Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution Read Online Free PDF Page A

it alone. I have seen his record books from before I was born, and they are appalling. Tickets sold for reduced prices to friends, free tickets to various members of the nobility. It is a wonder he made any money at all. We argued last night about whether we should charge the royal family an entrance fee. He wanted to let them in free, as if the new gowns for the models had all come cheap, and I wanted to charge a fee. But my mother insisted that we be gracious subjects, and grace means allowing the royal family inside without a price. I squeeze her hand in mine.
    “Sound the trumpets,” she announces grandly.
    Downstairs in the Salon, Rose Bertin and Henri Charles have already arrived. I notice that Rose has a wider smile for Henri than she has ever had for me. Perhaps it is because he looks particularly handsome today. His long hair has been dressed à catogan and tied with a blue ribbon that matches his coat. The tassels of his walking stick are also blue, like his silk culottes , and the long tails of his coat have been richly embroidered. It is the first I have seen him take such care with his appearance. Truly, someone as impressive and intelligent as Henri should be petitioning the king for a place at court. He could serve in the king’s workshop or, better, live by the king’s grants. I think of all the brilliant things he could create with enough money and time.
    As soon as Henri sees me, he breaks off conversation with Rose and points to the crowds waiting outside. “Have you seen what’s happening?”
    “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Tomorrow, the Salon will be shoulder to shoulder!”
    He hesitates, and I realize that he is being critical.
    “You clean up quite well,” Rose remarks. “If you ever wish to make an appearance at court, you could be dazzling in my green robe à la française . To match your eyes.”
    She is as ruthless a saleswoman as I am. “If I come into an unknown inheritance,” I say, “I will be sure to visit you.”
    There is the sound of a coach and eight outside, then of women crying, “The queen! It is His Majesty and the queen!” Despite what’s been printed about her in the libelles , accusing her of every kind of immorality, they are excited to see her. I feel a great surge of relief. Henri is wrong. This is exactly the kind of publicity we want. I take my mother’s arm, and we rush to the door.
    “Curtsy,” Rose reminds sharply from behind me. “Curtsy!”
    I sink into my lowest curtsy, and when I come up, it is real. The King and Queen of France are before me, dressed in expensive silk and ermine cloaks. The cries of the people are shut out as members of the king’s guard hurry to close the doors. None of my three brothers are among the men. Their jobs are to guard the king’s chamber, not to accompany the royal family on trips to Paris. It’s a pity, since we see them so rarely.
    “Welcome to the Salon de Cire,” my uncle says.
    A servant steps forward to make the introductions. There is Madame Élisabeth, the king’s youngest sister. She is twenty-four and has the cream and rose complexion of a girl in her teens. There is the royal family’s eldest child, Marie-Thérèse, whom the court addresses as Madame Royale. Her dark eyes and hair are a striking contrast to her younger brothers’. I smile at the frail, sickly dauphin, who is borne on a litter by two men. Though he is seven years old—the middle child—he looks all of four or five. He shares the same fair hair and blue eyes as his four-year-old brother, Louis-Charles. The youngest boy is dressed in a little sailor’s outfit: a fitted blue jacket with matching trousers.
    “Papa, Maman , that’s you!” Louis-Charles points across the entrance to the horseshoe table where the wax figures of the king and queen are eating. From the stools arranged for the duchesses to the high-backed chairs for the king and queen, it is as close as any tableau can come to real life.
    “Very good,” the queen