Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (20 page)

“I’ll take him,” I offer, realizing that the king and queen were like family to this little boy, who has lost so much.

Manon hesitates, then relents. “Fine. Once. But I do not want you lingering there or trying to get their attention. It will only alert people to the fact that you know the royals. It’s best we keep that to ourselves.”

Jean-Louis’s face lights up. “
Merci
, Manon.”

That afternoon, Jean-Louis and I walk through the streets of Paris. Near the Temple prison, there are people calling out the cost of glimpsing the king and queen as they walk the grounds for some air.

Over the past few days, Tante Anne-Marie and Tante Marthe have listened carefully at the market and know which apartment has the best view and what time is optimal for seeing the royal family. I wonder if Algernon is enjoying this—making a spectacle of the king and his loved ones in this fashion.

I pay the two
sous
for Jean-Louis and myself. We climb five flights of rickety wooden stairs and are shown to a window with the sash open. Jean-Louis leans out.

“There they are,” the owner says, pointing, “the queen and her children.”

“That’s not the queen,” Jean-Louis says.

“And how would you know what the queen looks like?” the owner asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

I pinch Jean-Louis. Why is he saying this?

“I don’t,” Jean-Louis squeaks. “But we had heard that she is beautiful.”

“No longer,” the owner of the apartment says. “Her hair has turned white, and she has wrinkles like the rest of us. But believe me, that is the same wicked, foreign queen who has taken bread from the mouths of our children to dress herself finely. Not so good-looking now, is she?”

I glance out the window and see in a moment why Jean-Louis has spoken. The woman with the royal children in the garden looks like an old woman, and yet, it is Marie Antoinette herself.

The man chuckles.

I grab Jean-Louis and pull him from the window. I do not want him to begin crying in front of this man. And I cannot bear to look anymore either.

• • •

Several weeks later, I wake to screaming. I go into the hallway to find Jean-Louis standing there, looking as scared and bewildered as I am.

Together we go downstairs to find Tante Anne-Marie on her knees, keening and wailing near the front door. Beside her, Tante Marthe has tears streaming down her face.

“What is wrong?” I ask.

“Soldiers came. They have taken Manon,” Tante Marthe manages to choke out. “They are rounding up Royalists, and our Manon has been declared one. They have taken her to prison.”

“We have to do something,” I say.

“But what?” Tante Anne-Marie asks. “She worked for the king. We cannot deny it.”

“But she has never said she was for the king or against him,” I protest, thinking back to Manon’s guarded words on all subjects to do with the monarchy, her stated opinion that survival was all that mattered and that we should keep our loyalties to ourselves.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tante Anne-Marie cries. “Working for the king is enough to suspect she is for him.”

“If l’Oncle were here, he would know what to do,” Jean-Louis says.

He is right. Unfortunately, l’Oncle has been sent to the countryside by the new National Assembly to oversee obtaining food for the city. With the imprisonment of the king and the relinquishing of his position, many services have suddenly gone awry. Food is hard to obtain. Mail delivery is nonexistent.

“Well, he isn’t here,” Tante Marthe says, untying her apron and throwing it on a chair. “So it will be up to us to find out where they have put her, and get her out.”

She strides toward the kitchen and comes back with a tricolor ribbon in her hair.

“Where are you going, sister?” Tante Anne-Marie asks.

“To find Manon,” Tante Marthe says.

“What if they arrest you?” Jean-Louis cries.

“Don’t be silly,” Tante Marthe snaps. “If they meant to arrest me, they would have done it when they came for Manon. Even the revolutionaries aren’t that unorganized.”

“She’ll never survive in prison,” Tante Anne-Marie says, twisting her apron into knots.

“We’ll find her and bring her food until we can get her out,” I assure her.

Tante Anne-Marie looks at me. “You do not understand. Manon has an absolute horror of closed-in spaces. She will go mad in there.”

Suddenly I understand why Manon snapped any time I said something that would have landed her in a cell. I remember her request that we move to a larger room within the prison when I was arrested, and how she slapped me in the carriage when I spoke treasonous words. All along, Manon has been afraid of being in a small space. Manon, who is always so strong, has a weakness, and I wish that I could free her from the terror she must be feeling in whatever prison they have committed her to.

“Enough,” Tante Marthe says. “I am off to find out what has become of Manon. And I will not return until I have news.”

With that, Tante Marthe sails off into the still dark streets of Paris, her jaw set, her wide form swaying back and forth as she marches away.

“
Mon Dieu
,” Jean-Louis whispers. “I would not want to be Manon’s jailer. Tante Marthe will beat him to death.”

I cannot help it. In spite of the dire situation, I laugh. And soon, even Tante Anne-Marie gives a small smile of hope.

• • •

Tante Marthe returns late in the morning. She sighs and lowers her heavy frame into a kitchen chair. “She is at
Les Carmes
.”

“That horrid place?” Tante Anne-Marie cries. “How is she surviving?”

“Not well,” Tante Marthe says. “She was begging me to get her out, but there was nothing I could do. I tried to bribe the guards. But they kicked me out and told me not to come back, or they would imprison me, too. And there is word on the street that more people have been arrested, other people who are considered Royalists.”

“What do they mean to do with them?” Tante Anne-Marie asks. “Will they keep them in prison indefinitely?”

“
Non
,” Tante Marthe says, looking up at her sister. “They plan to assess if they are truly Royalists, and if they might be in league with the king’s supporters.”

Tante Marthe pauses and winces. “And if they find they are guilty, then they will execute them.”

• • •

Tante Marthe, Jean-Louis, and I make our way slowly toward the prison of
Les Carmes
. Jean-Louis has insisted on carrying the basket of meat pies Tante Anne-Marie has made for her daughter. But his arms shake, and I worry that they will all go tumbling into the streets. I know the people walking by us would kill us if they knew what was in the basket; everyone fights for food these days. I can smell the lovely scent of pork every once in a while, and I hope that the aroma does not carry far in the wind.

At last, we reach the prison.

“You will have to go from here without me,” Tante Marthe says, her eyes clouding over. “The guards will not let me in again.
Bonne chance
.”

Together, Jean-Louis and I go inside.

“What do you two want?” a guard in the front room asks. He has a patch over one eye, and a long, dirty beard.

“We are here to see Mademoiselle Manon Tussaud,” I tell him.

“What’s in the basket?” the guard asks.

“Food,” Jean-Louis pipes up before I can warn him.

“
Bon
,” the guard says, taking the basket from Jean-Louis. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy whatever you’ve brought me.”

“But that is for Mademoiselle Manon,” Jean-Louis protests.

The guard grins at Jean-Louis. “Prisoners aren’t allowed special deliveries.”

He rises from his chair, after stashing our basket under his desk. “Come along, then. I’ll take you to her.”

Jean-Louis and I follow the guard down narrow, winding corridors. We pass cell after cell—small, airless, dark, and dank cubicles. At last the guard stops, pulls out a key, and unlocks one of the cell doors.

“Ten minutes,” he tells us. “Then I’ll be back for you.”

I enter with Jean-Louis. Twenty women are sitting on straw in the dark, talking quietly. Manon is lying on the floor, curled into a ball. I go to her and touch her shoulder.

“Manon?”

She looks up, her eyes wild. She grabs onto my knees. “Celie, Celie, get me out of here. Get me out of here, please. You must get me out now.”

The hopelessness of the situation hits me hard.

One of the women rises and walks over to me. “Is she your
maman
?”

I shake my head at the same time that Jean-Louis says, “
Oui
.”

The woman looks at us curiously.

“She is like a mother, as we have none but her,” Jean-Louis says, poking me.

Jean-Louis is right. Manon and l’Oncle and the aunts have become family to me; Manon is now a mother to us both.

“My name is Joséphine,” the woman says. She holds out a slender hand, and I shake it. “Your
maman
is not doing well. She thinks she cannot breathe.”

“She does not like to be in closed spaces,” I say as Manon clutches at me, her fingers digging into my skin.

Joséphine nods. “Do not worry. We will watch over her.”

The other women nod their heads, too.

“
Merci
,” I say. “We had brought her some food, but the guard took it.”

“We thank you for trying,” Joséphine says. “We are lucky to get a few peas and beans to eat.”

“Though they are so old, you can’t chew them,” a woman adds.

“Ah, well,” Joséphine says, “at least we have each other.”

“For the time being,” another woman says. “But soon they will decide whether we are to live or die.”

“If hunger doesn’t kill us first,” another woman says.

I listen to the words of these women, sitting in the dark, trying to keep their spirits up, and my anger rises. How can the effort to help the people of France have come to this?

Yes, Manon has worked for the king, but it was to earn a living, nothing more. How many of these women have also been wrongly imprisoned? I think of Paul Butterbrodt and the other entertainers. Will they, too, be considered Royalists, simply because they have provided entertainment for the wealthy? These people were the very commoners we believed in and argued for, and yet, here they are, still suffering. Some are worse off than before this fight for freedom.

How far will these revolutionaries go? Will they truly imprison anyone who has even come into contact with the royals?

I think of Algernon then. How can he condone this? How can he let this happen? For the first time ever, I do not regret refusing him, and I hope I will never see him again.

Three days later when Jean-Louis and I arrive, we find Manon fragile and feverish.

“She has been like this for two days now,” Joséphine says. “And there has been no food brought to us since you left. We all grow weak.”

No food? Nothing? It is unconscionable. They have not even found these women guilty of anything yet.

I am tired of standing by and doing nothing.

“We will bring you food tomorrow,” I promise. “We will do it every day until you are each free from here.”

“How can we do this, Celie?” Jean-Louis asks. “The guard will take it away.”

“Some things, Jean-Louis, even a guard will not touch,” I say.

• • •

The next day, Jean-Louis and I walk back toward the prison. In my arms, I carry the mold of the head of Mirabeau. Inside the head, I have hidden food—food that will not give off enticing aromas like Tante Marthe’s pork pies, but simply bread and cheese and fruit.

In order to obtain this food, I had to sell the silver brushes and the china swan I once stole from Manon. The cheese is moldy, the fruit overripe, and the bread several days old, but at least these women will eat a bit today.

“Brought me something again?” the guard asks when we enter
Les Carmes
.

“
Non
,
monsieur
, I am sorry,” I say. “We are out of food for the moment. But we need Mademoiselle Manon’s help with one of our displays.”

The guard eyes the head warily. “I’m not sure that is proper.”

“Oh,
monsieur
,” I exclaim, “you would not want to prevent us from displaying the image of the revolution’s hero, Monsieur Mirabeau, would you? Mademoiselle Manon is the only one who can approve the right tint for his face.

“But of course,” I add, holding out the head, “if you would like to examine it yourself first ….”

The guard draws back as if he has been bitten. “
Merci
. It is not necessary.”

I give Jean-Louis a stern look to keep him from laughing. It pleases me to use Mirabeau to sneak food to Manon, just as he used my drawings to incite the violence that has brought us to this horrible place.

But my triumph at fooling the guard dies when we get to the cell. Three of the women have had their hair hacked short. One of them is Manon.

I know what that means.

Manon’s hair has been cut short so that it will not catch in the blade of the guillotine. I have heard of this new instrument, but have not seen it in operation. The device sends a blade down upon a convicted criminal’s neck, supposedly creating a more humane death than an executioner’s beheading, as sometimes the executioner’s sword goes astray, leaving the victim’s head half on and half off. I cover my mouth to keep from vomiting.

“Celie?” Jean-Louis says in a small voice.

“I am sorry,
ma petite
,” Joséphine says, coming forward. “They were here yesterday and made their decision. She is to face the guillotine in three days' time.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder and an arm around Jean-Louis. “There is nothing you can do now, but be kind to her. Show her some love. She can carry that with her to the end.”

I cannot believe this is happening. How can they convict Manon?

“You have brought her something?” Joséphine asks.

I turn to the kind woman. “We have food. It’s not much, though.”

I undo the towel that has been shoved into the bottom of Mirabeau’s neck and pull out the bread and cheese.