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

HAS COME TO SEE ME OFF, FROM OUR TAILOR AND Yachin to the chandler down the street. As I make my farewells to all these people, I remember why this is so important. I may be spending four days of my week in Montreuil, but my absence will only reinforce to the public that our models are worthy of the royal family’s notice. A freshly painted sign in the window now reads, NEW MODELS COMING SOON FROM MADEMOISELLE GROSHOLTZ, PERSONAL TUTOR AT VERSAILLES . I read it again, simply because it doesn’t seem real.
    “Will you bring something back for me from the palace?” Yachin asks.
    I laugh. “Like what?”
    “How about playing cards?”
    “What? Shall I steal a deck from the queen?”
    “Okay, a pair of dice.”
    “And how am I supposed to come across dice?” When his eagerness flags, I promise him, “I’ll see what I can do.”
    My mother is looking increasingly worried. She thinks I won’t feed myself in Versailles. While everyone is chatting pleasantly, she takes me to one side. “Please, just remember to eat. No model is so important that you should skip dinner.”
    “I will eat like a princesse,” I swear. “Or at least, the tutor of one.” But she doesn’t believe me. “Look at Johann,” I tell her. “Going to Versailles hasn’t done him any harm.”
    “He is not you,” she says in German. “He does not become so busy that he forgets to eat.”
    This is true. I doubt Johann has ever forgotten a meal. Whereas being a guard has kept Edmund fit, Johann has clearly indulged in the rich foods provided in the Grand Commune. He has the round, fat face of a German now, which pleases my mother.
    “I will promise to eat,” I tell her, “if you promise to watch Curtius. Don’t let him give away tickets for free. If it’s the Empress of Russia herself, she pays.”
    My mother heaves an exasperated sigh. “I will do what I can.”
    “Forbid him from giving anything away.” I take her hands. “This is a business.”
    She kisses my cheek. “Viel Glück,” she says warmly. “Give your brothers my love.”
    I make the rest of my personal good-byes. I hug Curtius, then tell Henri that I will miss his rational talk of politics and science. And to Yachin I say, “I want to know if drunken theatergoers are still pissing in the urns.” Our new plants have become favorite places for uncouth men to relieve themselves.
    “I’ll send a message,” he swears. He has been given a good education at his temple. Unlike many children, he can read and write. Then he adds, “If you find perfume, I would be happy to have that as well.”
    “Have some manners,” Henri chastens, but the boy only grins.
    I make my way through the crowd to the waiting berline . The luggage has been tied to the roof by the driver, and Curtius helps me into the coach. Already I feel different. Like a woman of some consequence. Curtius presses his lips to my hand, and I can see in his eyes that he is proud, which is important to me. I want him to know that I shall never disappoint him.
    “Remember the honors,” he says, recalling the lessons I’ve had these two months. What he is truly saying is to mind myself at court.
    “I will. If you finish the model of Émilie Sainte-Amaranthe, and make a second one for the Salon. You will, won’t you?”
    “There is nothing to worry about, Marie.” As the carriage rolls away, he calls, “Auf Wiedersehen!”
    I look through the window and study the faces—most happy, some resentful—crowding the steps of the Salon de Cire. Then I sit back against the cushions of the expensive berline and wonder how much it cost my uncle to hire. It is a coach for four, and I am the only one inside. But it is for the greater good of the Salon, I remind myself. I am like a farmer who feeds his cow the best hay for the time when it will make his own dinner. I will not disgrace my brothers at Montreuil. And however secluded Madame Élisabeth may be, I will find a way of using this position to our advantage.
    I