Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (9 page)

I am astounded and pleased. Mirabeau wants
my
drawings for our cause? I am to provide pictures to the leader of the group that speaks out for equality? Me? Celie Rosseau? How far I have come from the girl dying by the side of the road!

“You need only remember what you have drawn for Dr. Curtius and draw it again. You can do that, can’t you?” Algernon whispers, pulling me near him. “You have not forgotten, have you, Celie? You have not forgotten what we fight for? We are together still, right? A team?”

Of course I am still his, and of course I will draw for Mirabeau. Here is a chance to effect real change, to make things different for people like Maman and Papa and Jacques. Already, my fingers itch to get started.

I nod enthusiastically.

Algernon smiles, his eyes soft with feeling. “Together, we can make a real difference, Celie.”

He moves toward me, and I think I will faint with anticipation. I close my eyes and tilt my head up to him, waiting. At last, a kiss.

I feel his fingers softly graze my lips. Then, nothing.

“Algernon?” I say. I open my eyes to see the hesitation in his.

“Go,” he says at last, and his voice is thick with emotion. “Go. Learn all you can. Draw all you can, Celie. And remember that we work for the freedom of France.”

I move from the room as he bids, biting back stupid, stupid tears. Once again, I have let hope gain a foolish foothold on my heart.

• • •

Three days later, the wax head has solidified, and l’Oncle removes it from its plaster casing. With l’Oncle, I smooth out the seams. My wax face now shines with a white sheen.

“I look like a ghost,” I say.

“Not for long,” l’Oncle tells me. “Sit here, Celie, by the light. Now, usually Manon does this. There is no one like her for matching skin tone, but as she is away, I will do the best I can.”

“Besides,” he adds, “I did teach her all she knows.”

He turns my face right and left, picks out several different shades of beige paint and tries them on a small canvas, holding them near my skin. Finally, he nods as if satisfied and takes out a fine brush. Carefully, he paints the head, bringing a lovely look of real skin to my wax face. When he has finished, he gazes at me, and once again, matches colors, painting a rose tint onto my waxen lips.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “you will visit the button maker.”

“What for?” I ask, puzzled.

“Your eyes,” he says.

• • •

The following day, I watch as the button maker’s fingers rifle through various colored marble eyes. The woman chooses some for my wax head and carefully inserts them, using the smallest of needles.

“And now you must have teeth, eh, child?” the button maker asks, when the eyes are in place. She pulls out a box, and I recoil in horror when I see all the real teeth inside.

The button maker laughs. “Do not worry, you silly girl. They come from the tooth puller. We pay him for them. They are not from the dead.”

My heart stops beating so hard, and I watch as the button maker painstakingly inserts small teeth into my likeness. When she is finished, it is like looking at my own bald self.

The button maker smiles at me. “It is amazing,
n’est-çe pas
?”

• • •

The next afternoon, I learn how to apply hair. L’Oncle sits beside me and directs me, showing me how to heat some beeswax and then, one by one, apply the strands. It is a tedious process, and the one I like least of all.

“Sometimes, as in the queen’s case, we will use real hair she has given us, or hair from the tails of the thoroughbreds in her stable,” l’Oncle explains, “but most times, we use the same horsehair we buy to stuff the models.”

Of course the queen would have thoroughbred hair, while the rest of the world settles for regular old horsehair, I think to myself as I continue to work.

When the job is finished and the strands combed into place, I catch my breath with surprise. The work may be tedious, but the results are amazing. It is me, staring back at myself. How odd it feels to look at my wax head.

I laugh, and a smile flits across l’Oncle’s face. Then, it is gone.

“You are not done yet,” he scolds me.

I am sent next to the carpenter’s, passing beggars and cripples and homeless people huddled around communal fires along the way. They shoot angry glances my way as my cart rides by, and I am shocked to suddenly realize I am now one of those who are resented.

Suddenly, a rotten tomato splatters across my face, stinging my cheek and splitting open, juices running down my cheek and the front of my gown. The crowd cheers loudly.

“That’ll teach you to tax us for your pleasures,” one man yells out.

“Bread,” a woman calls. “We just want bread to feed our children. Is that too much to ask?”

“How can you let us starve like this?” another woman shouts.

“Next time, it will be something worse we’ll throw at you,” one man growls. He picks up a rock and pulls back his arm.

I duck, and the rock misses. The driver picks up speed, and we are soon safely away from the crowd. I wish I could have stopped the cart and told them that I am really one of them, that I sympathize. Now, it is too late.

At the carpenter’s house, I clean the stains off my gown as best I can, shaken by the incident. I stand as the carpenter measures me, still thinking about the anger in their voices. I feel their rage. It burns inside me, too. How could they have mistaken me for one of the wealthy? Surely, they can see the difference between me and those who exploit them?

The carpenter coughs to get my attention. I try to focus as he shows me how he makes the wooden stands, how he creates wire frames and attaches them to the stand. The frames can then be bent into shape for natural curves. I am fascinated with this aspect of the waxwork-making process, and soon my thoughts about the ride are quickly forgotten. Art is again my focus.

Once my wooden and wire body is complete, l’Oncle sends me out with it to the seamstress. This time, though, with the wooden structure beside me, no one gives me a second glance. I am just a servant being sent on an errand, and I am happy for the anonymity and the clear signal that I am one of them.

The seamstress measures me yet again. Then she chooses some fabric and begins to cut. Over the next few days, I help her with the sewing of the gown and the making of stockings. When we are finished, the seamstress shows me how to put the clothes on the wooden body, and then stuff everything with horsehair until all the curves I have in real life became a part of my wooden counterpart. Finally, the seamstress sends me home with my headless body.

• • •

Two days later, I am going up to my room to get ready for bed when I find l’Oncle standing beside my door. “Well, go on in,” he says.

Puzzled, I enter my bedroom and find a completed wax replica of myself. I laugh with delight. It is truly me, standing there in duplicate. The artist in me is in awe of this amazing art form.

“You are a genius,” I cry, and without thinking, I throw my arms about the old man.

He flinches and then relaxes and finally gives me a smile.

“
Oui
, Celie,” he says, patting me awkwardly on the back. “You are right. I am a genius.”

And I know that because of our art, we are now friends.

• • •

Manon is home a few days later. A large, elegant carriage pulls up to 20 Boulevard du Temple, and Manon alights from it. Her hair is powdered and stacked high on her head with roses tucked into it. She wears a gown of pale blue brocade, with buttons and bows and lace at her sleeves. She looks lovely.

She comes briskly into the house, lifting her skirts and smiling when she sees me waiting for her. “You have completed your training?”

I nod.

“
C’est bien
. Then come along.” Manon glides down toward the library, and I follow her. She walks over to one of the bookcases, pulling down a leather-bound book. “You read,
n’est-çe pas
?”

I hesitate, then tell her the truth. “My
papa
read, but I never got the chance to learn. Maman did not think it necessary.”

“Ah, then we are two of a kind,” Manon says, smiling. “Tante Marthe and l’Oncle can read, but I cannot. No matter. You will just have to learn this book as I did.”

She picks up a small bell and rings it.

Tante Anne-Marie is there in a moment, giving Manon a kiss. “You are back. I have missed you.”

“And I you,” Manon replies, “but I can only stay a day or two, Maman. I mean to return with Celie, so she may draw some scenes for us to display.”

Return where, I wonder? And will Algernon come with us? It has been two weeks since I turned my face to his, hoping for his kiss. I am almost glad to have this time to breathe and think, and yet, I do not want to be separated from him for too long.

“I must ready her,” Manon says. “She cannot read. Will you have Tante Marthe read this to her? She will have to memorize it as I did.”

“Memorize all that?” I cry, looking at the book Manon is holding. It is as thick as a brick. “What is it?”

“Rules of the court, five hundred pages in all,” Manon tells me. “And you must know them all before we leave.”

“Leave for where?” I finally ask.

“
Versailles
,” Manon answers.

• • •

A week later, I am packed and ready to go to the king’s palace. I am torn between excitement at seeing
Versailles
and an uneasiness that I am about to be a part of the very lifestyle I stand against.

Just as we are about to enter the carriage, I finally see Algernon. All week I have been seeking him out and missing him. And I do not like leaving without letting him know where I am going.

He is crossing the street, his arms loaded with firewood. His eyes widen when he recognizes me, and he almost drops the logs he is carrying.

I smile as he approaches, my heart thumping wildly just to see him. But my smile quickly dies when I see the scowl on his face.

“What are you wearing?” he asks, plucking at the lace of my sleeves.

“Clothes to go to the palace,” I tell him, crestfallen that he is angry with me. After all, it isn’t my fault I am dressed like this.

“You’re not one of them, you know,” Algernon says. “You never will be.”

“I know that,” I say crossly, feeling as if he has punched me in the gut.

Why does he always doubt me? Does he think I like these clothes? On the contrary, they are unwieldy and constricting. And my hair has been powdered and pulled up tight on my head. Everything itches beyond belief, and I want to take my fingers and scratch my hair until it all falls down around my ears. But I have no choice, and if it means getting closer to the wealthy to draw them for Mirabeau, I am willing to endure it.

“I’m doing this for you and for Mirabeau, remember?” I remind him, with irritation. “I hope to find a way to do some drawings while I am there, and send them to you and Mirabeau for pamphlets to give to the people.”

His green eyes soften at my words. “You won’t forget then, Celie? You won’t forget the cause or ….”

I will him to say “or me.” But his face reddens, and he looks away.

I am impatient with this silly dance. Julia is no longer. I cannot change that.

“Or who?” I ask, deliberately baiting him.

He doesn’t answer.

“Maybe I should forget,” I say. “Maybe I should forget everything.”

He grabs me then, and pulls me to him with a force I did not know he possessed. And he presses his lips to mine. But it is not a kind kiss. It is a desperate, angry one.

I push him roughly away. How dare he kiss me like that? As if he resents it? That is not what I longed for when I thought of us together.

“Celie,” Manon calls, as she comes out from the house. “Let’s go.”

I turn and run from Algernon, humiliated. I fling myself into the carriage, and I do not look back once as we drive off. Instead, I sit in sullen silence, angered even more by the way I am dressed. Every time I move my head, a shower of white powder comes raining down on me, causing me to sneeze. It is the most ludicrous of ways to wear your hair. And the corset Manon forced me into this morning makes me feel as if I might throw up the sausages I had for breakfast at any moment. I burp and scowl.

Manon laughs. “You’ll eat a little less at court in that contraption.”

“But it will be the king’s food,” I snap. “Why would I want to eat less? I want to eat all the food I can. He has too much of it, anyway.”

Manon reaches out suddenly and slaps me hard. “Talk like that at
Versailles
will get you executed.”

I stare at her in shock. Manon has never done anything like this before. She has never even so much as raised her voice.

“And though I wouldn’t give a second’s thought to
you
being marched off to prison,” Manon continues, “
I’m
not about to accompany you there. So keep your thoughts about the king to yourself, along with any other ideas that might be misconstrued as treasonous, or I’ll put you back on the streets. Understand?”

I nod quickly and say nothing more, though my cheek still stings from her hand. Is everyone to be angry with me today?

Finally, Manon gives me a sympathetic look. “Your brother seemed quite upset with you when we left, Celie. Is that why you are so out of sorts?”

I do not respond. I refuse to talk about Algernon now.

We are soon at the gates of the city. A line has formed, and people sit in the middle of the road or upon their goods, waiting to be inspected and taxed. The crown collects money at the city gates: taxes on salt, tobacco, leather, iron products, soap, and wine. Royal guards search residents and visitors alike for goods being smuggled in or out. A carriage or a large cape can conceal a case of wine or a pound of soap.

I remember well entering these same gates with Algernon, just over a year ago. We had stood in line outside the gates of Paris, waiting to enter, and I had been amazed that taxes were collected just to get into the city.

“But didn’t they already take taxes?” I had asked Algernon. “That’s why Maman and Jacques died. We couldn’t pay the taxes on the land and sow the fields.”