“Not well,” Tante Marthe says. “She was begging me to get her out, but there was nothing I could do. I tried to bribe the guards. But they kicked me out and told me not to come back, or they would imprison me, too. And there is word on the street that more people have been arrested, other people who are considered Royalists.”
“What do they mean to do with them?” Tante Anne-Marie asks. “Will they keep them in prison indefinitely?”
“Non,” Tante Marthe says, looking up at her sister. “They plan to assess if they are truly Royalists, and if they might be in league with the king’s supporters.”
Tante Marthe pauses and winces. “And if they find they are guilty, then they will execute them.”
• • •
Tante Marthe, Jean-Louis, and I make our way slowly toward the prison of Les Carmes. Jean-Louis has insisted on carrying the basket of meat pies Tante Anne-Marie has made for her daughter. But his arms shake, and I worry that they will all go tumbling into the streets. I know the people walking by us would kill us if they knew what was in the basket; everyone fights for food these days. I can smell the lovely scent of pork every once in a while, and I hope that the aroma does not carry far in the wind.
At last, we reach the prison.
“You will have to go from here without me,” Tante Marthe says, her eyes clouding over. “The guards will not let me in again. Bonne chance.”
Together, Jean-Louis and I go inside.
“What do you two want?” a guard in the front room asks. He has a patch over one eye, and a long, dirty beard.
“We are here to see Mademoiselle Manon Tussaud,” I tell him.
“What’s in the basket?” the guard asks.
“Food,” Jean-Louis pipes up before I can warn him.
“Bon,” the guard says, taking the basket from Jean-Louis. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy whatever you’ve brought me.”
“But that is for Mademoiselle Manon,” Jean-Louis protests.
The guard grins at Jean-Louis. “Prisoners aren’t allowed special deliveries.”
He rises from his chair, after stashing our basket under his desk. “Come along, then. I’ll take you to her.”
Jean-Louis and I follow the guard down narrow, winding corridors. We pass cell after cell—small, airless, dark, and dank cubicles. At last the guard stops, pulls out a key, and unlocks one of the cell doors.
“Ten minutes,” he tells us. “Then I’ll be back for you.”
I enter with Jean-Louis. Twenty women are sitting on straw in the dark, talking quietly. Manon is lying on the floor, curled into a ball. I go to her and touch her shoulder.
“Manon?”
She looks up, her eyes wild. She grabs onto my knees. “Celie, Celie, get me out of here. Get me out of here, please. You must get me out now.”
The hopelessness of the situation hits me hard.
One of the women rises and walks over to me. “Is she your maman?”
I shake my head at the same time that Jean-Louis says, “Oui.”
The woman looks at us curiously.
“She is like a mother, as we have none but her,” Jean-Louis says, poking me.
Jean-Louis is right. Manon and l’Oncle and the aunts have become family to me; Manon is now a mother to us both.
“My name is Joséphine,” the woman says. She holds out a slender hand, and I shake it. “Your maman is not doing well. She thinks she cannot breathe.”
“She does not like to be in closed spaces,” I say as Manon clutches at me, her fingers digging into my skin.
Joséphine nods. “Do not worry. We will watch over her.”
The other women nod their heads, too.
“Merci,” I say. “We had brought her some food, but the guard took it.”
“We thank you for trying,” Joséphine says. “We are lucky to get a few peas and beans to eat.”
“Though they are so old, you can’t chew them,” a woman adds.
“Ah, well,” Joséphine says, “at least we have each other.”
“For the time being,” another woman says. “But soon they will decide whether we are to live or die.”
“If hunger doesn’t kill us first,” another woman says.
I listen to the words of these women, sitting in the dark, trying to keep their spirits up, and my anger rises. How can the effort to help the people of France have come to this?
Yes, Manon has worked for the king, but it was to earn a living, nothing more. How many of these women have also been wrongly imprisoned? I think of Paul Butterbrodt and the other entertainers. Will they, too, be considered Royalists, simply because they have provided entertainment for the wealthy? These people were the very commoners we believed in and argued for, and yet, here they are, still suffering. Some are worse off than before this fight for freedom.
How far will these revolutionaries go? Will they truly imprison anyone who has even come into contact with the royals?
I think of Algernon then. How can he condone this? How can he let this happen? For the first time ever, I do not regret refusing him, and I hope I will never see him again.
Chapter Fifteen
Three days later when Jean-Louis and I arrive, we find Manon fragile and feverish.
“She has been like this for two days now,” Joséphine says. “And there has been no food brought to us since you left. We all grow weak.”
No food? Nothing? It is unconscionable. They have not even found these women guilty of anything yet.
I am tired of standing by and doing nothing.
“We will bring you food tomorrow,” I promise. “We will do it every day until you are each free from here.”
“How can we do this, Celie?” Jean-Louis asks. “The guard will take it away.”
“Some things, Jean-Louis, even a guard will not touch,” I say.
• • •
The next day, Jean-Louis and I walk back toward the prison. In my arms, I carry the mold of the head of Mirabeau. Inside the head, I have hidden food—food that will not give off enticing aromas like Tante Marthe’s pork pies, but simply bread and cheese and fruit.
In order to obtain this food, I had to sell the silver brushes and the china swan I once stole from Manon. The cheese is moldy, the fruit overripe, and the bread several days old, but at least these women will eat a bit today.
“Brought me something again?” the guard asks when we enter Les Carmes.
“Non, monsieur, I am sorry,” I say. “We are out of food for the moment. But we need Mademoiselle Manon’s help with one of our displays.”
The guard eyes the head warily. “I’m not sure that is proper.”
“Oh, monsieur,” I exclaim, “you would not want to prevent us from displaying the image of the revolution’s hero, Monsieur Mirabeau, would you? Mademoiselle Manon is the only one who can approve the right tint for his face.
“But of course,” I add, holding out the head, “if you would like to examine it yourself first ….”
The guard draws back as if he has been bitten. “Merci. It is not necessary.”
I give Jean-Louis a stern look to keep him from laughing. It pleases me to use Mirabeau to sneak food to Manon, just as he used my drawings to incite the violence that has brought us to this horrible place.
But my triumph at fooling the guard dies when we get to the cell. Three of the women have had their hair hacked short. One of them is Manon.
I know what that means.
Manon’s hair has been cut short so that it will not catch in the blade of the guillotine. I have heard of this new instrument, but have not seen it in operation. The device sends a blade down upon a convicted criminal’s neck, supposedly creating a more humane death than an executioner’s beheading, as sometimes the executioner’s sword goes astray, leaving the victim’s head half on and half off. I cover my mouth to keep from vomiting.
“Celie?” Jean-Louis says in a small voice.
“I am sorry, ma petite,” Joséphine says, coming forward. “They were here yest
erday and made their decision. She is to face the guillotine in three days' time.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder and an arm around Jean-Louis. “There is nothing you can do now, but be kind to her. Show her some love. She can carry that with her to the end.”
I cannot believe this is happening. How can they convict Manon?
“You have brought her something?” Joséphine asks.
I turn to the kind woman. “We have food. It’s not much, though.”
I undo the towel that has been shoved into the bottom of Mirabeau’s neck and pull out the bread and cheese.
“Oh, bless you, ma petite,” Joséphine says, as she passes the food around the little prison cell. “Every little bit helps.”
I hand the head to Jean-Louis and take some food over to Manon.
“Manon,” I say, bending down, “come. You must eat.”
Manon does not move, but her fevered eyes meet mine. They are black and empty, already half-dead. Then she looks over at Jean-Louis, and her eyes fall on the bust of Mirabeau. She makes a small sound of recognition.
“Jean-Louis,” I say, hope rising in me at this sign of life in Manon, “bring the head to me.”
Jean-Louis does as I ask. Manon takes the head from me and stares at it for a while. “Be sure to remind l’Oncle that Monsieur Mirabeau’s mole had a tinge of black in it.” Her voice cracks as she speaks, and her fingers shake as she points to the right side.
“Oui,” I agree. “But now you must eat.”
Manon’s eyes glaze over again. “I am suffocating, Celie. I can’t breathe in here. I am going to die.”
“I know it is hard,” I tell her, “but you can’t give up. You must try, Manon, try to hold on.”
“For what?” Manon asks. “The guillotine?”
She closes her eyes and turns her face away from me.
“I will get you out, Manon,” I promise. My heart is so heavy I can barely speak. “I will get you out. Whatever it takes, I will get you out.”
• • •
“They cannot execute Manon,” Jean-Louis says as we make our way back to the Boulevard du Temple. His face grows contorted with held-back tears. “Isn’t there anything we can do to stop this?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Shall we tell Tante Marthe and Tante Anne-Marie?” Jean-Louis asks.
“We have to,” I say. “We have no choice.”
“Perhaps we could send a message to l’Oncle out in the country,” Jean-Louis suggests. “He will have some contacts. Maybe he can get a reprieve for her.”
“It will take too long, Jean-Louis,” I say. “A rider could not get to l’Oncle and back in time for him to do all he would have to in order to rescue her.”
“What can we do, then?” Jean-Louis asks. “Do you think Tante Anne-Marie or Tante Marthe might have an idea?”
“Be quiet, Jean-Louis,” I snap. “I have to think.”
I sit down on a stone step leading down to the Seine. I watch the river rolling slowly by. How many years has it been moving along like this, unchanged by all the turmoil people living on its banks have wrought? I want to throw myself into the river, turn on my back, and float away from all the chaos.
I know what I have to do, even though I do not want to. But it is Manon’s only chance. I have not seen Algernon in over two months. Has he forgotten me already in his work for the National Assembly? Will he be able to soften his heart enough to help me if I go to him? Or will he make good on his threat to ignore me should I need his help?
I stand. I will have to try. I know now the only thing that matters to me—the only thing that has ever mattered to me—is family.
Life had been good when Maman and Papa and Jacques were alive. Life had been adventurous when Algernon and I were together and a team. Life has been lovely with Manon and l’Oncle and the aunts. Through all those times, it hasn’t mattered who has been in charge or who has ruled the country. We might have been hungry, and we might have been homeless. But we had each other. I refuse to let Manon become one of the growing number of dead of the revolution. She is my family now, and I will fight tooth and nail to save her.
“Come along, Jean-Louis,” I say, pulling him up from the step. “We have a ribbon to put on our door.”
• • •
I pin the tricolor ribbon on the rough wooden frame. I pray that somehow, someway, Algernon still cares enough to have someone watching over me, keeping an eye on me should I need him. If no one comes by tomorrow, I will be forced to go looking for him myself, braving the chaotic streets and the powerful men of the National Assembly.
“Do you think he will come?” Tante Anne-Marie asks. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, her nose swollen, and she has not eaten in days.
“We will have to see,” Tante Marthe says, taking her sister by the shoulder and steering her back toward the kitchen. “We will just have to wait.”
I sit on the front steps, but by evening, Algernon has not come. Reluctantly, I go to bed. But I sleep fitfully, afraid that there will be a knock on the door, and I will not hear it.
The next morning, I wait on the front steps again. Tante Marthe brings me some clear soup with bits of mushroom she has managed to find. “He will not come any faster because you are sitting here. Work will make the time pass more quickly.”
“If it goes faster,” I snap, “Manon will be dead.”
Tante Marthe says nothing more. She leaves me alone on the step.
An hour drags by, and then another. Around midday, a man comes to the bottom of the stairs. “You are Celie?”
“Who wants to know?” I ask.
“If you are Celie,” the man says, “I am to take you with me.”
Algernon has answered. He has cared enough to respond to my call for help.
“Tante Marthe,” I yell into the house, “I am off to see Algernon.”
The door to the house is opened quickly. Tante Anne-Marie stands there, tears in her eyes. “Oh, ma petite, please beg him to help my girl. Please.”
“I will, Tante Anne-Marie,” I promise. “I will be back soon with news.”
I turn to follow the man. “I am ready.”
And I am. I am ready to go to the boy I have turned against, and beg for the life of Manon.
• • •
I am ushered into a building within the Palais-Royal. After all this time, it seems Algernon has not wandered far from our old haunts.
A door is opened and the young man waves his hand, indicating I am to enter. Inside, I find Algernon with two other men and a table on which rests a quill, some paper, and an inkwell. The men turn when I come into the room. Algernon immediately steps forward, but he does not embrace me.
“You have need of my services?” he asks formally, bowing to me instead.
His courtly manners confuse me. Has he brought me here only to make fun of me? Will he keep his promise to be there should I need him, or will he rebuff me in front of these strangers?
“I wish to speak in private, Algernon,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“There is nothing you can ask of me that cannot be asked before Monsieur Marat and Monsieur Robespierre,” Algernon says.
I hesitate. I know these two gentlemen are leaders of the revolution. How can I beg for Manon in front of them? And how can Algernon ask this of me? Can he not see that I am nervous and afraid? I understand that he might refuse me, but I did not think that he would humiliate me in front of others. I stand there, his fool.
The men wait.
“Manon has been arrested,” I say.
“I am aware of that,” Algernon says. “She worked for the royals.”
“She only did this to put food on her table,” I protest. “She did not agree with the king. Le Salon du Cire is now the Museum of the People. L’Oncle is a National Guardsman. You made him one yourself. They have supported the new government. How can you imprison her and threaten her with death?”
“You are lucky you are not in there with
her yourself,” Algernon snaps. “She was not concerned with putting food on her table, but with putting money in her own pocket. And to do that, she used whatever and whoever she could—including you and me. She has acted no differently than the royals themselves.”
“She has taken care of me, Algernon—and you,” I argue. “She protected me and gave me a home. She gave you one, too, for a while, or have you forgotten?”
“Only so that she could keep you near her and use your drawing skills to further her own ambitions,” Algernon says.
I want to snap that Algernon had done no differently, that in the way he is treating me now, I can see that he has never cared for me, but has used me, too.
But instead, I fall to my knees, willing to do anything to get him to see reason. “Please, Algernon, I beg of you. Let her go.” I pause. “She is like a maman to me.”
“I rescued you from the streets,” Algernon snaps. “I kept you from starving. You should be here beside me as we take this great step in history. It should be me who has earned your love, not some woman who can do nothing but make heads.”
“She is a person, Algernon,” I argue. “All those you have imprisoned are people. People who did things, worked with the wealthy, just to keep from starving.”
“They could have done more,” Algernon argues. “They could have worked as we did to end this tyranny.
“Or I should say, as I did,” he adds bitterly.
“It got violent,” I say. “You know I cannot bear violence, Algernon.”
Algernon nods. “Yes, a few have died. But fewer than would have if we had allowed the king to continue with his lavish ways, spending money that should have been used for the good of everyone. The people were starving, Celie. They deserved better from their leader.”
I cannot argue with this. He is right. But can every individual be expected to have the strength to fight despotism? Aren’t some born to be leaders, and others followers? These days, I do not want to lead. I only want to follow and survive.
“Manon will die tomorrow,” Algernon says, his lips pressed tight. “And perhaps that will bring you to your senses about where your loyalties should lie these days.”
“Enough.”
Madame Tussaud's Apprentice Page 16
