Free Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution by Michelle Moran

scarce, and Their Majesties don’t know? It is a crime, what the advisers to the king are allowing.
    “To anyone in the royal family. If you mention it, you will bring disgrace upon us, and you will bring disgrace upon the Salon de Cire. Nothing you say remains secret in Versailles. The royal family is never left alone. There is always someone listening— always.”
    I look across the table at Wolfgang, who does not contradict him.
    “When the queen begins her toilette in the morning,” Edmund continues, “there are separate attendants for her hair, her powder, her dress. When she bathes at night, it is in a long flannel gown in front of her women. When she prepares for bed during her coucher , the Mistress of the Robes, the dames d’honneur , the Superintendent of the Queen’s Household—they are all present.”
    “How unbearable.” To be surrounded by people all day. When is there time to be alone with your thoughts?
    “It is her job,” Johann says. “From the moment she arrived from Austria, she was trained in these rules of etiquette.”
    “Those are the rules of court,” Edmund stresses. “That is what separates Their Majesties from everyone else.”
    Suddenly, I am nervous. It is one thing to model and display the royal family, but to have to live their life, that is something else. “I will be discreet,” I promise.
    “You must understand the queen’s lever,” Johann says. “There are different women to help her dress. The première femme must hand the queen’s chemise to the dame d’honneur , who then takes off her glove in order to hand the chemise to the queen. However, if a Princesse of the Blood should arrive in the middle, it must all be started over again so that the princesse can be the one to present the queen with her chemise.”
    “But that is not all,” Wolfgang says quickly. “The queen is not allowed to reach for anything herself. If she wants water, it must be fetched by the dame d’honneur.”
    “And if the dame d’honneur isn’t present?” I ask.
    “Then she goes thirsty.”
    Ludicrous! “And this happens every day?”
    My brothers exchange looks. “Less frequently now that Her Majesty spends her time at the Trianon,” Johann replies.
    The king gifted Marie Antoinette with the Petit Trianon as a private residence. It is a quarter league from Versailles, and though I have never seen it, I am told that it is the most charming château in Paris, surrounded by orange trees and an English garden. The queen has turned it into her private palace, with its own special livery of silver and scarlet. “Who can blame her?” I say. “Who wouldn’t want time for themselves?”
    “She has a responsibility to the court,” Edmund replies.
    “To live like a wax model?” my mother asks, surprising everyone. None of us saw her sit down. “To be dressed and redressed like a doll?”
    “She belongs to the people,” Edmund says stiffly. “The king rules by God’s will, and the queen reflects his glory. Whether or not she likes the rules, she must abide by them.”
    “But who made them?” Wolfgang challenges. “Not God. Man . Courtiers,” he adds, “who want to know that their place in the royal hierarchy is assured. What should it matter who hands the queen her underwear so long as she’s wearing some?”
    My mother smiles, but Edmund has gone red in the face.
    “Leave it for another time,” Curtius suggests, and Johann puts a restraining hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “He only says it to rile you up. Like Marie.”
    Wolfgang grins at me, and I suppress a laugh, since I know it will simply make Edmund more enraged and upset my mother. We see my brothers rarely enough. It would be foolish to spend what little time we have with them arguing over whether the queen deserves privacy.
    There is no more talk of Versailles as we eat. My mother has prepared sauerkraut and sausages, potatoes, and warm Viennese bread. For dessert, I help her serve Bavarian crème we purchased in