by Edward Carey
There is scarcely a person in Paris for whom Curtius’ is not relevant these extraordinary days. No matter how well you think you know the city, Curtius’ always holds surprises for you—as if it is Doctor Curtius himself who decides who is in and who is out. All that is well known, all that is the greatest, all that is extraordinary and inspiring, all that is abominable, all of that is kept concentrated in the Cabinet. Where famous living personages may disappoint in real life, appearing briefly and at too great a distance, at Curtius’ they never disappoint. In his establishment, the most exclusive of ladies and gentlemen have time for simply everyone.
For this is true: Curtius, in his great hall, has abolished privilege! Curtius has dismissed all laws of etiquette. Curtius has done away with class. Where else in the world might a pauper approach a king? Might the mediocre touch genius? Might ugliness draw close—without shame—to beauty? The Cabinet is the only place.
It is true that his certain magic works only within the confines of his places of exhibition; once outside, the gravity of everyday pressures and worries and hopes instantly reasserts itself. But who can complain when they have seen the wonder of a schoolboy coming face-to-face with his latest hero? Who can complain when they see a scholar from the Sorbonne approaching in reverence the figure of the great deceased author whose words so move his life? Who can complain when an ordinary law-abiding matron can behold in terror and proximity the greatest murderer of the age? Who indeed can complain when any subject of the country of France may visit the Palais-Royal and see, at his own convenience, on any day of the week, the royal family seated for dinner, and step closer and closer still, and feel a connection to the king or the queen that has never been felt before, and may even, for the cost of three livres, if he should be so brave—and few are—even dare to . . . TOUCH?
So be it!
Even the mystery of royalty is solved at the Cabinet of Doctor Curtius!
“Thank you, Monsieur Mercier,” I said, taking the slim volume. “I shall treasure it.”
“Do you think, Little, do you think now they might consider a new bust of me? For the Palais-Royal, of course, not for here. Do you think they would?”
“Who can say?” I said. “It is not up to me.”
“You don’t think so, do you?”
“I do not know,” I said.
“No, no,” he muttered. “I try each time for the wax lottery, put my name with the others.”
“Pure milk, new-laid eggs,” said Edmond.
CHAPTER FIFTY
In which heads are stolen.
The widow changed the uniforms of the front-of-house staff. Silk suits were removed and in their stead were black cotton coats and black hose, simple black three-cornered hats, but all adorned still with C rosettes. This somber outfit was a replica of the dress worn by the representatives of the common people at the newly formed parliament.
One Sunday, not long after my return, bells sounded all about the city, clanging far longer than was usual. We labored in our workshops through the morning, thinking little of it, though the bells continued to sound and Edmond paced back and forth in his attic. I went up to calm him, but the noise had disturbed him and he was very wretched. I held his ears; that always helped. I told him that the bells were bound to stop soon, but they did not.
And in the late afternoon the widow, screaming, returned to the Monkey House, bursting into my master’s workshop.
“Stolen! Stolen! Property taken! Heads! Our heads, Curtius!”
What a red-faced, sweating widow it was.
“Madame!” cried Curtius. “What troubles you?”
“Heads! Heads!” She panted.
“Yes,” said Curtius. “Any in particular?”
“Yes,” she gasped, struggling for breath, “ripped from us at the Palais-Royal!”
“A robbery?”
“In broadest daylight. Hundreds of them!”
“Hundreds of heads?”
“No, people! Hundreds of thieves, all demanding the same thing.”
“Was it heads?”
“Yes, Curtius! Our property taken from us!”
“But whose heads?”
“Ours!”
“But which?”
“Minister Necker and the Duc d’Orléans.”
“Whatever for?”
“To hold them high and march them through the streets for a funeral march.”
“But they are ours! Why did they?”
“You must keep up, Curtius! You must open your ears. The minister has been dismissed, and the duc banished, and the people are marching around the city, holding high our heads. Since the actual men are absent, the heads in proxy must take their place.”
“They should get their own heads of Necker and Orléans. Those ones are ours!”
“They chanted, banged on the windows, pushed themselves into the salon with no ticket between them, demanding heads.”
“And what did you do?”
“I gave them over. They would only have taken them anyway, and done who knows what damage. They wanted the king too, but I begged them, saying the king was a whole figure and very heavy while the other two were only busts.”
That king was my work. “I’m glad the king is safe,” I said. “Thank you for saving him.”
The widow shifted so her back was toward me.
“We’ll have them arrested,” groaned Curtius. “I made them! Private property!”
“I took two names. François Pépin, a peddler, and André Ladry, a limonadier.”
“They will be charged!”
“They promised to return the heads.”
“You should never have let them go.”
“You weren’t there,” she whispered—quietly, but I heard her. “I was the only one there, and I was frightened.”
Such a silence then, a silence like a hole, like a ripped opening, as if the widow had come unstitched and with it our world.
“You, frightened?” Curtius whispered. “You? I’ll never believe it.”
“I thought they would kill me, these people. It would be easily done. They’d step forward and nothing would stop them if they wanted to. Take a sharp knife, thrust it quick in and out, and I’d be spilling. I might have died, I might have. It’s luck, I suppose in the end, Philippe,” she said, and tears came out of her.
“You never called me Philippe before.”
That was the second shock.
I think we were all frightened then.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Concerning Captain Curtius.
Wax is used upon muskets, upon rifles and shotguns. It greases the triggers to make them sharper; it smooths down the barrels to help the shot and powder pass through efficiently.
There were noises throughout the night. Shouting on the boulevard, glass smashed. A distant report of shooting. These sounds were picked up in the Great Monkey House, and the Great Monkey House made something of its own of them: it twisted them and elongated them, bounced them and seemed loath to let them fade. They played a misery upon Edmond and stole his sleep from him. I do not know how many doors and windows were smashed that night, only that the Monkey House gates stood firm.
In the morning all the bells of the city sang together, calling to one another across Paris. In the Great Monkey House, nothing. The gates were kept shut up. The staff who lived about the city did not arrive for work. Only the bookkeeper, Martin Millot, appeared, anxious to see that all was safe. Slowly, distractedly, we who remained worked in the back rooms. Millot counted money, Jacques cut cloth, the widow stitched busts, my master made heads, and I hands. Edmond kept away because his mother was present. As the day went on, lost in wax or hairs or wood or canvas, we forgot everything but what was before us.
It wasn’t until nearly afternoon that our own bell rang. Jacques went to the gate. He returned with two boulevard businessmen: the beanpole Monsieur Nicolet, master of funambulists—his brick building was the Grandes Danseurs de Corde—and flame-headed Doctor Graham, he of the Cele
stial Bed. I hadn’t known it until he spoke, but Graham was a Scot—a foreigner like my master and me.
These two men had come, they said, because no place in the boulevard was as famous as the Great Monkey House. They knew that the events of the night must have terrified us, who had so much to lose. Wasn’t it an appalling thing, they asked, that no one now held the reins to the city? Unless something was done, and soon, the city would be driven into the abyss. Anarchy would spread from quarter to quarter; the city would burn and all inside it would be lost.
“We know about loss,” said the widow. “Yesterday, two of our heads were taken from us.”
“Necker,” said Curtius. “The Duc d’Orléans.”
“The men who stole from you, who marched illegally, were fired upon and dispersed.”
“And our heads?”
“There’s blood now on the streets of Paris. Order must be returned.”
“Will we get our heads back?”
They had just come from the Hôtel de Ville. There had been a meeting; that was why the tocsin had sounded. These were desperate times, the two men agreed; it was easy to stay at home and pull the bedcovers over your heads, but if nothing was done, someone would rip the bedcovers from your face and tug you naked into the street. This last opinion was delivered specifically to Curtius.
In the meeting at the Hôtel de Ville it was proposed that a citizens’ militia be formed, a militia large enough to protect the city from both those uniformed terrors outside its walls and the un-uniformed ones inside. The men paused, then spoke slowly and clearly: It would be a great relief to the people of the boulevard and the surrounding district, they said, if Curtius, as its most prominent personality, would volunteer himself to be the local captain of the people’s militia. Will you do it, Captain Curtius? they said.
There stood Curtius and the widow. Through my glasses, they both appeared shrunken. There was a dripping noise that seemed to come from inside my master.
“You are mistaken,” he responded at last. “Philip Wilhelm Mathias Curtius. Or Doctor Curtius. Only yesterday Philippe. Never darling, it is true, not dear one. Plain Curtius is acceptable. Nothing else.”
“Captain Curtius,” they insisted. “No one would be more fitting.”
“His place is here,” the widow said, “among wax people.”
“Yes, yes indeed,” they said, “and to protect such a distinguished populace, this district must first be protected.”
“No,” said the widow. “No, this is not right.”
“Captain Curtius,” they said. “It is a great honor to be elected captain.”
“He does not need this honor,” the widow said to the two men, “or your cowardice.”
“His name is already written down at the Hôtel de Ville.”
“Forgive me, Curtius, for what I am about to say,” she said very quietly before turning back to the men. “Does he look capable? He couldn’t do it. He has no understanding of such things.”
“Advance to your duty, Captain Curtius.”
“Captain Curtius?” said my master.
“Captain Curtius, they are waiting for you at the hôtel.”
“No,” the widow said. “He shall not go.”
“There is a possibility then,” said Doctor Graham, “that he shall be arrested.”
“There is a possibility then,” said beanpole Nicolet, “that your property will be raided. We couldn’t stop it.”
My master stood up, silent.
“Someone must go in his stead,” the widow announced. “I shall go!”
“No,” they said. “No, not at all. Dress. Skirt. No, no.”
Then my master spoke.
“Captain Curtius,” he declared. Statement. No longer question.
“Philippe, stop!”
“Thank you very much,” the men said. “We salute you.”
My master actually saluted them. No army should employ such a salute: it was the vaguest impersonation, the briefest wave across the face, as if to shoo a fly.
Even in defeat, the widow always knew what to do. “Jacques, you shall go with him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Yes, I will!” yelled Jacques.
“Let no one touch him.”
“No, I won’t!”
“Widow Picot,” my master said, “I’m a captain. What would you say to a captain? Shall I get a uniform? I should like one. I shall go away to the people. They all know me. They shall say, ‘There goes Doctor Captain Curtius.’” He took the beauty spot from his chin and placed it in the front of his tricorn hat, as if it were a military decoration.
“Today,” said my master to the widow, “I shall call you Charlotte.”
“Please, Philippe, you must not go!”
“Charlotte, oh Charlotte, I’m going out.” He threw up his hands, the wingspan of a pelican. “Keep the doors bolted, let nobody in—that sort of thing. Bye-bye, Charlotte.”
“Sir!” I called.
“Philippe!” The widow was in tears!
I wondered if I should ever see him again.
They set out, Curtius with his old guard dog before him, limping, leading the way. Toward the Hôtel de Ville, along the boulevard toward the old Saint-Antoine gate—long pulled down—where he and I had first entered Paris. At the end of the boulevard they would turn right at the Rue Saint-Antoine, at the fortress there. On that fourteenth of July.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Unholy child.
The noises reached their height a little after five. There had been cannon fire before, but now there was an almost constant roar of voices. When I could no longer concentrate on my work, I went to the back rooms, then up the old Monkey House stairs, past the tailor’s dummy of old Henri Picot. I had not heard Edmond for some time and wanted to check on him. He wasn’t in the attic; he wasn’t anywhere. I looked out the window, hoping to see the source of the noise, but all I could see was a shaft of empty boulevard. Then I heard a clamoring bellowing of people, growing louder. The crowd must be coming closer; if I stayed there in my attic post I should witness it firsthand.
Only then did I notice Edmond. He was down below in the yard, within the Monkey House gates, walking back and forth and waving his hands. His mouth was wide open—was Edmond screaming? It was impossible to hear anything above the crowd. As loudly as I could, I called out:
“Edmond! Edmond, come back in!”
But I do not think he could hear me. He went up to the fence and put his head to it. He banged his head against the railings. And then he banged so hard that his head went right through—and stayed there. Edmond’s body was on one side of the railings, the Great Monkey House side. His head was on the other. And a great crowd was coming on.
“Bring your head in, Edmond! Bring it in!” I called.
But he just crouched there, with his shoulders against the railings and his head stuck out onto the boulevard. I rushed down the stairs, out the back door, and into the yard. It was very different outside. The people were gathered like a darkening storm, and growing thicker; the buildings rattling with echoed noises. And there was Edmond, his head through the railings, and the crowd coming on.
“Are you stuck, Edmond? Are you stuck?”
“Lemon vinegar lozenges!” he said.
“Edmond, I shall try to pull you out!”
It was no use.
“Edmond, you won’t come free!”
“Potato cakes from Savoy!”
The crowd was in sight by then, such a great mass, a vast organ of people. A great, loud, many-mouthed beast it was, a king rat, stumbling forward on several hundred limbs. Some of the crowd were dancing, some held old pieces of cages above their heads; they were agitated and excited and I wished they’d be gone. When I got to the gates, they were packed close against them, so close that they took my breath. What new creature was this?
“Here’s another head,” someone yelled, and then there was laughter.
“No, no, everything is all right,” I said. “Please, d
o pass along now.”
“Has he got his head stuck?”
“Help! Help!” I cried back toward the Monkey House. “Help me!”
“It’s true! Another head!” someone yelled.
“Look at that head, would it like to meet our others?”
Then, with some cheering, they hoisted their trophy objects above the fray. Heads. Two heads, on sticks. Very well made, I thought for the smallest instant; perhaps Curtius had made them? Were these the heads the widow was missing? Only then the truth became suddenly clear: These were not wax heads, not at all. These were flesh heads, made by their parents. Real heads. One was shoved now level with Edmond’s, as if for comparison, as if they might converse. Edmond screamed, his body bucked and rode, but his head would not come free.
One of the boys from the Monkey House came out.
Left: {The elongated neck of the Marquis de Launay.}
Right: {His traveling companion, de Flesselles.}
“Wax,” I shouted at him. “Bring wax, as fast as you can!”
Wax, I thought: wax would do it. Only wax, rubbed along the bars, would release Edmond in full. Wax is a lubricant; it stops doors and windows from sticking; it works on metal as well as wood. It can be used on humans as well as metal. It stops a hinge from screaming. It might stop Edmond too.
Now the widow was outside. “Edmond!” she cried. “Edmond, come in at once.” She pushed me away and tried to pull him back, but even her command wouldn’t move him.
“Come away,” the widow ordered me, white and shaking. “Let them pass along.”
“Bring wax!” I cried. “Wax to loosen his head.”
“Wax! Wax!” bellowed the widow, Monkey House boys rushing.
“It’s the house of wax—I been there,” said some voice in the crowd.
“Seen all the famous bodies!”
“What about ours, then? What about these famous heads? Not bodies, certain, but heads. Heads everyone should know.”
