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

compliments her youngest son. Then she turns to the dauphin. “Do you know what that scene is meant to be?”
    The dauphin struggles to a sitting position. He looks around, not with the quick, dismissive glance of a child who has been given every luxury, but with the slow, curious gaze of a boy who is eager to learn. His eyes go first to the faux marble columns dividing the tableaux, then to the paintings hanging on the walls, which give the impression that the viewer has entered a woman’s private salon. “It must be the Grand Couvert.”
    “Exactly!” the queen exclaims. She clearly takes pride in teaching her children.
    “Can we go inside?” the dauphin asks. “Where do we pay?”
    Curtius laughs. “Today, the entertainment comes free. And if Their Majesties will permit, my niece and I shall take them on a tour.”
    We leave the entrance hall, and I notice that the king moves with a limp. In my wax model of him, he is not nearly so short and obese. I imagine he will be pleased with what I’ve done. The queen, however, is more graceful than any model can convey. It is true what they say about her—that she glides instead of walks. Though there is a thickness beneath her chin and she is not as lithe as she once was, there is no mistaking the body of a dancer. Aside from her cloak, she has dressed modestly for this outing. It’s a shame, since I can remember attending her Grand Couvert, the weekly ritual when the king and queen are seen to eat in public, and I know how dazzling Marie Antoinette can be. When I saw the queen at her Sunday dinner, her dress was blue velvet trimmed in white fur, and the white satin stomacher matched her plumed headdress. But today, she is dressed in a gown of puce. She has used the smallest soupçon of rouge to enliven her cheeks, and her hair has been only lightly powdered. I notice that her necklace is of pearls, not diamonds, as are the rings on her fingers.
    Her sister-in-law Madame Élisabeth is dressed far more elegantly, in rich brown silk and beige taffeta. Her ermine muff has been embroidered in gold, while the same lavish trim has been used for her gown. Like his sister, King Louis has made no attempt to alter his dress to appease the populace. There are diamond buckles on his shoes, and the fashionable walking stick he is carrying is encrusted with jewels. Even so, there is very little of kingly majesty about him. In different clothes, he might be a peasant. As we enter the exhibition, he stops in front of the first painting. Because he is nearsighted, he must approach the canvas until his nose is nearly touching the paint.
    “How many paintings are in your exhibition?” the king asks.
    “A hundred and fifty, Your Majesty. I am somewhat of a collector,” Curtius admits.
    “And have you always been interested in wax, Dr. Curtius?”
    “Yes. Since I first came across it in medical school.”
    “Ah.” The king turns to his children. “And do you know what he would have used it for in school?”
    The boys shake their heads. But Madame Royale, who is eleven and thinks herself too grand for this place, simply rolls her eyes.
    “He would have used it for making anatomical models.” The king looks at my uncle. “Am I correct?”
    “Exactly so, Your Majesty.” As we stop in front of the dinner tableau, expressions of delight pass through our group of royal guests. I was right. The queen is pleased with what she sees. She is smiling and asks if she may have a closer look. “Certainly, Your Majesty.” My uncle opens a little gate in the wooden balustrade, and the queen passes through, followed by the rest of her family. We do not allow visitors to touch the models, but in this case, neither Curtius nor I complain.
    “Exceptional,” the queen breathes, caressing her wax face. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
    “I knew Your Majesty would approve,” Rose gloats, as if I hadn’t begged her for a year to invite them. She indicates the headdress made of satin and trimmed