Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (8 page)

Later in the day, I accompany Manon across town to the Palais-Royal. An odd wave of homesickness washes over me as I walk among its shops and gaming tables, smell the scent of newly baked baguettes in the air. But I know it is only Algernon beside me that I miss—certainly I don’t regret having food and a bed now.

At
Le Salon de Cire
, the lines are long. In front of the museum, a giant of a man is shouting for people to come and see the exhibits.

Manon makes her way through the crowd.

“How are our takings for the day?” she asks the giant.

“You’ll be pleased,” the man says, opening a box to show coins gleaming inside.

I have seen the man often, but from a distance. He is so tall that I feel like a flea standing next to him.

“Celie, this is Paul Butterbrodt. He is our barker, calling and drawing the crowds to our exhibit. His voice can be heard above all the others announcing our shows, and that is why we employ him. Just as we’ve engaged you for your drawing skills,” Manon says.

Paul Butterbrodt laughs. “My big girth attracts them also, wouldn’t you say?” His belly rolls when he laughs.

He holds out his hand, and I shake it. I like the big man.

“How much does he weigh?” I ask Manon as we slip into the Salon.

“Two hundred sixteen kilos,” Manon answers. “His voice is good, but his size is why he is so right for us. Giants, dwarves, sickly thin people, and exotic natives from afar fascinate the wealthy. They want any entertainment that is unusual or strange. His size helps bring people to us.”

Inside
Le Salon de Cire
, the exhibits are amazing, and I begin to relax. Drawing scenes like this will be a joy.

They have a
tableau
of the king and queen receiving callers.

“Is this truly what they look like?” I ask. The queen’s bodice shimmers with jewels and the king’s waistcoat has silver threads running through it.

“
Oui
,” Manon says. “The dresses we use for the queen are made for us by the queen’s dressmaker herself, Rose Bertin. We want every detail to be accurate. That is why we need you, Celie. No one can compare to me when it comes to recreating these figures in wax, but your drawings are amazing in their details. My efforts are not half as good as yours.”

We move further into the gallery, Manon explaining to me who I am seeing in each exhibit: Benjamin Franklin, the great statesman from all the way across the sea in America; Voltaire, the great writer, as he sits at his desk penning his next work; the brave general, Lafayette.

“It is two
sous
to enter here,” Manon explains, “but twelve
sous
to be allowed to approach and stand near the figures.”

I see the attraction of this place. It makes you feel as if you have actually been among these people.

“People may hear the news that is called out by the ballad singers or peruse the papers if they can read,” Manon continues. “But we
show
them the news. And we must constantly be changing the exhibits, so that what they see is in keeping with the latest information being passed around the streets. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“Now come,” Manon says. “You have seen what we do here. Next you must see what others are doing, so you will know the competition we face.”

• • •

For the next several nights, Manon takes me from show to show, returning late in the night. I see horses dancing the minuet, a tightrope-walking monkey, a girl who dances with eggs tied to her feet, a Spaniard who drinks boiling oil and walks barefoot on red-hot iron, a fortune-telling dog, a white rabbit that can do algebra, and an equestrian show with an orchestra and jets of flame that shoot out all around the horses as they perform.

I am dazzled, even as I understand that I am at these entertainments for free, that the showmen have given Manon a pass, as Manon does for them when they are training their apprentices.

An apprentice. That is what Manon has told me I am to become. I am delighted by the prospect of drawing all day, eating well, sleeping in a bed, and collecting coins from the wealthy. Could I ask for more?

And yet, I think of Paul Butterbrodt. Does he mind having people stare at him as they go in the waxworks? And what of the girl dancing with eggs on her feet, or the Spaniard who must drink hot oil night after night? Do they not feel used by the crowds of men and women dressed in fine silks and jewels, who have come simply to be entertained?

My own family was used, too—to grow food for the Comte d’Artois and the king and for the clergy. As in all things, the wealthy rule, and farmer and entertainer are both used for the services they provide. So perhaps, in the end, there is little difference between us, and Manon is right. At least robbing the wealthy in this fashion is safer and more comfortable, for both Algernon and me.

The next morning, when I wander down to the kitchen, I find only Cook.

“Where is Manon?” I ask.

“Where she should be,” Cook replies, “at the king’s palace with his sister.”

She bangs down a plate of sausage and toast. “Eat up. My sister will be along shortly to take you to Dr. Curtius.”

I make a face. I do not want to spend the day with that crabby old man.

“And there will be no more of these late awakenings,” Cook continues, as she turns another sausage over in the pan. “Manon is done training you. Now others will show you the rest. And you will be in bed at a decent time and up at an earlier hour. I will no longer be making breakfast at this unreasonable juncture of the day.”

With these words, Cook tosses a warmed sausage onto my plate, and I have to hide a smile. “
Oui
,
mademoiselle
.”

“
Mademoiselle
?
Mademoiselle
? I’m Tante Marthe to you,” Cook grumbles.

“
Oui
, Tante Marthe,” I say, and grin. Tante Anne-Marie is right. Tante Marthe makes a lot of noise, but she has a big heart. I like her, but know better than to tell her that. Tante Marthe is just like Algernon. My growing fondness must be kept a secret.

Algernon—I have not seen him in a week, and I miss him. When I fall into bed after a late-night show I have attended, it is his face that fills my dreams. And I wake longing to see him. I had not known that in agreeing to this arrangement, we would be separated so much, and I wonder if being apart bothers him as much as it does me.

“Ah, Celie,” Tante Anne-Marie says as she comes into the kitchen, “hurry up, child. Dr. Curtius is waiting for you.”

Inside the wax house, Dr. Curtius is sitting at a long table, working with a head, but not a wax head. This one is made of clay. He is bending and shaping the clay with his fingers, brushing down the cheeks with his thumbs.

“Celie is here,” Tante Anne-Marie says.

“Leave her,” Dr. Curtius commands.

Dr. Curtius does not say anything, and I begin to grow restless.

Finally he turns to me, impatience at my fidgeting evident on his face. “It is time for you to learn the process of making wax figures. Come. Sit next to me. And I will explain, for you will need to see as I see in order to draw for me in the right way.”

He pulls out a stool, and at last, I sit.

“A wax head,” he explains, “takes between ten and fourteen days to complete. To start, we take measurements of the head. Today, you will be my subject.”

He pulls out a pair of tongs and puts them around my scalp. He measures the width of my head, and the length of my face from the top of my skull to my chin, using a piece of string along with the tongs. With each measurement, he jots down numbers. Though I cannot read, I do know numbers, as Maman had taught me the value of money and how to recognize amounts when they were written, so I might barter well in the village.

Then Dr. Curtius takes a piece of clay and begins to mold it with his hands and a knife, measuring the length and width of the piece as he has measured my head. I watch as my likeness slowly begins to take form.

“This will be a rough one only,” the doctor says, as his hands pinch and poke and pull on the clay. “If I was working on a real subject, this would take hours. But as you will not be involved in this part of the process, we will move along.”

Finally, he holds the sculpted work next to my face. “Not a bad likeness.”

“It’s amazing,
monsieur
,” I say, and it is. He has shaped me perfectly.

“Please call me
mon oncle
,” he says. “It is how I like to be addressed by persons younger than myself in my own home.
D’accord
?”

I nod my agreement.

“So once the clay head has been made, we cover the head in plaster,” l’Oncle continues. “We do this in sections. You may help me with this, if you are careful.”

Taking a small brush, I dip it into the wet paste l’Oncle has by his elbow, following his lead and smearing the material on the front of the clay head.

“Be sure to make the plaster smooth,” l’Oncle directs me. “You do not want a mold with bumps in it.”

I do as he instructs, applying the gooey substance over the entire face of the clay model, smoothing it out as I go along. I am absorbed completely in the task, for it is much like painting and drawing, and my fingers fly over the form. I look up at him when I have finished.

“Not bad,” he says.

“For your first time,” he adds.

• • •

When the plaster dries on the front of the head, I remove it from the clay and cover the back of the head, letting that dry, and then the sides. When they are finished, I clean each section, and then l’Oncle shows me how to bind them together.

“I will do the next part,” l’Oncle says, “but watch closely.”

Taking a large pot filled with hot vegetable wax, l’Oncle slowly pours the liquid into the hollow mold of the head I have created. Steam rises into the air.

“The trick is not to shake while you are pouring.” L’Oncle grits his teeth as he holds tightly to the pan. “If you wobble, the face will have lines on it, lines you do not want, and there will be no fixing it.”

I watch as wax pours out in one continuous stream, until it is to the top of the upturned neck.

There is a knock at the door.

“
Entrez
,” l’Oncle calls out, setting the hot pan aside.

Algernon comes in, and my heart leaps to see him standing there.

“What is it you want?” l’Oncle asks.

“That delivery of horsehair is here,” Algernon says.

“Hmmm,” l’Oncle says, “I’ll want to see the quality of it. Celie, you may go and have your supper. The wax must harden anyway.”

I nod, and l’Oncle leaves the room. He cannot be gone fast enough. I am breathless to be alone with Algernon.

When l’Oncle is gone, Algernon looks me up and down, and I feel myself flush under his gaze.

“And now you are a lady, I see, all dressed up and clean,” he says, mockingly.

I curtsy. “As are you,
monsieur
. Are you enjoying good food and clean linen as much as I am?”

This brings an unexpected frown to Algernon’s face. “I may be clean, but I’m still what I always was, Celie—a man who believes in equality for all men, and one who will do anything to get it. I hope you have not forgotten that that is who we are, what we are striving for?”

I shake my head, startled by his outburst. Of course I have not forgotten. How can he think this of me? I know I have been busy attending nightly entertainments, but that does not mean that our plan to join the rebels has completely escaped my mind. The desire to effect change still burns brightly for me.

He turns and runs his eyes over the room. “I’ve been doing a little inventory taking, and there is quite a lot here for us to swipe, eh?”

To my shock, what I feel at his words is dismay. While I still mean for the rich to pay for their crimes, I realize that I do not want to steal from
these
people. The last two weeks have been marvelous, waking in a bed, eating three whole meals every day, studying a new form of art. I would feel bad taking their things. I like the aunts and uncle, and I am sure Manon could easily track us down again.

There are many wealthy to steal from in Paris. How can I convince Algernon that Manon need not be one of them?

“I don’t know. They’ve been nice to us, Algernon,” I say tentatively.

“Don’t grow soft on me, Celie,” he says, shaking his head as he turns back around. “And do not fool yourself. They’re only kind to you because of your extraordinary recall and drawing skills. They do not care about
you
. They are wealthy, and the wealthy care only about staying wealthy.”

He pauses. “But I have a plan, and one that does not involve stealing.”

Relief runs through me at his words.

“I met Mirabeau yesterday,” he says softly.

He pauses for effect. “Alone. By myself.”

Algernon has seen the great and nobly born orator Comte Mirabeau? How did he do that? And without me? I am resentful to have been left behind, although I must remind myself that I have been kept busy by Manon.

I remember the first time Algernon took me to hear the tall, stout man speak. He spoke with a power and a force that had astounded me, addressing the need for change and the unfairness of a system where some starved while others had more than they could consume. It was as if Mirabeau was not of noble birth, as if he had gone hungry and cold, as we had.

That day, I felt as if he was speaking right to me. He became my hero, and the hero of Algernon and the crowd. The ragged group that had gathered to hear him gave a cheer that echoed all over Paris when he finished. Mirabeau is at the very center of those who wish to see change.

“He saw
you
?” I ask in awe. “How did you get an audience with him?”

It is a great honor that Algernon has been let into this inner circle.

Algernon smiles proudly. “By offering him your services.”

I stare at him. “
My
services? For what?”

Algernon takes my arm. His grip is strong and heady, and his eyes burn into mine. “I have been told that you are to draw
tableaux
of the wealthy for Dr. Curtius. Mirabeau would like a copy, so that he may use it in the pamphlets he distributes to the people. He wants to use your drawings to focus attention on the excesses of the rich and to rouse the people to action. He is willing to pay you.”