CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Marie

SHE THOUGHT LATER that perhaps they’d both held their breaths while Philidor turned the spring with the key. Once, twice, thrice. Marie was happy to concede the action to Philidor. She wanted to be the first to see Antoinette’s face animated and, in turn, the first person those glassy eyes blinked upon.

For a moment it looked as if their hours had been wasted. That the life they had both worked to assemble had failed to spark. But then a decisive click, and Antoinette’s eyes opened. A shiver ran through Marie’s body, as if she’d been doused in ice-water.

Philidor stepped clumsily to stand beside Marie, while Antoinette stretched her fingers as if waking from a deep slumber. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly while her eyes moved in staccato jerks, first to Marie. Then Philidor. Marie. Philidor. Marie. They locked on Philidor. He picked up a small oilcan, held it out gently towards Antoinette and slid the funnel deep into her mouth, tipping it up, glug, glug, glug. He held her chin between his forefinger and thumb, pushing her head back, then worked her chin up and down, the oil stringy like a spider’s web between her lips. He blotted it away with his thumb, then took her right hand to his lips as if to kiss it but instead pressed her forefinger’s tip. She began to lower herself into the armchair behind her, while Philidor held her hand protectively, a smile crossing his face as he looked down upon her.

Marie watched all this impassively, before moving in closer.

‘She is beautiful, is she not?’ said Philidor.

Marie nodded, observing his flushed face.

‘Let’s see what else she can do for us,’ he said, and pressed each fingertip of her right hand in succession. Antoinette began a series of movements: shaking her head, nodding, smiling, tipping her head coyly to one side, standing up, sitting down, walking and finally fluttering the fan in her left hand. She paused slightly before each movement, her cogs click, click, clicking with the sound muted by the rustle of her silk gown. Her eyes remained fixed, vacant and unseeing, on a midpoint somewhere in the distance. This was good – the audience had to feel as if she was looking out amongst them, at any of them.

Now seated again, Philidor placed Antoinette’s hand back upon her knee and stepped away. Marie became conscious of a subtle vibration emanating from her.

‘You can hear that?’ said Philidor.

‘A hum – it is the clockwork.’

‘But the audience won’t hear it from where they are sitting. It is nothing.’

‘I am concerned, though, about this noise, for it means the mechanics are agitating. And the heat, it may compromise the consistency of the wax.’

‘Not if we limit the amount of time she is wound up. I will experiment this week.’ He laid the back of his palm across Antoinette’s forehead, paused, then picked up her right hand again. ‘She is perfect. But now I need to work on my act.’

‘Monsieur, this show should go no longer than one hour. Any longer, and I am concerned her wax may be compromised.’

‘An hour is not long enough. My introduction, some card tricks, Antoinette, the Argand lamp – well, I should imagine it will be closer to an hour and a half by the time I am finished.’

‘What is this Argand lamp?’

‘Actually, it’s an improved version of the magic lantern. I will show you how to work it so that I need not hire another hand. Glass slides with drawings on them are projected onto a haze of smoke. My own slides have sufficed until now, but I need new paintings for this new contrivance. The Argand has a stronger, brighter light for a larger audience. I need something that will astonish and horrify and … Can you paint?’

‘For heaven’s sake, what calibre of sculptor would I be if I could not paint?’

‘I was thinking – oh, I don’t know … ghosts, spectres, Death himself, if you like. Something to frighten, but also some everyday images of people, perhaps a young woman and an old man who could be someone’s sister and grandfather. Detailed but not so that the facial features are completely clear, as the audience’s minds need to fill in the rest.’

‘I have some ideas,’ said Marie. ‘If you show me the materials I am to use, I will begin this afternoon.’ She paused. ‘I expect this extra duty will be considered in my share of the earnings.’

Now it was Philidor’s turn to pause. ‘I will think on it,’ he replied evenly.

‘Very well. But this act with the slides, and your card tricks, it cannot all be done in an hour. We need to cut something out. This is a first, monsieur, and we need to consider the temperature in the theatre, the heat when people arrive and sit breathing in a confined space – I am nervous of what could happen.’

‘Yes, yes, all right then.’ He was walking around Antoinette and studying her dress.

‘So, you agree it will be just the hour then?’

‘Whatever pleases you.’

‘You will cut your card tricks or the slides?’

‘Card tricks, consider them gone. Now,’ he said, ‘I need to begin planning the act. You may go.’

Marie shook her head. ‘I require more money.’

‘What for?’

‘Antoinette’s maintenance, as you say. For the act she needs dresses and —’

‘Dresses? She’s wearing a dress!’

‘What, you think one is enough? She cannot perform in the same dress, the same shoes, the same hairstyle at every night.’

‘It won’t be the same people every night.’

‘She is a queen. She meets her audience again every night as if it is her first. If you want the English to believe in her, she needs to be attired fashionably, extravagantly and, above all, exactly like the real Marie Antoinette.’

Philidor paused, frowning.

‘I see you are calculating the pounds, monsieur, but this is no time to skimp. The audience’s perception of reality is everything. They will suspend their belief that the dead are really dead, if she is made to appear otherwise. Her clothes, her presentation as a queen and a Frenchwoman all need to be, as you yourself said, perfection.’

‘I will give you money, then.’

‘I have one more concern to discuss with you.’

‘What is it now, woman? I am trying to begin, and you are unceasing in your demands.’

‘I need to clarify the nature of our arrangement. We do not want there to be confusion.’

He looked at her impatiently. ‘Yes?’

‘I saw you last night. I saw you touch her.’

Looking away, he began fussing with his papers on the table. ‘I was merely checking that everything was in order, that she was ready to go for our experiment today.’

‘You are lying. I told you, and you agreed, that she was not to be touched or interfered with until our test today.’

He turned to face her. ‘But I didn’t —’

‘You gave your word. Which now seems as if it means nothing, monsieur.’

‘Stop being so dramatic, madame.’ Philidor dropped his voice. How slow and calming it could be when he desired; he really was skilled in its modulation. ‘I didn’t harm her or do anything that would jeopardise her operation, I simply wanted to see what she was capable of.’

‘Antoinette is not capable of the sort of interaction that I suspect you would like to use her for. Do not touch her again.’

His face flushed as he lost his veneer of calm and slapped the papers onto the table. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing? Remember your place, madame. You do not tell me when I can touch my own creation. You are nothing more than a … than a —’

‘A woman, indeed. One who knows how to create waxworks and is the necessary half of the business partnership that will grant you success. I say again, monsieur, do not touch my creations or you will ruin them and, in doing so, bring ruin upon yourself.’

There was a loud whir and click: Antoinette’s head drooped forwards on her chest.

‘Excellent,’ said Philidor. ‘A real lady knows when it’s time to leave.’