Read Online Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution by Michelle Moran - Free Book Online
Authors: Michelle Moran
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course,” my uncle says. “These chairs are for you.” My mother has taken our best seats from upstairs and arranged them at the far end of the workshop, near the fire. “Madame Grosholtz will fetch us some drinks while Marie begins. When the head is finished, I will work on the rest of the model.”
Curtius rarely sculpts faces anymore, mostly because there is too much to do entertaining guests and fashioning miniatures for our Curiosity Shop.
“Have you brought clothes?” I ask Émilie, directing her to a stool across from my worktable.
“My mother has them. Will you be putting the model in the Salon?”
“If you approve of it,” I tell her and fetch my caliper.
“Oh, there is nothing I’d like more!” she says while I measure her face. “But what I really want is for François Elleviou to see it.”
“The singer?” I ask.
“You have heard of him?” she exclaims.
Like all young people, she cannot believe that someone as old as I am might have heard of François Elleviou. “He is something of a sensation,” I say wryly. “I’m certain most of Paris has heard his name.”
“My mother hadn’t. Not until I begged her to invite him to our salon.”
I want to say that it is my job to be well informed, that people don’t come to an exhibition to see figures that are of no interest. Instead, I reply, “Then she knows who he is now.”
Émilie smiles, and I notice that both of her cheeks are dimpled. They are too charming not to include in the sculpture. “She certainly does. He is courting me.” Before I can reply she says, “There is a man in the doorway!”
I turn, and there is Robespierre. Yachin must have sent him back. I cannot fathom what he might want. As I cross the room, I wipe my hands on my apron. “Monsieur Robespierre. What a delightful surprise.”
“I do not mean to interrupt,” he says quickly. “I happened to be passing and thought to deliver a message to your uncle in person.”
I point to the back of the workshop, where Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is in danger of exposing her bosom. She is showing my uncle something on her feet, perhaps a new gold buckle. Robespierre makes a great performance of disapproving. “You have guests,” he says with distaste.
“Allow me to introduce Madame Sainte-Amaranthe and her daughter, Émilie.”
He looks at Émilie, perched on her stool like a Grecian goddess. There are few women who can live up to such hyperbole. I have seen only two: the queen’s dearest friend, the Princesse de Lamballe, who was as pale and flawless as a diamond when I saw her over ten years ago at Versailles, and now Émilie.
“She is fourteen,” I tell him, “and this is her first sitting.”
Robespierre makes the briefest of bows, then hurries across the workshop to greet my uncle. I feel sorry for him. It’s not his arrogance that keeps him from engaging with women, but a lack of self-confidence.
I return to the clay model and take up my caliper to be sure that I have the nose just right.
“Who is that?” Émilie whispers.
“Robespierre. A lawyer from Arras.”
“Does he always wear green spectacles?”
“Yes. He does not see well.”
“Like the king. I’ve heard that the corners of all his furniture are rounded in case he should run into them.”
But I am stopped from replying by something else extraordinary. A courtier in the king’s livery has been shown in by Yachin. The workshop falls silent as the man holds out a letter for me. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz?”
“Yes.” I study the man’s powdered wig, his silk stockings, his blue livery. Even the nail on his smallest left finger, grown long so that he may scratch on King Louis’s doors—no one is allowed to knock but the queen—indicates his status.
“A request from Madame Élisabeth, sister to His Majesty King Louis the Sixteenth.”
I gasp, and Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is already on her feet. I break the seal and begin to read. “An invitation. An invitation to instruct
Curtius rarely sculpts faces anymore, mostly because there is too much to do entertaining guests and fashioning miniatures for our Curiosity Shop.
“Have you brought clothes?” I ask Émilie, directing her to a stool across from my worktable.
“My mother has them. Will you be putting the model in the Salon?”
“If you approve of it,” I tell her and fetch my caliper.
“Oh, there is nothing I’d like more!” she says while I measure her face. “But what I really want is for François Elleviou to see it.”
“The singer?” I ask.
“You have heard of him?” she exclaims.
Like all young people, she cannot believe that someone as old as I am might have heard of François Elleviou. “He is something of a sensation,” I say wryly. “I’m certain most of Paris has heard his name.”
“My mother hadn’t. Not until I begged her to invite him to our salon.”
I want to say that it is my job to be well informed, that people don’t come to an exhibition to see figures that are of no interest. Instead, I reply, “Then she knows who he is now.”
Émilie smiles, and I notice that both of her cheeks are dimpled. They are too charming not to include in the sculpture. “She certainly does. He is courting me.” Before I can reply she says, “There is a man in the doorway!”
I turn, and there is Robespierre. Yachin must have sent him back. I cannot fathom what he might want. As I cross the room, I wipe my hands on my apron. “Monsieur Robespierre. What a delightful surprise.”
“I do not mean to interrupt,” he says quickly. “I happened to be passing and thought to deliver a message to your uncle in person.”
I point to the back of the workshop, where Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is in danger of exposing her bosom. She is showing my uncle something on her feet, perhaps a new gold buckle. Robespierre makes a great performance of disapproving. “You have guests,” he says with distaste.
“Allow me to introduce Madame Sainte-Amaranthe and her daughter, Émilie.”
He looks at Émilie, perched on her stool like a Grecian goddess. There are few women who can live up to such hyperbole. I have seen only two: the queen’s dearest friend, the Princesse de Lamballe, who was as pale and flawless as a diamond when I saw her over ten years ago at Versailles, and now Émilie.
“She is fourteen,” I tell him, “and this is her first sitting.”
Robespierre makes the briefest of bows, then hurries across the workshop to greet my uncle. I feel sorry for him. It’s not his arrogance that keeps him from engaging with women, but a lack of self-confidence.
I return to the clay model and take up my caliper to be sure that I have the nose just right.
“Who is that?” Émilie whispers.
“Robespierre. A lawyer from Arras.”
“Does he always wear green spectacles?”
“Yes. He does not see well.”
“Like the king. I’ve heard that the corners of all his furniture are rounded in case he should run into them.”
But I am stopped from replying by something else extraordinary. A courtier in the king’s livery has been shown in by Yachin. The workshop falls silent as the man holds out a letter for me. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz?”
“Yes.” I study the man’s powdered wig, his silk stockings, his blue livery. Even the nail on his smallest left finger, grown long so that he may scratch on King Louis’s doors—no one is allowed to knock but the queen—indicates his status.
“A request from Madame Élisabeth, sister to His Majesty King Louis the Sixteenth.”
I gasp, and Madame Sainte-Amaranthe is already on her feet. I break the seal and begin to read. “An invitation. An invitation to instruct
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