Madame Tussaud's Apprentice

by Kathleen Benner Duble

  Algernon shakes his head. “I cannot. I have been too long with them. They would arrest and kill me.”

  He is right. I know he is right. If he walks away, the revolutionaries will have no choice but to declare him a Royalist and execute him. But how am I to bear this?

  “Revolution is a hard thing,” Algernon whispers, “a very hard thing to get right.”

  Still kneeling before him, he kisses the top of my head, and I let out a little sigh through choked-back tears.

  “I relieve you of this duty,” he says, clearing his throat and rising from his chair. “I will employ a balladeer to tell of her beheading instead. I will tell the Council that the wax could not be obtained in time.”

  I cannot speak for love and gratitude. I rise too, and place a hand on his chest, feeling the warmth of it and the beating of his heart as we stand together.

  “Now, you must go,” Algernon says, “for I have work to do.”

  “Non. I cannot leave you,” I protest.

  “You have no choice,” Algernon says, closing his eyes. “Even with the mistakes that have been made, we must press on. France must be stabilized.”

  He barks for his man to come, and within seconds, the man is at the door.

  “Please, Algernon,” I beg him.

  He pulls me toward him. He strokes my cheek, lets his fingers linger on my lips. Then ever so slowly, he bends and gently puts his lips to mine. At last!

  I kiss him back with all the love I feel for him, and he wraps his fingers in my hair, draws me closer, kisses me more deeply.

  Then he finally breaks from me and puts his lips to my ear. “I love you, Celie, far more than I ever loved her.”

  I stand speechless at this unexpected declaration.

  Before I can respond, he is pushing me away from him.

  “Take her,” he commands the man.

  “Non,” I cry.

  “Au revoir, Celie,” Algernon says, turning so I can no longer look him in the eye.

  And I am spirited away before I can even think how to fight my way back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I cannot eat or sleep. I toss and turn in my bed and barely speak. Algernon has rescued me when I needed him most. How can I not do the same for him? But what am I to do?

  The day of Madame Élisabeth’s execution arrives. The world is bathed in soft spring sunshine.

  “She shouldn’t die alone,” Manon says. “I must go and be with her at the end.”

  “I will come with you,” I say, though I am tired and shaky these days, and do not know how much more I can bear without losing my own mind.

  “I am coming, too,” Jean-Louis pipes up.

  “Non, Jean-Louis, you are too young,” Manon says.

  “She was there for me when my papa died,” Jean-Louis argues, his lower lip trembling. “You cannot stop me from being there for her.”

  “He is right, Manon,” I tell her wearily. “Jean-Louis loves Madame Élisabeth.”

  Reluctantly, Manon nods her head.

  • • •

  The crowd is smaller than those that gathered at the executions of the king and queen. I pray this means that the people’s need for revenge against their sovereigns will, like a fire washed by blood, soon be extinguished.

  The drums begin to roll, and Madame Élisabeth climbs the stairs to the guillotine. She is dressed simply, her hands clasped before her.

  Manon moves closer to the platform so that Madame Élisabeth might see us, and Jean-Louis bows to her.

  Madame Élisabeth’s eyes light up when she sees us standing there. Then she bends her head in prayer. The executioner gives her a few moments, then he nudges her and points toward the guillotine.

  Madame Élisabeth smiles sadly. “Merci,” she mouths.

  She is strapped to the contraption, her head put in place.

  I do not watch the end, but I hear the swish of the blade and the thump as it hits the wood. I hear Jean-Louis cry out, but not one other soul makes a sound. Silence reigns at Madame Élisabeth’s death.

  Finally, I open my eyes, but I cannot look at the scaffold. I cannot believe that Madame Élisabeth is truly gone.

  Jean-Louis is in Manon’s embrace.

  I can think of nothing now but home and bed, and the sweet release of sleep. I long to sit next to Jean-Louis tonight, with a fire and l’Oncle reading to us as Manon sews or works on an exhibit.

  Then, suddenly, I hear it—a tapping. I whirl around, my eyes searching wildly for Algernon’s tall body and brown-haired head. But he is nowhere to be seen. Have the day’s events unhinged my mind? Have I only imagined it?

  “Celie?” Manon asks.

  “Sssh,” I command her.

  There. There it is, once again. I listen to the tapping, translating as fast as the beats ring out.

  “Celie, what is it?” Manon asks.

  Tears fill my eyes, as I think of the young prince and princess still in prison. “There will be no more royal beheadings. They are done. Finished.”

  Finally, I think, the people of France can once more turn their thoughts to living. The dying is over.

  My heart beats with gratitude to Algernon for letting me know this good news after such a horrendous day. I feel his love for me as if it is his own strong arms wrapping around me, and the pain of not being with him now is all the greater, as I feel his obvious concern for my well-being.

  But then, the tapping starts again. I hold still, listening. The weight that has been in my chest lifts as I translate his message.

  Go home. Wait for me there, he taps to me. I will come for you tomorrow. I have a plan.

  He is coming. Tomorrow. He has a plan.

  I turn and take Manon and Jean-Louis each firmly by the arm. “Come,” I say. “We must hurry home.”

  • • •

  I wait the next day. Impatience burns inside me.

  “What has got you so distracted?” Tante Marthe grumbles when I spill Jean-Louis’s glass of milk, and the cup shatters as it hits the floor.

  I cannot tell her, for I do not know when Algernon will be here, or what he will have planned when he does come. Will he ask me to leave Manon, Jean-Louis, and the aunts and uncle behind? If that is his plan, how am I to choose? Will he ask me to keep our flight secret? Will I have to slink away, like a shadow in the night? How can I leave these people who have become so dear to me? And yet, how can I not go with Algernon, should he ask it?

  I dig my nails into the palms of my hands with worry as I work in the museum.

  “Mon Dieu, Celie,” l’Oncle snaps. “Where is your head?”

  If I weren’t so consumed with uneasiness, I would have to laugh at l’Oncle’s question. Heads are everywhere here. Why ask where one is?

  But my future with Algernon is no laughing matter. If we do flee, where can we go? Hiding is a temporary fix only. Eventually, the National Assembly will find us. We have no family outside France to protect us.

  “Celie!” l’Oncle snaps.

  I am brought out of my reveries. “I’m sorry, mon oncle,” I say. “I think Madame Élisabeth’s death has me on edge.”

  L’Oncle’s eyes soften. “Mais oui. You are right. I was foolish to think work would ease your pain. Go. Rest. We can take this up when you are feeling better.”

  I leave, a liar for misleading him. Madame Élisabeth’s death still distresses me, but it is Algernon’s face that haunts me. I go to my room and pace. When will he come? What will he say?

  By dinner, he is still not here. I go to the kitchen, but cannot eat. I excuse myself and go back to my room to renew my worrying.

  Manon pokes her head in. “Celie, are you ill?”

  When I shake my head, she sighs. “I wish you would tell me what is wrong.”

  But my throat is closed tight.

  By midnight, I am still alone in my room and am forced to face the fact that he is not coming, that something or someone has prevented him from being here.

  I remove my shoes, roll down my stockings,
and prepare for bed. I lie staring out into the dark. Have they found him out? Has he been arrested? How can I lie here, not knowing what has become of him? How can I sleep, knowing he may even now be in a cell somewhere? But there is nothing I can do. No one I can turn to. I no longer have friends in places that could get me answers.

  Eventually, I fall into an uneasy sleep.

  I am awakened by a strange noise, and a hand is suddenly over my mouth.

  I am about to scream, when I realize that before me is the face I have longed for all day.

  He smiles.

  “Algernon,” I whisper when he drops his hand from my lips.

  I bury my face in his chest, breathe in the smell of Paris on him.

  “I can’t stay long,” he says.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  He grimaces. “A man has been watching me. It took all my considerable cunning to give him the slip and make my way here.”

  “Do they realize you were lying when you said we could not mold Madame Élisabeth’s head for lack of material?” I ask, my throat thick with fear. Have I caused Algernon to be noticed by the Assembly in a way that could endanger him?

  He shakes his head. “Non, but I have been arranging a ship and transport to England. Perhaps they have noticed my extended absences.”

  He has said it. We are to go to England. I pray that no one involved in his escape plans has talked. But I say nothing. We both know the risks.

  He stands. “You must gather your things over the next few days, Celie. We will have to slip away as soon as the weather turns for the worse.”

  “The worse?” I repeat, my mind racing ahead to Manon and Jean-Louis, my heart in my throat as I consider leaving them behind.

  “There is talk of rescuing the young prince and princess,” Algernon says. “They have blockaded part of the river, looking for any who would help restore the monarchy by putting the young prince on the throne.”

  I consider this. “Then how will we set sail?”

  Algernon grins. “As we have many times before. By our wits.”

  He strides toward the door. “Now I must go. Be ready, though.”

  “Algernon,” I say, “be careful.”

  “Aren’t I always?” he asks.

  He pauses. “You have not asked about Manon or Jean-Louis.”

  I shake my head. “Non. Though I will miss them, I will go with you.”

  He laughs, a laugh so loud that I am sure it will wake the whole household. His eyes are dancing with merriment. “I am delighted with your devotion, Celie, but you need not have made that choice, for they are coming with us.”

  “Truly?” I ask, barely able to believe in this miracle.

  “Truly,” he says. “I saw Dr. Curtius before I came up here. How did you think I got in?”

  He laughs loudly again, and then he is gone.

  And I am left to enjoy the way he has played me.

  Then I pause. For although we are escaping, we have not avoided the guillotine just yet.

  • • •

  Several days later, rain pierces the night as we slip from the house at 20 Boulevard du Temple. The weather has now worsened.

  Dr. Curtius and the aunts are to stay behind and watch over the People’s Museum. They were never at Versailles, and Dr. Curtius is providing food to the National Assembly from contacts he has. The risk of death for them is minimal. For Manon, Algernon, and myself, the danger is constant, and I will not leave Jean-Louis behind.

  There is no moon, and so the night is black. Wind whips through the streets of Paris, but nothing else occupies these alleyways. The National Assembly has imposed a curfew that has left everyone indoors, and our footsteps are loud in the eerie emptiness. Where once these streets would have been filled with the sounds of laughter and gaiety, they are now deserted and silent.

  We slip from building to building like shadows. But our progress is slow. While Algernon and I could have fled fleetly on foot, Manon in her corset and Jean-Louis with his little legs slow our pace maddeningly. When we reach the walls of the city, Algernon palms the guard some coins. The man turns his back as we slip out to a waiting wagon. We climb up, and though the horses Algernon has paid for are old and slow, we move more quickly than on foot.

  I begin to breathe more easily. Then, behind us in the distance, I see a line of light.

  “Algernon,” I whisper, “men with lanterns on horseback.”

  He turns and looks over his shoulder, and I see his face go white. He flicks the whip across the horses’ backs, but they move no faster.

  “Algernon?” I say.

  “We aren’t far,” he says, but his voice is tight, and already I can see the line of light is drawing nearer.

  At last I hear the sound of water, and in the darkness and the rain and the fog I can just make out a vessel lying at anchor out on the Seine. But along with the lapping of waves, I can also hear the pounding of hooves getting closer.

  Algernon stops the wagon. He climbs out and swings Manon down, then lifts Jean-Louis to the ground. A small skiff awaits us at the dock, and Manon and Jean-Louis run toward it over the wet cobblestones. The sailor waiting for us is already signaling that he means to leave in quick order and will abandon us if we do not hurry.

  We must not be caught. We would all be executed for our attempt at escape, but if the Assembly learns who we are, even Dr. Curtius and the aunts will suffer.

  Algernon reaches up his arms for me just as a shot rings out. He stumbles, and I fall upon him.

  “Dépêchez-vous! Dépêchez-vous!” the sailor calls, urging us to move quickly.

  I grab Algernon’s arm and pull him to his feet. Together we run for the boat as more shots ring out. The horses are coming at us fast.

  We scurry aboard, and the sailor begins to row frantically. The skiff slides away from shore at a frustratingly slow pace. The riders arrive at the water’s edge. But the fog has grown heavier now, and at last, we are too far into the river for them to reach us. We are free.

  I almost weep with relief. Once again, Algernon and I have slipped the grasp of those who would see us jailed.

  I turn to him, smiling. And then I see his face, drawn and gray, and that he clutches his side. He slumps over, and I am upon him in a flash, moving his hand away so that I see it—the hole, the blood.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When we reach the boat that will transport us to the channel and on to England, we carry Algernon below. Manon rips apart his shirt and probes the wound. Blood flows out. And I have to steady my thoughts, or I will faint.

  Can I have come this far only to lose him now?

  “Is it bad?” I ask, my voice shaking.

  Manon doesn’t answer. “Fetch my waxwork bag, Jean-Louis. Celie, ask one of the sailors above to give you a pail of hot water, clean cloths, and a bottle of alcohol, whatever they may have.”

  Jean-Louis hurries to do as Manon bids, but I stand there, rooted as an oak. I do not want to leave him.

  “Celie,” Manon barks at me.

  Algernon moans.

  “Celie,” Manon snaps, “if you want to give him the slightest chance to live, go now and get what I need.”

  That gets me moving. I run, visions of Papa, Maman, and Jacques flashing through my mind so clearly that I feel I will scream. I tap my foot impatiently as the ship’s cook heats the water. I pace as clean cloths are pulled out of the captain’s trunks. I pull at my hair as a sailor goes in search of a bottle of rum.

  When I get back, Jean-Louis is there, and I see that Manon has taken out one of the knives she uses to shape her wax heads.

  I hand her the pail of hot water and the clean cloths. Then she takes the bottle of rum from me.

  “Celie. Jean-Louis,” she says sharply. “I need you to leave.”

  Jean-Louis obeys and silently climbs aboveboard.

  I want to follow him. Every fiber in my being is telling me to run, not to stay here and be forced to see what violence can bring about. But I look at Algernon, see h
is pale face, his forehead beaded with sweat—my Algernon. His eyes are closed, and he is panting with pain.

  And I know, then, that I cannot turn from everything unpleasant in life. To be an adult means troubles have to be faced. Like Manon, I must learn to be strong, to deal with this and any other difficulties that lie ahead. I must be done with running.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Non,” I say, and I am proud to hear the resoluteness of my voice. “I’ll stay. What do you need me to do?”

  Manon looks at me in surprise, and I make myself look steadily back at her without blinking. A spark of admiration comes into her eyes. She nods.

  “Take his hand,” she says. “This is going to hurt.”

  There is nothing she could ask of me that I would rather do.

  Algernon’s skin is hot. He opens his eyes, sees me, and forces a smile to his lips.

  Manon pours the alcohol into the wound. Algernon screams, and the grip of his hand in mine grows tight as a noose. Then it suddenly releases, and I see that he has lost consciousness.

  I go to shake him back to life, but Manon stays my hand.

  “It’s better this way,” she assures me. “Come. We must get the bullet out.”

  For the next hour I work beside Manon, helping to hold back the skin as she probes the wound. I am grateful Algernon is not aware of what we are doing. I cannot imagine how much pain he would be in.

  When at last I see her draw the bullet out and hear it drop onto the wooden floor beneath our feet, I gasp, as if I have been holding my breath for days.

  Manon turns to look at me before she goes about sewing up and dressing the gash. “Do not rest easy just yet, Celie. There is still the risk of infection.”

  • • •

  I stand on the deck, and a gust of sea air washes over me. Storm clouds are gathering on the horizon. The crew has told us that we are headed for a squall.

  Already the waves are beginning to wash over the bow of the boat, and the ship is heaving from side to side.

  There is an ache in my belly as I look back toward the shores of France, though I can no longer see them. I realize that I will probably never again walk the farmlands of my youth, nor the cobblestone streets of Paris. The memories of those days with my family and with Algernon dance before me in all their glory, and all their violence, and all their loss.