Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (16 page)

I follow the woman’s gaze and see the king, sitting alone and looking decidedly unhappy. I think back to the animals in his menagerie. How similar they look at this moment. Perhaps the king does not enjoy these spectacles at all. The idea that this might be true startles me.

“He was in a very jolly mood this morning,” the other woman says, sniffing a bit. “It seems someone has discovered a way to undo those blasted locks of his.”

I pause in my drawing, my attention now turned totally to the conversation of the two women beside me.

“He was like a child,” the woman continues, “delighted that at last he has a worthy adversary with whom he can spar by creating better and tighter locks.”

“Perhaps he could create a lock strong enough to muzzle the rabble of Paris,” her partner comments, and the two women laugh.

I hear the Comte cough again and realize he has probably been trying to get my attention for quite some time. I ignore him and lean toward the two women. “Are you saying that the king was
happy
someone has unlocked his creations?”

The woman beside me pulls back, as if she has smelled something nasty. “It is inappropriate to eavesdrop.”

“Please,” I beg. “The king was truly
happy
about this?”

Beside me, the Comte bangs his drink down loudly on the table.

“Come now, cousin,” the Duc says. “Place your bet. Or are you running a bit scared? Not a good hand, I suppose.” The Duc chuckles.

“Please,” I say again.

“
Mais oui
, he was happy,” the woman snaps. “It is a game to him, one he has
always
enjoyed. Creating locks soothes him, he says.”

“It’s the
only
thing he seems to enjoy or spend time on,” sniffs the other woman.

The Comte is coughing again and calling for water in a very angry voice.

Slowly, I rise from my place near his table. I turn and fix my eyes on the Comte. Then I walk to his table, pick up the Duc’s drink, and throw the contents in the Comte’s face.

I bang the empty glass down on the table and turn to the Duc, who is staring up at me with wide, startled eyes.

“He cheats,” I say loudly, and without waiting to see what will happen, I walk from the room.

I run to my room at the
Petit Trianon
, proud of having embarrassed the Comte, not bothering to stay and see what effect my words had on the Duc, and knowing the Comte will be furious. I am pleased to have let my anger finally roar out of me.

But as soon as the thrill of letting go has abated, I see the folly of my actions. Manon will be fired. And I will certainly be arrested. Now my stomach aches with fear, and there is nothing to do but ready myself for the guards to arrive.

I walk back and forth in my room, waiting, cursing myself for not controlling myself better, for not using my head. What have I done? What have I accomplished with my bravado?

But the Comte does not come, and this makes me worry more. Several times during the night, I hear noises outside my door. The blood pounds in my ears as I wait for the door to slam open, and the Comte’s men to enter with their swords.

But in the end, it is not the guards who come for me. It is Manon.

“Get dressed,” she commands, “and gather together all your things.”

“Manon, I—” I manage to squeak out.

“Shush,” Manon interrupts in a whisper. “Just do as I say, and do it quickly. Bring your suitcase to me when you are finished.”

Manon walks out of my room without another word.

I rise and begin to pack. The room is already warm with summer heat, and my hands shake as I throw my few dresses into my suitcase. If the king forces Manon to leave, I cannot bear it.

At last, I finish. I drag my suitcase as quietly as I can across the hallway to Manon’s room and knock softly. Manon opens the door.

She, too, is packed, her suitcase sitting on the floor of her room, her cupboard empty of clothes. I am mortified to have brought dismissal down on us both.

“Manon, I’m so sorry ….” I begin, my voice shaking.

Manon motions for me to be quiet. She goes to the window, pulls back the curtains, and looks out into the courtyard below.

“What is it?” I ask, wondering why Manon is acting so strangely, why she does not rant and rave and simply yell at me for my foolish act.

“Quiet, Celie!” Manon snaps. “I need to think.”

I stand there, confused and uncertain.

There is a knock on the door, and a servant stands outside.

“Your carriage is ready,
mademoiselle
.” He bows and then comes in to collect our bags. Behind him stands Jean-Louis. He looks at me with wide, frightened eyes.

Manon pauses on the threshold and looks about her. Abruptly, she turns toward the servant. “Hold the carriage for me. I won’t be long.”

“There are others waiting,
mademoiselle
,” the servant begins.

“Jean-Louis, go and hold the carriage for us,” Manon instructs, ignoring the servant. “Do not leave it, or give it to anyone else. Do you understand?”

“
Oui, mademoiselle
,” Jean-Louis says, and he runs quickly from the room.

“Load our bags into that carriage,” Manon commands the servant. “Come along, Celie, but keep quiet.”

I realize then that whatever is wrong, it is something that does not involve Manon and me alone.

Dutifully, I follow Manon down the back winding staircase to Madame Élisabeth’s rooms, curiosity making me forget my folly of that evening. What is happening? Why is Manon going to Madame Élisabeth at this hour? Manon scratches lightly upon the door, but it takes several minutes before an usher answers.

“
Madame
is praying,” the usher says.

“I must speak with her,” Manon says. “Now.”

The usher looks insulted, but obeys Manon. For once, my mouth seems sewn shut with a thread that is strong and tight.

When Madame Élisabeth comes to the door, I see that she is fully dressed, though it is hours before dawn.

“Manon, my friend,” Madame Élisabeth whispers, “you are leaving?”

“You are aware of what is happening?” Manon asks.

Madame Élisabeth nods. “
Oui
, I have been up and praying for hours.”

“But I had heard that the court was unaware,” Manon says.

Madame Élisabeth laughs lightly. “In this den of spies, do you think that I am not informed when there are public protests everywhere in the streets of Paris?”

My breath leaves me. So it is true. At last!

“Come with us then,
madame
,” Manon urges. “You may stay at my uncle’s house. He has bid me to return, but he has not said that I may not bring others. You could be in danger if this thing turns ugly. Please let me take you from here.”

Why would it turn ugly, I wonder?

“I cannot leave my brother, Manon,” Madame Élisabeth says gently. “But if your uncle has bid you return, go with my blessing. And when this issue is at last resolved, return to me, and we shall take up where we have left off.”

“I cannot convince you otherwise?” Manon asks.

Madame Élisabeth gives a small smile and shakes her head. She turns to me and takes my hand. “It has been an honor to work with you, Celie. I hope to see you again very soon.”

I nod, and then Madame Élisabeth shuts the door on us. I look over at Manon to see what we should do next, and to my amazement, there are tears on her cheeks. Whatever is Manon crying about?

• • •

There is an even bigger surprise in store for me when we reach the kitchen and its door to the courtyard. Servants run hither and thither, clothing in their arms, bags being dragged behind them. They are arguing with one another and shoving one another. All seems to be in a state of confusion.

“Come, Celie,” Manon orders, pushing her way through the crowd.

Outside, it is even more chaotic than in the kitchens. Darkness still hangs heavy in the sky, but the courtyard bristles with servants loading up bags and parcels and baskets of food.

“Manon,” I finally ask, “what is happening?”

“You heard what I told Madame Élisabeth,” Manon says. “There are public protests in the streets of Paris.”

“But that is Paris, not here. And they are only protests,” I say.

Manon does not answer me. Instead, she pushes me on ahead of her until she finds the carriage that Jean-Louis is holding for us.

“
Merci
, Jean-Louis,” Manon says.

Jean-Louis bows low to us, but I can see fear in his eyes.

I cannot understand what everyone is so frightened about, but I look at the chaos surrounding us and do not want to leave Jean-Louis here on his own in all this bedlam. He can come with us now, and we can bring him back when the king has settled his differences with the people of Paris.

“We must take Jean-Louis with us,” I say to Manon.

Manon halts her climb into the carriage. She turns to face me. “We dare not go back to ask Madame Élisabeth’s permission to take him. We have tarried too long as it is.”

“I’ll be all right, Celie,” Jean-Louis pipes up, but his voice cracks. “Don’t worry about me.”

I cannot look at his face and leave him behind. I have lost my little brother. I cannot leave Jean-Louis here alone to fend for himself.

“I’m staying with Jean-Louis,” I announce.

“No, you’re not,” Manon says. “Get in this carriage now, Celie.”

“
Non
,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

“Celie,” Manon says, “I am your employer. Get in this carriage at once.”

“Not without Jean-Louis,” I say.

Suddenly, someone shouts. “There’s a carriage that’s not left yet. Grab it!”

“Celie, get in this carriage now, or we will have to fight people off to get out of here.” Manon’s voice is high and shrill.

“
Non
. Go on ahead if you wish. I will not leave Jean-Louis behind,” I persist.

Without another word, Manon climbs down from the carriage. She reaches out an arm and grabs Jean-Louis, picking him up and shoving him into the carriage.

“Get in, Celie,” Manon shouts. “Now!”

With Jean-Louis safely inside, I do not need to be asked twice. Several servants are running toward our carriage, bags in hand, angry looks on their faces. I scurry up the steps. Manon slams the door shut and raps on the carriage roof.

“To Paris,” she yells.

The carriage rolls away, just as the servants who had intended to abscond with it reach us. It picks up speed until it is careening out the gates of
Versailles
, rocking back and forth on the road to the city.

Manon leans back against the cushions of the carriage, her face white. “If you ever do something like that again ….”

“I didn’t want him to be there all alone,” I say, defending myself.

Manon glances over at Jean-Louis, and after a moment, she sighs. “Perhaps you are right. There, he would have had no one to look after him.”

“I don’t understand. Why is everyone running about and trying to leave the palace, anyway?” I ask. “The people in Paris just want the king to help them. If he does that, everything will be all right.”

Manon shrugs. “Perhaps. There has been trouble brewing in Paris for some time now. L’Oncle’s letters to me have indicated that it is serious. He has had to make many changes, which is why he has been so accommodating with dresses for us and drawings for your brother. I don’t know all the facts, but l’Oncle sent me a message during the night, telling me to get out as soon as possible. And when I went to the kitchen to gather some clothes I had left drying, the place was a madhouse. And I knew then that we had to hurry. Something is definitely astir.”

I glance over at Jean-Louis. He hasn’t said a word. He is just gazing out the carriage window as we speed along, but his brow is creased with uncertainty.

“Are you all right, Jean-Louis?” I ask.

“I am worried about the king and queen,” Jean-Louis whispers. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left. Some of the servants said the people would do away with them.”

“That’s nonsense,” I tell him. “The people are starving, and they are angry. But the king is our king, and the people know that. It has been that way forever. There is no other way for it to be.”

“Papa told me that in America they have no king or queen,” Jean-Louis says. “He said that they rule themselves.”

“But this is France,” I say. “And we have always had a king. He just needs to pay attention to what is happening around him. He will talk to the people. It will be better for us all soon, right, Manon?”

“I don’t know,” Manon answers, her eyebrows knit with worry. “I don’t know.”

• • •

The gates to the city are open and unguarded. I feel uneasy as we pass through them. What can have happened to make the guards leave their posts?

When we enter the city itself, we find the streets filled with the king’s soldiers and groups of people huddled together, casting angry looks toward them. Everyone is wearing red, white, and blue rosettes pinned to their clothing.

“Why are they all wearing that?” I ask Manon.

Manon shakes her head. “I know as little as you do, Celie.”

When we pull up at 20 Boulevard du Temple, my heart skips a beat. In a few minutes, I will see Algernon again. I have been gone but two months, and yet, it feels as if we have been parted for years.

L’Oncle opens the door himself when Manon knocks upon it. “Thank God. You and the child are safe.”

He looks at Jean-Louis. “Who is this?”

“Another stray,” Manon says shortly. “
Mon oncle
, what is happening? Is it true that the people are publicly protesting?”

“More like revolting,” l’Oncle says. “They are determined to obtain gunpowder and guns. Soldiers have been called in to restore order.”

“But why would they need guns and gunpowder?” I ask. “The people just want the king to listen. Mirabeau will speak for them.”

L’Oncle snorts. “Child, this is a mob we are talking about, and mobs have a funny way of becoming something they were never intended to be—namely, violent.”

For the first time, a shiver of fear runs through me over the thought of the people standing up to their king. I shake myself. What is wrong with me? I refuse to believe that something bad will happen. Only good can come from this.