CHAPTER SIX

1794
Paris
Marie

MARIE HAD SHUT her workshop door and bolted it, leaving Joseph and François squalling on the other side. They beat upon it with wails and cries that were fast becoming intolerable. Where was that stupid maid? Late back from running an errand as usual; more than likely having a dalliance with some oaf of an apprentice somewhere. Marie pressed her back against the door and pulled at her hair, loosening the knot she’d wound so carefully this morning. Back when the day was fresh, and she’d thought she could try again. Try to be calm. Try to be patient. Try to –

The wailing became even shriller, and she turned to face the door, vibrating slightly with the assault of two pairs of little boys’ hands that would not give up. They wanted their mother, they wanted feeding, they wanted amusing, wanted, wanted. All through her days and nights, it seemed, they continually wanted, so that she wanted for nothing but silence. And time to herself to create.

Now they were kicking the door. The thumps made anger billow past her chest and into her throat. Where once she had vowed to stifle a scream, she let it loose: a cry so loud, so deep, so guttural that it silenced the other side. She leapt at the door and began pounding it with her own fists – and then, finding that pain still registered through her rage, she stopped hitting and began kicking. Thud, thud, thud. Her screaming ceased; her kicking continued.

Now the thudding sounded different, as if it were echoing somewhere. As if it were –

She stopped. It was coming from outside, more specifically from the front door. Someone was knocking to be let in. Her blood was hot and filled her cheeks with warmth, surely staining where before it had been white. She took a deep breath and reached for the doorhandle.

She opened the door upon flushed faces and angry eyes. Joseph and François, three and two years old.

‘Someone’s here,’ she said, stepping between them. ‘And what do you mean by making such a racket? I am trying to work, and you kick the door like mules.’

‘We didn’t,’ said Joseph, the elder. ‘We just knocked and waited.’

The thud came again from the front door. Strong. Impatient.

A thrill ran over the skin of her skull. She had left her window displays untouched because they still drew a crowd, and the time spent on each wax model had been exhaustive. She was proud of her work, proud of her creations, proud of her ability to replicate life where there was none: the King and Queen seated around a dining table, resplendent in gowns and coats with such intricate sewing of pearls and ribbon they alone were worth a small fortune. But the Revolution that had begun with murmurings had grown like a swollen river into shouts and slaughter. She smoothed her skirts. Should she have taken them down? Sealed them up in a dark room to gather dust? No, she was not a royal sympathiser – she was an artiste, removed from politics, wanting only to create and entertain.

The boys trailed behind her down the hallway. ‘Mama, can we go out this morning for a walk with our hoops?’

‘We will see.’ She approached the front door, heard men’s voices, their laughter. There was a group of them. The thudding on the door resumed. She turned and whispered, ‘Boys, back to your bedchamber. Pull up the floorboards I showed you and hide in the cellar. Stay there and be quiet, until you hear your father get home. No matter what you hear, don’t make a sound.’

‘Soldiers?’ asked François, his eyes wide.

She kissed each of their foreheads. ‘Just go,’ she said and stood to face the door, waiting until she heard the boys’ footsteps reach their room and its door close. They would be safe.

Take a breath, blink once, hard, and be ready.

She opened the front door. They rushed at her, made bold in their uniforms of blue, red and white, polished boots to their knees with black hats to match and brightly dyed feathers that denoted their station. One grabbing, one restraining, one smashing, while another opened drawers, then cupboards and boxes, looking for evidence of betrayal.

They accused her of being a sympathiser. And they found the evidence: drawings of the royalty, studies of their faces, and here was one of Versailles! And another one, look, with the aristocrats having supper, growing fat on the flesh of the poor who had wasted away working for them! And here, right in front of them, the wax figures themselves. Aha! Guilty.

Madness had replaced reason. It was the Revolution.

La Force, Paris

The stone room was pitiful in size. Naturally it was not designed for the occupant to be lavishly comfortable, but compared to an underground dungeon it was tolerable. She had a straw mattress, a blanket, a bucket for her privations, a round table and a chair.

She had been inside for twelve weeks. At least she had a window that brought sunlight and fresh air. But it also brought the chants of the crowd, the cries of the guards to open and close the gates, the rumble of carts arriving with terrified aristocrats and the rumble of carts leaving with dead ones.

She ran her fingers over her head. Early that morning, the gaoler had shorn her in readiness for execution. Her stubble felt soft and smooth. She had no looking glass to see if it suited her, although vanity was not a consideration.

One step, two, three, four, five. Five steps from the left-hand corner of the room behind the door to the left-hand corner opposite, stop, count to three then turn to the right. One, two, three, four, five. Five steps from the left-hand corner to right, stop, count to three then turn. If she started with her right foot and reached the corner with her left, she would live another day. She knew the sequence. She had to make it work. She had to control her fate.

She passed the meager dish of peas and beans, and the loaf of bread sitting untouched on the table. It was the right way up; upside down meant bad luck. She finished her round of the room then picked up the loaf. She studied the uneven crust on the top. Inhaled, and her mouth watered. She put it down. Picked it up. Put it down. Yes, yes, yes. Each time checking she’d returned it just so, and each time bringing further good luck upon herself.

She’d asked the guard about the table as well – the French understood superstitions. Yes, it had been the first object brought into the room, so she was guaranteed good luck with this also. But there must be more. More superstitions, more prayers, more patterns she could acquire to help her survive this Revolution, this prison. Yes, she had prayed. Like all of the prisoners on the platform who’d prayed. It was not a weakness, but God hadn’t intervened. Not for the women or the children. Perhaps the reassurance she felt in her little superstitions and rituals was God’s grace, granting her the strength to endure. Perhaps.

The accusations against her were outrageous, unfounded, ignorant. But they stuck. She had kept her dignity, had not begged. Yet. Her husband had written weeks ago to say that he’d taken her boys back to the village he came from, as well as what money she had in the house. He’d fled to ensure his own safety – which she had expected, coward that he was. If that meant her sons were spared from witnessing the horrors, it was of little concern.

When she heard the crowd swell with noise, she stepped to the window to see the victims stumble onto the platform. Her hands gripped the ledge. So cold. Her fingertips pressed into the gritty mortar between the stones. The wretched souls tilted their faces up to the sky. Their mouths formed words, more prayers, more supplication. Yet nothing changed. The sun shone. How could it shine on such atrocities? Surely the sky should be darkening, the clouds blooming with thunder and heavy with rain ready to wash away all the blood. But no, the blade glinted happily as it waited. The executioner shifted his feet from side to side as he waited. Then Jean-Baptiste Carrier began to address the crowd.

She could not watch. She turned back into the room and returned to the left-hand corner. Another round. Start out with the left foot. Go. What could be done? When would this end? How would it end? One step, two, three, four, five. Five steps from the door to the left-hand corner of her prison, stop, count to three then turn to the right. One, two –

A noise from the hallway. She halted. Were those footsteps? Oh, what number was she on? Perhaps this interruption would stop the good luck. Perhaps they were coming for her. Was it now? She shrank back against the stone wall, let the numbers evaporate in her mind. But impossible to make oneself small. To disappear completely. Her heart pounded – was it climbing up her throat with every approaching footstep? Her hand clasped around the base of her neck, felt the warmth there, the pulse pushing hard, hard, hard. The door rattled. A grating of metal as the bolts were withdrawn. Men’s voices. The door swung open. She let her hand fall to her side. Lifted her chin. Ignored her dry mouth. Swallowed her heart back down. Blink once, hard. Be ready.

What was this?

‘Please do not be alarmed, Madame Tussaud,’ said the gentleman, coming towards her. ‘I am a friend of Curtius, your uncle. I know he is at Rhine with the army and cannot be here but he sent me. My name is General Kléber, and I have interceded on your behalf.’

She took his outstretched hand, saw his eyes wide with compassion.

‘You are free,’ he said, wringing her hand in his. ‘I told them of my support for you, your connection to Curtius – it was enough.’

‘Thank god,’ she breathed. ‘It is over.’ Her voice, even to her own ears, sounded slurred. ‘Thank you, General Kléber, I cannot thank you enough.’

‘Your freedom is not without a price, though.’

Her legs went weak, and she reached for the chair. ‘Forgive me, monsieur, I feel unwell.’

He guided her to sit down, then patted her knee while he stood back to study her. ‘Take some time, madame. The worst is over.’

‘What is this price? My husband has taken all my money, I cannot pay.’

The bread. The bread was still the right way up. It had worked. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t completed her pattern around the room. Her good luck accrued through prayers; her other adherences to rituals and superstitions had been enough.

‘No, it is not that they want. They want you to use your art, your skills with the wax to aid their cause.’

‘In what manner?’

‘They want you to make death masks of the victims.’

At that moment she registered the silence. The silence from outside as the latest victim was fastened into the guillotine. She breathed in and closed her eyes yet still she saw the macabre scene. The executioner reaching for the handle. A collective intake of breath. The raucous cheer.

She breathed out. ‘I must do this?’ she said, her hand reaching for her throat again.

‘You must, in order to prove you are not a royalist. It will not be for long – surely this will all finish soon, they are running out of victims.’

‘The revolutionaries want to use my skills to boast of their murders,’ she said slowly.

‘It is the only way. You must use what you have, madame, in order to survive. We all must in these times. Now come with me.’ He reached out his hand, and she took it. They descended a short flight of steps; she glanced down a hallway that led off from the next landing with another stretch of doors closed along its length.

‘I am a magician, you fools, not a royalist!’ came a voice from behind one of them, accompanied by loud bangs.

‘I believe that is Paul Phillipstal,’ said General Kléber, in a low voice. ‘Watch your step, madame. The magician, you may have heard of him. He made the mistake of summoning the ghost of Louis XVI at one of his gatherings, now he too stands accused of being a royalist.’

‘These people have no reason,’ she whispered, her footsteps echoing down the stairs.

‘Indeed. When I spoke to them of your release on behalf of Curtius, I also mentioned he had confirmed that this Phillipstal was simply an entertainer. Curtius had been to several of his shows – he is harmless, apparently. But he will be released soon, I understand. He has money.’

‘Will it be enough?’ she said, as they reached the bottom.

‘Money is often enough – pray that it may be so in this case,’ he said, and they pushed the door of the tower open.

They were on the outskirts of the crowd, who were still watching the platform. It was all so close down here. The smell of body odour. The smell of shit and blood. The smell of fear. Marie felt faint again.

‘Now let me escort you home to rest while you are able, Madame Tussaud. I fear your services may be called upon all too soon.’