Read Online Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution by Michelle Moran - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michelle Moran
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curtsies for court. I will be joining a palace of ten thousand people, nine hundred of them nobles, and my presence must be a good reflection on my brothers, who all guard the king.
This is the first time in nearly three months that Edmund, Johann, and Wolfgang have come home, and they are dressed in the splendid uniform of the Swiss Guard: red pantaloons, white stockings, and a hat in the style of Henry IV, with three magnificent feathers. Edmund, who never smiles, is thirty-five. Johann, who wishes to be at home with his wife and son, is thirty-three. And Wolfgang, who would sneak off with my allowance as a child to go gambling, is twenty-nine. Because we are the closest in age, I have the most affection for him. We have gathered around the table in the salon, and while my mother rushes back and forth from the kitchen, Johann, my most generous brother, is complimenting my figure of the dauphin.
“There couldn’t be a better likeness,” he says with an easy smile. He has the round cheeks of a painted cherub. “Did you see it, Edmund?”
My eldest brother glares across the table. “It was next to the vulgar display of the queen dressed for her boudoir.”
“Then you approve,” I say. I can never keep from needling him.
“The queen saw the tableau,” Wolfgang reminds him. “She didn’t disapprove.”
“Was she wearing the same shift?” Edmund demands. He knows how exhibitions work, that as soon as the queen was gone, we changed her modest gown to something with more appeal to the commoners. “This is how rumors start,” he accuses.
“We’ve done nothing but change her shift,” I argue, though I know that if we were being fair to the queen, we would not portray her so. But we have shown nothing that isn’t already in a hundred different libelles , obscene pamphlets available in every café along the Palais-Royal. They charge her with every kind of indecency, from having an affair with the Comte d’Artois, the king’s handsome brother, to lesbian orgies with the Princesse de Lamballe.
Edmund shakes his head. His face is leaner than I remember, and his arms are corded with muscle. “Every image of the queen makes a political statement, and nothing speaks as loudly as her dress. Your models are the only access commoners have to the queen. And what about those who can’t read or write? This Salon is their only news. And this news is telling them that the queen prepares for her bed like some woman at the Palais-Royal. It is immodest and in poor taste. Better your exhibition take in fewer sous—”
“And shut down?” Wolfgang exclaims. “This is not the time to be taking in less money—there was a line outside the bakery this morning.”
“There is a line every morning,” I amend.
All three of my brothers look shocked.
“It has been this way for several months,” Curtius tells them. “The lines begin at two in the morning, and when the baker opens the doors, only the first fifty people come away with bread. And it has doubled in price. Haven’t you heard about this in Versailles?”
“The king has a country to administer,” Edmund replies. “He does not make it his business to know about the bakery lines in Paris.”
“It isn’t just Paris,” I tell him. “It’s likely the whole of France.”
“What about the streetlights?” Wolfgang asks. “This morning, most on the Palais-Royal and the Boulevard du Temple were out. How long has it been since they were refilled?”
Curtius and I exchange looks, trying to remember. “At least three months,” I answer. The city lacks funds to buy the oil. “All of the theaters and cafés, even the Opéra, must close when the sun is set, else their patrons risk collision or robbery on the roads.”
“I would not mention this in the palace,” Edmund says. It is not a suggestion, but a command. “These things are not spoken of to Their Majesties.”
“That goes for Madame Élisabeth as well?” I ask. People are starving, bread is
This is the first time in nearly three months that Edmund, Johann, and Wolfgang have come home, and they are dressed in the splendid uniform of the Swiss Guard: red pantaloons, white stockings, and a hat in the style of Henry IV, with three magnificent feathers. Edmund, who never smiles, is thirty-five. Johann, who wishes to be at home with his wife and son, is thirty-three. And Wolfgang, who would sneak off with my allowance as a child to go gambling, is twenty-nine. Because we are the closest in age, I have the most affection for him. We have gathered around the table in the salon, and while my mother rushes back and forth from the kitchen, Johann, my most generous brother, is complimenting my figure of the dauphin.
“There couldn’t be a better likeness,” he says with an easy smile. He has the round cheeks of a painted cherub. “Did you see it, Edmund?”
My eldest brother glares across the table. “It was next to the vulgar display of the queen dressed for her boudoir.”
“Then you approve,” I say. I can never keep from needling him.
“The queen saw the tableau,” Wolfgang reminds him. “She didn’t disapprove.”
“Was she wearing the same shift?” Edmund demands. He knows how exhibitions work, that as soon as the queen was gone, we changed her modest gown to something with more appeal to the commoners. “This is how rumors start,” he accuses.
“We’ve done nothing but change her shift,” I argue, though I know that if we were being fair to the queen, we would not portray her so. But we have shown nothing that isn’t already in a hundred different libelles , obscene pamphlets available in every café along the Palais-Royal. They charge her with every kind of indecency, from having an affair with the Comte d’Artois, the king’s handsome brother, to lesbian orgies with the Princesse de Lamballe.
Edmund shakes his head. His face is leaner than I remember, and his arms are corded with muscle. “Every image of the queen makes a political statement, and nothing speaks as loudly as her dress. Your models are the only access commoners have to the queen. And what about those who can’t read or write? This Salon is their only news. And this news is telling them that the queen prepares for her bed like some woman at the Palais-Royal. It is immodest and in poor taste. Better your exhibition take in fewer sous—”
“And shut down?” Wolfgang exclaims. “This is not the time to be taking in less money—there was a line outside the bakery this morning.”
“There is a line every morning,” I amend.
All three of my brothers look shocked.
“It has been this way for several months,” Curtius tells them. “The lines begin at two in the morning, and when the baker opens the doors, only the first fifty people come away with bread. And it has doubled in price. Haven’t you heard about this in Versailles?”
“The king has a country to administer,” Edmund replies. “He does not make it his business to know about the bakery lines in Paris.”
“It isn’t just Paris,” I tell him. “It’s likely the whole of France.”
“What about the streetlights?” Wolfgang asks. “This morning, most on the Palais-Royal and the Boulevard du Temple were out. How long has it been since they were refilled?”
Curtius and I exchange looks, trying to remember. “At least three months,” I answer. The city lacks funds to buy the oil. “All of the theaters and cafés, even the Opéra, must close when the sun is set, else their patrons risk collision or robbery on the roads.”
“I would not mention this in the palace,” Edmund says. It is not a suggestion, but a command. “These things are not spoken of to Their Majesties.”
“That goes for Madame Élisabeth as well?” I ask. People are starving, bread is
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