” I ask Manon.
Manon shakes her head. “I know as little as you do, Celie.”
When we pull up at 20 Boulevard du Temple, my heart skips a beat. In a few minutes, I will see Algernon again. I have been gone but two months, and yet, it feels as if we have been parted for years.
L’Oncle opens the door himself when Manon knocks upon it. “Thank God. You and the child are safe.”
He looks at Jean-Louis. “Who is this?”
“Another stray,” Manon says shortly. “Mon oncle, what is happening? Is it true that the people are publicly protesting?”
“More like revolting,” l’Oncle says. “They are determined to obtain gunpowder and guns. Soldiers have been called in to restore order.”
“But why would they need guns and gunpowder?” I ask. “The people just want the king to listen. Mirabeau will speak for them.”
L’Oncle snorts. “Child, this is a mob we are talking about, and mobs have a funny way of becoming something they were never intended to be—namely, violent.”
For the first time, a shiver of fear runs through me over the thought of the people standing up to their king. I shake myself. What is wrong with me? I refuse to believe that something bad will happen. Only good can come from this.
“Where is Algernon?” I ask l’Oncle.
L’Oncle scowls. “Joined the rebels. However, I will say that he has also been keeping us safe because of his connections.”
Safe from what, I wonder?
Just then, Manon’s mother comes into the hallway.
“Maman, you are wearing those flowers, too?” Manon asks.
“It is a sign that you are a patriot. The colors red, white, and blue are meant to mimic the colors the Americans fly these days,” Tante Anne-Marie says, setting down some firewood she has brought from outside and giving her daughter a hug. “You must never venture out without it, not unless you want to risk being harassed by the patriots. I am glad you are back and safe, Manon.”
“We have had to change all the exhibits to keep from being badgered and shut down,” l’Oncle tells Manon. “Our exhibits are no longer of the royal family, but of anyone who is considered a true patriot. I have renamed the museum. We are now the People’s Museum.”
“It has gone that far?” Manon asks.
“Oui,” Tante Anne-Marie says. “I’m afraid so.”
From outside, the sound of raised voices can suddenly be heard. Tante Marthe comes into the hallway. “There is a crowd coming this way, and it seems to be headed toward our doorstep.” She gives Manon a quick hug and looks curiously at Jean-Louis.
“We will not answer,” l’Oncle tells us. “Perhaps they will think us gone.”
I cannot believe what they are doing. Why would they be so fearful of a little crowd, of people who just want to be heard?
There is a loud knocking on the door. “Open up. Open up now.”
L’Oncle shakes his head and puts his finger to his lips. Jean-Louis moves closer to me and slips his hand into mine.
“Open up,
” the voice yells once again. “Open up in the name of the revolution.”
Revolution? Why are they talking about revolution? Revolution is for the Americans, not us. We just want to be heard, not to overthrow our government or begin a revolution.
With these words, l’Oncle sighs. “It seems we will have to greet them.”
Manon goes to the door. I peek around the side of Tante Anne-Marie, who has stepped in front of me as if I am in danger.
But I am determined to see exactly what is happening. The people of Paris are protesting at last, and I want to watch it happen.
Chapter Twelve
They carry torches in their hands, and are dressed in torn and ratty clothing. Their eyes shine with a light of excitement.
I come out from behind Tante Anne-Marie. These are my people, the people of the streets of Paris, the ones I have shared alleys with, the ones I have lost loved ones with, the ones who only want a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, the ones who want the king simply to listen to them and help them.
“We are marching for freedom today,” one man says, stepping forward. “As head of the People’s Museum, surely you will join us?”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” l’Oncle says. “We are currently in the midst of setting up a new display.”
“But don’t you want to support the cause?” a woman shouts.
The crowd presses closer. A voice here and there calls out, “Don’t you?”
“Come now, monsieur,” the man says, his voice low and menacing. “You wouldn’t want us thinking you really aren’t for the people?”
Just then the crowd separates, and there is Algernon. He is dressed in a uniform and looks more handsome than I can ever remember.
I am shocked to see him outfitted as a soldier. I know now how he must have felt seeing me dressed in lace and satins on the day I left for Versailles. He is no longer Algernon, boy of the streets. He is Algernon, a leader of the people of Paris. I stand frozen, for it is suddenly as if a stranger stands before me.
He gives me a mocking bow, his green eyes dancing. “No greeting for your brother, ma soeur?”
Slowly, I go to him. He reaches out and draws me close. His hands circle my waist, and I feel the warmth of his touch. My tongue is heavy, but I know I must say something to break the unnatural way I am feeling near him.
“Oh, Algernon, you are all right,” I manage to say into the wool of his uniform.
“Did you miss me, Celie?” Algernon whispers, his breath hot on my ear. “For I have missed you.”
I feel as if I will faint with his words.
I back away from him. “L’Oncle said you had gone to join the rebels.”
Algernon gives me a wicked grin. “I am now a part of the people’s new National Guard, which the National Assembly has established. I will help to maintain order as we face the king. The time of the people has come. It has come at last.”
His handsome face glows. “Are you not happy, as we are, Celie?”
There are cheers from behind him.
“March with us, Celie, for I know you to be a true and loyal patriot, a supporter of the revolution,” he urges.
Revolution. Why has Algernon, too, used that word?
“Oh non, Celie is staying right here,” Manon says, suddenly stepping between us. “Those streets are no place for a young girl.”
Algernon’s eyes snap with anger. “She is no innocent, mademoiselle, not when it comes to knowing hunger or need. Or have you corrupted her so that she no longer understands what I have fought for, what we are all fighting for?”
Algernon swings his eyes to meet mine. “Have those fancy clothes you wear muddied your thoughts, Celie? Or are you still clearheaded enough to remember our time on the streets?”
I hesitate, looking from Manon, who perhaps cares about me, to Algernon, who has rescued me, and whom I love. What am I to do? I have waited years for this day, have suppressed the anger I have felt, have scrapped and stolen. Surely, Manon will understand this.
“I want to march,” I say.
Algernon laughs with delight. “Ah, see how my sister has chosen me? Besides, dear lady, you cannot tell her oui or non. I am her brother, and I want her there. Come along then, Celie.”
He holds out his hand, and I take it, feeling his fingers curl around mine, sure and strong. But I risk looking back once at Manon and am surprised to see that she is biting her lip, as if she is worried.
• • •
We march through the streets of Paris, drums beating with our every step. Our footsteps ring loud on the cobblestones. As we march, more and more people join us until I can look back and see nothing but a sea of people, their faces burning with an inner fire. My spirits lift, and I join in the songs everyone has begun singing, patriotic songs, songs of freedom. Our voices rise as one into the smoky air of the city. Faces caked with grime and sweat, the common folk of Paris, smile at me. I join hands with Algernon on my left and a blacksmith on my other side.
I was right to come. This is where I belong, here with the people of Paris, here with those who cry for change, here with Algernon.
Down the Rue Saint-Martin and the Rue Greneta and the Rue Saint-Denis, we march, singing loudly, then onward down the Rue de la Ferronnerie and over to the Rue Saint-Honoré, until at last we reach the large square of the Place Vendôme, where we come to a sudden halt and the merriment ceases.
“Algernon, why have we stopped?” I ask, straining to see ahead.
“Soldiers of the king,” Algernon tells me. “They are blocking our way.”
“People of Paris!” A loud voice rings out across the sea of humanity. “Return to your homes. By order of your sovereign, the good King Louis the Sixteenth.”
The crowd lets out shouts of derision. They boo the soldiers.
“We’ll not turn back,” someone yells.
“We march for freedom,” someone else shouts.
The crowd cheers loudly.
“This is your last warning.” The deep voice sounds again.
No one moves.
Suddenly, the sound of musket fire rings out.
Pandemonium ensues. People scatter, running everywhere, screaming. The crowd in front of me parts like a wave, and the soldiers are there, guns at their shoulders, bayonets pointed toward the fleeing crowds. On the ground, several people lie prone. One man is holding his stomach and crying as blood trickles through his fingers.
I am unable to move, shaken by the sudden violence and blood. What is happening? We have done nothing wrong. We have simply been marching, protesting the king’s treatment of his subjects.
The soldiers begin advancing toward the remaining crowd, their guns at the ready. I stare in horror as a woman screams and falls, a soldier ripping his bayonet from her belly and running down an alley after the retreating protestors. I feel as if I will throw up. Will no one help these people?
I turn and see a soldier running at me, his bayonet aimed directly at my chest.
Before I can move, Algernon sweeps me up into his arms. He throws me over his shoulder. My head bounces crazily as Algernon runs down street after street, trying to escape the soldier who is in hot pursuit. But this time, there is no joy as we try to elude the law. This soldier is intent on killing.
“Arrêtez! Arrêtez!” the soldier calls after us.
I brace my hands on Algernon’s back and look up. The soldier is getting closer. I can almost see his face.
“Hurry, Algernon,” I shout.
A shot rings out, and I feel a slight breeze as the bullet passes in the air beside us.
Algernon whips us around a corner, and suddenly I am engulfed in darkness, swung in a half circle. And a door slams shut behind us.
Algernon sets me down and claps a hand over my mouth to silence me. But this time there is no tenderness in his touch. He is breathing hard, and sweat runs down his face.
My ears ring with the sound of shots and screams outside. The soldier who was chasing us pauses jus
t outside our door. Algernon’s eyes meet mine, and I feel as if even our hearts beating will alert the man outside to our presence.
But at last we hear him cough, and his footsteps move away.
“Why did they shoot at us, Algernon?” I whisper when the sounds of chaos finally fade and there is silence outside. “We were just marching. We weren’t doing anything bad.”
“They shot at us because they know we are right,” Algernon says, his words broken up between the deep breaths he is now taking. “They are scared, for the time of the people has come, and the king is worried that his lavish lifestyle may be ending soon.”
I have a sudden memory of the small, unhappy man who had been stared at by his own people as he ate, closeted in his own little world of Versailles. I want to tell Algernon that the king’s world is hardly perfect, but now is not the time.
Looking exhausted, Algernon leans against the wall and slides down it until he is sitting on the floor in a heap. “Merde! We’re lucky we escaped. Now we’re stuck here until it grows dark, and I can sneak you back to Dr. Curtius’s.”
“You mean sneak us both back, don’t you?” I ask, shuddering again at the thought of the violence I have just witnessed.
“Non, I have work to do,” Algernon tells me, “important work. I will need to round up some patriots to keep peace in the city as these confrontations occur.”
“There will be more?” I ask.
Algernon looks up at me as if I am daft. “Of course there will be more. This is what we have been waiting for, Celie.”
I blink in surprise at his words. Is it? Is this what Algernon had envisioned when he spoke of rebellion? Hadn’t he simply been talking about eliminating taxes and getting bread to the people? I know that is what I wanted.
Had he meant this? This violence and chaos?
Surely, this is an isolated incident in the path toward equality. Surely there will be no more violence, for what purpose does it serve? The king’s men cannot kill all those who want freedom in France.
“We will all have to do our part,” Algernon continues. “It would be wise for Dr. Curtius to join our National Guard, as I have.”
Madame Tussaud's Apprentice Page 13
