Madame Tussaud's Apprentice

by Kathleen Benner Duble

  At last I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up to find Manon, clean and in a dressing gown. “The water is cold, Celie. You must get out. I don’t want you getting ill.”

  “I already feel ill,” I say, but I do as Manon tells me.

  Manon throws a warm nightgown over my head. Still, I shiver.

  She pulls a chair toward the fire and settles me in it, wrapping a blanket firmly around me. Then she sits next to me.

  “Why have they done this?” I ask, my voice sounding as hollow as if am speaking in the spaces under the bridges that cross the Seine.

  Manon puts her arm around me. “When change comes to a country, it does not always come easily, Celie. Change is often accompanied by violence.”

  “They could have just tried talking to the king,” I say. “He might have listened.”

  “Oui,” Manon agrees, “he might have, or he might not have. He lives in a world so apart from the common people, it may have been impossible for him to understand the depths of his people’s anger.”

  “Maybe he will understand now,” I say, raising my eyes to Manon’s. “Perhaps he will come to Paris and talk to them, and all will be well.”

  But Manon shakes her head. “I believe it is past that now, Celie. Revolution is upon us. And we must keep our heads low, and our loyalties to ourselves.”

  I think of where my own loyalties lie—with Algernon, with Maman and Papa and Jacques. I believe in them. I still believe in the idea of equality for everyone. But not like this. Never like this.

  “And where do your loyalties lie?” I finally ask Manon.

  She sighs. “I am loyal to us. I am for our survival.”

  She shakes her head. “But I believe that now we must draw deep into ourselves, Celie, for the courage and fortitude to survive, for I believe that there is worse to come.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A few weeks later, I wake, my eyes feeling as if they are three times their regular size from lack of sleep. Nightmares are my constant companions these days.

  When I go downstairs and take a seat, Jean-Louis scoots his chair next to me, and lays his head on my shoulder. Since the day of the governor’s beheading, he has rarely left my side.

  L’Oncle comes into the kitchen as I am taking the last bite of my breakfast brioche. He pulls out a chair. “Jean-Louis, I believe Tante Marthe is calling for you.”

  “I don’t hear anything,” Jean-Louis says.

  “Perhaps not,” l’Oncle says. “But please go and find her.”

  Jean-Louis reluctantly slides from his seat and dawdles at the door.

  “Jean-Louis,” l’Oncle says, sternly. “Go. Now.”

  Slowly, Jean-Louis walks away.

  L’Oncle turns to me. “I have been meaning to apologize to you, ma petite. I’m sorry that I was not here when they came with the governor’s head. It was a terrible thing that you had to do.”

  “That’s all right,”I tell him, but my voice sounds wooden.

  “As National Guardsmen, both Algernon and I were at the Bastille,” l’Oncle says. “But there was such confusion at the prison that Algernon and I were kept quite busy restoring order, and we were unable to follow the crowd when they took off with the head of the dead governor. Things have been unsettled these past weeks, and I am sorry that it has taken so long for us to have this talk.”

  “Is Algernon all right?” I ask. I have not seen him since the incident at the Bastille. He has been kept from our home, running National Assembly errands.

  “Oui, he will be here shortly,” l’Oncle says. “But Celie, there is something we must discuss now.”

  He holds out his hand. In it is a paper pamphlet, and on the front is my drawing of the naval battle on the Grand Canal at Versailles. “I think perhaps that it would be wise for the artist of this picture to stop inciting the people with more drawings of the excesses of the court. They were inflamed enough with this particular one, which was given to me that day at the Bastille. I recognized your work immediately. But I think it would be best now if no more were to surface. Would you not agree, ma petite?”

  Bile rises in my throat. Did my drawing and Mirabeau’s reproduction of it cause the events at the prison? Can it be my fault that the headless body of the governor lies somewhere, beaten and unattended? I had wanted my drawings to prompt discussion, not incite violence. Mon Dieu! Am I responsible? Me, who hates violence with a passion?

  “I did not mean for … I did not know that ….” I stammer.

  “I know. I understand,” l’Oncle says, placing a hand on my knee.

  “Mon oncle, did my drawings cause that brutality?” I burst out, as shame and guilt wash over me at the possibility.

  “Non, non,” l’Oncle says quickly. “Your drawings did not cause that uproar. Please do not think yourself at fault for what others chose to do. But Mirabeau’s use of them has lit a spark. I would not want you to be the cause of any more of these types of incidents. Would you?”

  If there is even the slightest chance that my drawings will incite fresh violence, I will rip my own drawings to shreds.

  “It will not happen. I promise,” I tell him, still shaken.

  “Bon,” l’Oncle says, rising. “That is what I was hoping to hear.”

  Algernon comes into the kitchen then, and relief rushes through me as I see he is whole and unharmed.

  But his face is flushed, and his eyes glow with an odd light. “They are marching to Versailles.”

  “Who?” Manon asks, as she joins us along with Jean-Louis.

  “Women, thousands of women,” Algernon says, turning to include them. “A group of market fisherwomen began a protest, and thousands of other women joined them. Together, they are marching to Versailles. The women mean to bring the king to Paris so he can witness the poverty and hunger of his people.”

  “The king will never leave Versailles,” Manon says.

  “They are armed, Manon,” Algernon says. “They have ropes and knives, and they are angry. I would not want to be the king when they meet him.”

  My breath quickens at his statement. Will there be more violence now?

  “Will they hurt him?” Jean-Louis pipes up. “Would they hurt their king?”

  Algernon shrugs. “Perhaps. And why shouldn’t they? He has done nothing for them. There have been protests, and he has seen the pamphlets that accuse him of neglect. And still, he has done nothing.”

  Algernon looks hard at Jean-Louis. “He will get what he deserves.”

  Jean-Louis puts his head down, and I can see his shoulders shaking. He is crying. I know Algernon is aware that Versailles and the king are the only home Jean-Louis has ever really known, and I am angry with him for being so hardhearted with Jean-Louis.

  “Come along, Celie,” Algernon says. “I have brought a cart, and we will go together to see what these women are able to get from our almighty sovereign.”

  “You are not taking her out in those streets again,” Manon says vehemently.

  “This is history, Manon,” Algernon says. “I want my sister there to see it.”

  “Let us be done with this charade. She is not your sister,” l’Oncle snaps at Algernon.

  Algernon and l’Oncle glare at one another, and I am left to choose sides again.

  I have dreamed for years of a time when the king would listen to his people. I have longed for a day when families like mine might be treated more kindly, thanked and honored for their service to their country. And yet, this révolution is not how I had wanted to go about it. The violent anger that has erupted is like a wild animal that cannot be controlled. These events in the quest for equality have taken twists and turns that leave my head spinning and my heart weak.

  “Come, Celie,” Algernon says softly, moving near me and bending over to put his lips near my ear.

  “We are wasting time,” he whispers.

  “I … I don’t feel well,” I stammer.

  I need to think.

  “That’s a shame,” Algernon says, p
ulling me up to stand with him. He places a hand around my waist, but for once, I wish he would not touch me. “Feeling ill on the most glorious of days, when all we have worked for, all Mirabeau has spoken for, all we have envisioned, is happening.”

  He bends near me and takes my chin in his hand, turning my face up to his. He looks curiously at me, and I wish I could sink into the ground rather than meet his inquiring gaze. Can he see how badly I do not want to go? Can he tell that I no longer want to be a part of this new madness, his companion in crime, his partner?

  “I need you by my side, like before,” Algernon says, his voice tender. “There is so much to do, so much to watch unfold. The next days are going to be busy ones for us and for the revolution. Mirabeau is the leader now, and we will go sliding in on his coattails, thanks to you and your drawings, and my willingness to be his right-hand man. We need sleep in the streets or here no longer. Our dreams are coming true.”

  I feel as if I will choke with the mention of my drawings. I can pretend with him no longer. “I don’t want to go.”

  I finally look at him directly. “This isn’t what I saw happening, Algernon. This isn’t what I thought would occur. I am for rebellion, but not this. I don’t like the way you are treating and speaking of the king.”

  Anger distorts his face.

  “Did you think revolution could be obtained without some force?” Algernon says, his voice rising. “Did you think a king could be brought down without a struggle?”

  “I believed people could be reasonable, Algernon,” I say, my voice rising, too, as I see him slipping away.

  “Then you are a fool!” Algernon snaps. “I should have known this might happen, sending you out to live in a palace like that. They have corrupted you. And now you are the king’s girl, are you?”

  “I am my own girl, Algernon,” I say wearily. “I don’t like violence. I never have.”

  “No one likes violence,” he snaps. “But sometimes it is necessary.”

  “No,” I argue, “it is never necessary. One can use words and wit, as we did.”

  Algernon laughs. “Yes, look how far our words and wit got us.”

  “It got us a home and a roof over our heads,” I remind him.

  “Have you completely forgotten your maman and your papa?” Algernon counters. “Have you forgotten how they died?”

  “Non,” I say. “But I will not do to others what was done to them. Otherwise, I am no better than they are.”

  I turn from him, for I cannot bear this leave-taking now that I have made my decision. “I’m done with this, Algernon. This violence isn’t for me.”

  “I’ll not be there, should you need me,” Algernon says, his voice taut with anger. “Don’t plan on coming to me, when Manon no longer has use for you and turns you out. I won’t take you back.”

  I don’t answer. I can’t.

  I run from him to my bedroom before I have time to change my mind.

  Perhaps Algernon is right, and Manon will tire of me and throw me out. Perhaps I will end up back on the streets. I don’t care. For I finally know the truth: I would rather die in the streets than see one more innocent person murdered. I will not walk down that alley ever again—not even for Algernon.

  • • •

  The king and his family, including Madame Élisabeth, are forced by the fish women to come to Paris. For a while, the revolutionaries and the king try working together, but when the king and his family try to flee the country and are caught, all trust is lost.

  The royal family is put in the Temple, a dark and decaying royal palace, now a jail. They become prisoners, their freedom revoked.

  The National Assembly takes over running the country. It saddens me that the king has been rendered powerless, and I am infuriated when I learn that the Comte has escaped to Austria. But conflicting emotions seem to be my constant companions these days.

  Algernon is true to his word. He does not come back, and I am bereft of the boy who rescued me. My heart aches every day for him.

  People who own apartments near the Temple prison grounds start to offer Parisians a glimpse of their sovereigns for a price.

  “Manon,” Jean-Louis says, “I would like to go and see the king and queen.”

  “Did we not agree to stay away, Jean-Louis?” Manon reminds him.

  “Please,” Jean-Louis pleads. “Just once. I won’t ask again.”

  “I’ll take him,” I offer, realizing that the king and queen were like family to this little boy, who has lost so much.

  Manon hesitates, then relents. “Fine. Once. But I do not want you lingering there or trying to get their attention. It will only alert people to the fact that you know the royals. It’s best we keep that to ourselves.”

  Jean-Louis’s face lights up. “Merci, Manon.”

  That afternoon, Jean-Louis and I walk through the streets of Paris. Near the Temple prison, there are people calling out the cost of glimpsing the king and queen as they walk the grounds for some air.

  Over the past few days, Tante Anne-Marie and Tante Marthe have listened carefully at the market and know which apartment has the best view and what time is optimal for seeing the royal family. I wonder if Algernon is enjoying this—making a spectacle of the king and his loved ones in this fashion.

  I pay the two sous for Jean-Louis and myself. We climb five flights of rickety wooden stairs and are shown to a window with the sash open. Jean-Louis leans out.

  “There they are,” the owner says, pointing, “the queen and her children.”

  “That’s not the queen,” Jean-Louis says.

  “And how would you know what the queen looks like?” the owner asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  I pinch Jean-Louis. Why is he saying this?

  “I don’t,” Jean-Louis squeaks. “But we had heard that she is beautiful.”

  “No longer,” the owner of the apartment says. “Her hair has turned white, and she has wrinkles like the rest of us. But believe me, that is the same wicked, foreign queen who has taken bread from the mouths of our children to dress herself finely. Not so good-looking now, is she?”

  I glance out the window and see in a moment why Jean-Louis has spoken. The woman with the royal children in the garden looks like an old woman, and yet, it is Marie Antoinette herself.

  The man chuckles.

  I grab Jean-Louis and pull him from the window. I do not want him to begin crying in front of this man. And I cannot bear to look anymore either.

  • • •

  Several weeks later, I wake to screaming. I go into the hallway to find Jean-Louis standing there, looking as scared and bewildered as I am.

  Together we go downstairs to find Tante Anne-Marie on her knees, keening and wailing near the front door. Beside her, Tante Marthe has tears streaming down her face.

  “What is wrong?” I ask.

  “Soldiers came. They have taken Manon,” Tante Marthe manages to choke out. “They are rounding up Royalists, and our Manon has been declared one. They have taken her to prison.”

  “We have to do something,” I say.

  “But what?” Tante Anne-Marie asks. “She worked for the king. We cannot deny it.”

  “But she has never said she was for the king or against him,” I protest, thinking back to Manon’s guarded words on all subjects to do with the monarchy, her stated opinion that survival was all that mattered and that we should keep our loyalties to ourselves.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Tante Anne-Marie cries. “Working for the king is enough to suspect she is for him.”

  “If l’Oncle were here, he would know what to do,” Jean-Louis says.

  He is right. Unfortunately, l’Oncle has been sent to the countryside by the new National Assembly to oversee obtaining food for the city. With the imprisonment of the king and the relinquishing of his position, many services have suddenly gone awry. Food is hard to obtain. Mail delivery is nonexistent.

  “Well, he isn’t here,” Tante Marthe says, untying her apron and t
hrowing it on a chair. “So it will be up to us to find out where they have put her, and get her out.”

  She strides toward the kitchen and comes back with a tricolor ribbon in her hair.

  “Where are you going, sister?” Tante Anne-Marie asks.

  “To find Manon,” Tante Marthe says.

  “What if they arrest you?” Jean-Louis cries.

  “Don’t be silly,” Tante Marthe snaps. “If they meant to arrest me, they would have done it when they came for Manon. Even the revolutionaries aren’t that unorganized.”

  “She’ll never survive in prison,” Tante Anne-Marie says, twisting her apron into knots.

  “We’ll find her and bring her food until we can get her out,” I assure her.

  Tante Anne-Marie looks at me. “You do not understand. Manon has an absolute horror of closed-in spaces. She will go mad in there.”

  Suddenly I understand why Manon snapped any time I said something that would have landed her in a cell. I remember her request that we move to a larger room within the prison when I was arrested, and how she slapped me in the carriage when I spoke treasonous words. All along, Manon has been afraid of being in a small space. Manon, who is always so strong, has a weakness, and I wish that I could free her from the terror she must be feeling in whatever prison they have committed her to.

  “Enough,” Tante Marthe says. “I am off to find out what has become of Manon. And I will not return until I have news.”

  With that, Tante Marthe sails off into the still dark streets of Paris, her jaw set, her wide form swaying back and forth as she marches away.

  “Mon Dieu,” Jean-Louis whispers. “I would not want to be Manon’s jailer. Tante Marthe will beat him to death.”

  I cannot help it. In spite of the dire situation, I laugh. And soon, even Tante Anne-Marie gives a small smile of hope.

  • • •

  Tante Marthe returns late in the morning. She sighs and lowers her heavy frame into a kitchen chair. “She is at Les Carmes.”

  “That horrid place?” Tante Anne-Marie cries. “How is she surviving?”