Free Madame Tussaud's Apprentice by Kathleen Benner Duble

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.

Chapter Six
    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