Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (15 page)

“But my drawings are superior to Manon’s,” I argue.

The cook takes a bite of bread and continues to talk with his mouth full. “I suppose they are, and it certainly helps Manon’s museum displays to have you draw what you have seen. But Madame Élisabeth has no great need to draw as you do. Manon’s abilities would have been sufficient.”

“I was also brought here because Manon made a bet with the Comte d’Artois that she can control me. She has used me for that,” I tell him.

The cook rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows about that bet, and Manon knows that she will never collect
anything
. She has always known that. The Comte’s gambling debts are too great. He can pay no one, for there is no money in the royal coffers.”

“What do you mean?” I say. “The royals have all this wealth.”

The cook burps. “It’s a façade. They live on credit, putting off one person they owe money to while honoring an older debt. And some debts they never settle. The Comte makes bets hoping he will win. But he never pays when he loses.”

“Then why did Manon make the bet in the first place?” I ask in bewilderment.

“So you would help her with the museum,” Jean-Louis says. He pauses. “And to save your life.”

“That’s impossible,” I say, confusion snaking its way into my brain like smoke curls up a chimney. “She could care less about me.”

Jean-Louis rises with his now empty bowl and spoon. “Then why are you not in prison, Celie?” He turns to walk away, stopping once to look back at me. “You aren’t very smart, are you?”

The cook lets out a gruff chuckle.

And Jean-Louis leaves me, for the first time in my life, completely speechless.

• • •

Late that night, I wind my way through the palace, candles flickering in their sconces, shadows bouncing off the walls of the hallways. I am uneasy. Since my talk with Jean-Louis, I have felt this shaky unsureness, as if I am making my way in a darkened room that I thought I knew well, only to find that someone has rearranged all the furniture.

Is it possible that Manon cares for me? Truly cares? That she sees me as more than a means to get her exhibits correct? I have to admit that I like her and l’Oncle and the aunts. The idea that Manon might have come to care for me, too, sends a strange surge of happiness through me and makes me less enthusiastic for what I am doing right now.

I hate this feeling of confusion. So I shake it off, and hurry on to do what I had originally planned.

The palace is strangely silent. Few servants roam, as if the entire palace is wrapped in a deep slumber. I hurry from lock to lock, but the workings of these new ones take longer than those I have opened before. The king has done well. His locks are frustratingly good. I blow a piece of hair from my eyes as I bend over each handle, my hands unsteady and my mind unsettled.

Slowly, the locks come undone. I unlock room after room, pushing each door open as quietly as possible as soon as the lock clicks its last pin. Four doors, five doors, six. As I open the seventh, suddenly a hand reaches out from behind the door and grabs firmly onto my wrist.

I am caught.

• • •

Someone strong throws me across the room. I land heavily on the floor, hitting my head. Pain shoots through my temples. Black spots flood my vision.

“I knew it was you!” A man laughs.

Though the figure swims a bit before my eyes, my heart drops when I see who has caught me—the Comte d’Artois!

He walks by me, and calmly sweeping aside his coattails, takes a seat on a nearby chair, a smile on his face.

I think about making a run for it, but my vision is still blurry. I feel as if I might throw up at any moment. And that, I know, would only make matters worse, remembering how outraged the Comte had been about mud in his carriage. How will he deal with vomit on the floor?

“This is a
very
interesting situation,” the Comte says. His voice is soft and low. He taps his long bejeweled fingers on his chin. “As I see it, there are two solutions to the situation facing us here, wouldn’t you agree?”

I can only think of one—that he is going tell Manon what I have done. Manon will lose the bet. If, however, the cook has been telling the truth, perhaps Manon has always known she was not to win the thousand
livres
. It hardly matters. Either way, Manon will be angry, that much I am sure of.

I rise unsteadily to my feet. “Fine. Let’s get it over with, then.”

The Comte chuckles. “Get what over with? Telling the king?”

My legs suddenly wobble beneath me. Tell the king? I had not even thought of that. What will happen to me then? Madame Élisabeth has said that the king is distraught over someone opening his locks. If the Comte reveals that I have done it, I will surely hang. And hanging had been not been a pleasant idea when I was living in the alley by the Palais-Royal. It is even less appealing now that I am doing a job I love, have a decent place to sleep, and have food in my belly.

I take a deep breath, push aside my panic, and turn to face the Comte. “That hardly seems necessary,” I say. “Manon will be angry enough, I’m sure.”

The Comte throws back his head and lets out a laugh. “Of that you are right, for if I tell the king that she has brought a thief to his court, she will lose her job.”

Fear snakes its way through me with his words.

The Comte pauses. “Though not her life … as you will.” He begins to pace about the room. “
Non
. Telling Manon is not the punishment I envision for you.”

He turns to face me. “But perhaps it is not necessary to tell the king, either.”

I look warily at the Comte, feeling like the animals caged in the king’s menagerie. What is he planning?

The Comte sighs. “Ah, little urchin, you do not seem interested in my idea. I guess I shall just have to wake the king.”

“I’m interested,” I snap. “I just don’t think I’ll like it if
you
are suggesting it.”

The Comte laughs.

“What are you offering?” I ask.

“The use of your skills for my silence,” the Comte says.

“My drawing skills?” I ask, hope rising within me. Could it be that simple? “Do you want me to do a picture of you and your family?”

The Comte smiles and shakes his head. “I think not, although I have heard your abilities in that area highly praised.
Non
, Mademoiselle Celie. I was thinking more along the lines of your talent at cheating your fellow man.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“As nothing is secret in this haven of intrigue where we live,” the Comte says, walking about the room, “I am sure you are aware that I have a few gambling debts. I should like to rid myself of them.”

“And you want me to help,” I finish.

The Comte smiles again. “You may be a thief, but you are not dimwitted.”

“Fine,” I snap. “If it will keep you quiet, I will help you, although I don’t see how you plan on having me attend your card parties. From what I have heard, they take place at the main palace, and Manon doesn’t like me wandering off too far.”

The Comte lets out another loud laugh. “Unless she is unawares … as it seems she is at present.”

I scowl. “But you won’t be playing cards at this time of night, now, will you?”

The Comte nods. “This is true. However, I shall tell Mademoiselle Manon that I need to observe you more closely. I will insist on your presence in the evenings, seeing as you are busy attending my sister during the day.”

“You have this all figured out, don’t you?” I ask.

“Ever since I heard about the locks being undone about the palace,” the Comte replies. “So sit, little urchin. We have much to do to prepare for the next card game. We’ll need to devise a system for you to relay to me my opponent’s hand. You obviously can’t be a blind beggar girl, so let us put our heads together and come up with a plan that will work.”

I have no choice. Even if I were willing to face the king in order to avoid helping the Comte, I cannot risk Manon losing her job. The woman has been kind to me, and does not deserve to fall from favor because I have been foolish enough to think I could outwit royalty. And, too, there is just the sliver of hope in me that Jean-Louis is right, and Manon truly does care about me.

So I sit down on a chair beside the Comte, and spend an hour devising a way to help him cheat his friends.

• • •

The Great Hall shimmers with the light of a thousand candles that reflect in the mirrors, as well as the silks and jewels of the ladies and men who laugh and talk, gamble and flirt. The smell of roast duck, fresh bread, and asparagus wafts through the room. Servants thread their way through the crowd, pouring wine, moving chairs, and delivering trays of sweetmeats, chocolates, and pastries.

In one corner, a group of musicians plays waltzes, and some men and women, depending on their rowdiness and inebriation, romp about and have a go at this new dance.

Round tables are set up all around the room, each containing courtiers gambling at cards or dice. Dogs lie at the feet of their masters as their owners smile at their winnings or frown at their losses.

I pause at the entrance to all this glamour and glitter. I have dressed as inconspicuously as I can. Still, I feel as noticeable as if I wear nothing at all. Never have I seen such an elaborate party. To think this happens every night horrifies me—the money it must cost, the lavishness and waste, are unconscionable.

In my hand, I carry a piece of paper, my board, and charcoal pencils. The Comte has managed to convince Manon to send me to him, but only by agreeing that I am to spend the evening drawing events in the Great Hall of Mirrors. Manon looked at me with such suspicion that sweat broke out on my brow.

The Comte and I have agreed that he will not acknowledge me when I enter the room. Still, I notice him glance my way as I delay at the doorway. So I pluck up my courage, take a deep breath, and enter the fray. I push my way through the crowds of people, being careful not to meet anyone’s eye. When I get close to the Comte’s table, I find a seat behind his opponent and settle down, my skirts tucked neatly around me.

A servant appears immediately at my side. “Would
mademoiselle
like some warm chocolate to drink?”

I instantly remember my first sip of that lovely brown liquid.

“Oh,
oui
,” I respond without thinking.

I see the Comte frown and realize how silly I have been. How can I tap with a pencil if I have a chocolate in my hand?

“I mean
non, merci
,” I say before the servant can leave. I nod toward my board. “I am here to draw.”

He bows and walks away to serve the next person who seems empty-handed.

I roll out my paper and place it on my board. The noise level around me is deafening, with people laughing and talking and the musicians playing, and I feel a sudden stab of loneliness. How I wish Algernon were with me now! I can almost hear him grumbling over this display of wealth. If Algernon were here, he would have come up with a solution to my dilemma.

But I am alone with this problem, and for now there is nothing to do but play along with the Comte. And so I begin to draw, but slowly. I cannot get so caught up in my work that I do not pay attention to the Comte’s opponent’s cards. Yet the idea that I am actually helping the Comte makes me sick with loathing.

With my head lowered over my paper, I sneak a quick look at the Comte’s table. The Comte’s eyes are gleaming with pleasure. His opponent takes a drink, letting his cards sway toward me. I see them and immediately begin to tap on my board, trying to look as if I am in deep concentration and stuck on a problem with my work. I have to tap loudly to be heard above the other noises, but no one seems to pay me any notice.

When I have finished, I begin to draw again.

“Ah ha, my win!” the Comte exclaims loudly, slapping his cards on the table.

“The night is early yet, my friend,” his unsuspecting adversary says. “I wouldn’t count on relieving your debt to me on one hand alone.”

The Comte lets out a loud laugh. “Ah, dear cousin, I feel my luck is about to change for good.”

“You are incorrigible,” the Comte’s cousin says, shaking his head and laughing. “But go on. Deal the next hand, and let us see if you can sustain this tiny winning streak of yours.”

The Comte’s cousin raises his finger, and a servant hurries over to him.

“
Oui
, Monsieur le Duc?” he asks, bowing low.

“More wine, please,” the Comte’s cousin commands.

The servant scurries off.

Two ladies come and sit beside me. They glance at me a moment, then seem to dismiss me as no one of importance and begin to talk between themselves.

“There are protests every day now in Paris,” the one woman says. “My husband is afraid and wants us to leave France for my parents’ home in Austria.”

“What is the king to do?” the other woman says. “The commoners want a say in the government. Impossible! Can you imagine such a thing?”

“Those savages in America have put ideas into the people’s heads,” the other lady says. “And the king is too weak to squash these radical ideas. Until he stands up to these troublemakers, I fear we will be hearing of more unrest in the city.”

I pause in my drawing. Can what they are saying be true? Are there protests in Paris? Has the time for the people’s rebellion arrived? I will have to send Algernon another drawing quickly to help Mirabeau fuel the flames. I wonder why I have heard nothing of it in the servants’ quarters?

A cough brings me out of my reverie. I have forgotten the card game. I bend over so that I can see the Duc’s cards. When I straighten up, I find the two women looking at me oddly. Nervously, I make myself smile at them.

“A stitch in my side,” I say. “I have been working so long at my drawing.”

The women give me a nod, then go back to their conversation.

Quickly, I begin to tap out the cards before the Comte has to place his bet. When I finish, I go back to my drawing, hoping this will stop the women from noticing me at all. And soon, they are deep in conversation once again.

“The king takes no notice of anything that is happening around him,” one of the women complains. “Look at him, sitting there, staring off into space. He hates these parties and doesn’t mind showing it. Really, so inconsiderate of him.”