Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (18 page)

“You’re freezing,” Algernon says.

I nod.

He goes to take off his coat and give it to me, but I lean in toward him instead. I feel him stiffen for a moment.

But at last, he relaxes and puts his arm about me and pulls me close. I fall against his chest and wish once again for Algernon to let the memory of Julia go.

But until he does, I will sit here and be soothed by his warmth. Within minutes, the rhythm of his beating heart lulls me to sleep.

• • •

When I wake, I am in bed in the green room at l’Oncle’s house. Vaguely, I remember Algernon carrying me back. It is dark outside, and I am relieved to be here, safe and sound. I shiver, remembering the awful violence at the Place Vendôme.

In the hallway, I hear whispering voices and someone saying my name.

I rise from the bed and tiptoe to the door. Who is talking about me?

“No, I cannot do it,” I hear Manon say. “I cannot make them leave. And where would they go? Where would Celie go?”

My heart thumps at her words. Will l’Oncle and Manon turn us out? After all this time? And she is right. Where would we go? I think of our ride yesterday through the city and the angry looks of the people. I think of the march. The streets aren’t as safe as they were when Algernon and I slept in the alley. Now, all seems to be confusion out there.

“I agree that having Algernon on our side helps with the National Assembly, but if the king should squash this rebellion, we could be in trouble for harboring them,” l’Oncle whispers.

“The king will not forget all my years of service to his sister,” Manon argues. “And Algernon can keep us out of harm’s way, should the revolutionaries take over completely. We are safe either way. The only thing that matters is survival through this chaos, uncle.”

L’Oncle gives a sigh. “Perhaps you are right.”

Relief floods through me as I realize I have been holding my breath.

“Good. For I cannot turn her out,” Manon says. “I know she is a thief, but she has a good heart. I have come to care for her as a daughter over these last weeks. And I think you have, too. Her art touches you, does it not?”

There is a long pause. “
Oui
, Manon. I, too, care for her.”

“
Bon
,” Manon says. “It is settled. Now, let me go check on her.”

Swiftly, I fly to the bed and close my eyes. So it is true. Manon does care for me. I am astounded at how this knowledge warms me, makes this very bed suddenly feel like home.

I hear her footsteps near me, and I open my eyes to look upon the woman who thinks of me as a daughter.

“You’re awake,” she says.

“Today was awful, Manon,” I tell her, as my fears and thoughts spill out in a torrent, let loose by her support of me.

She sits down upon the bed beside me and gently smoothes back the hair from my face. “I know. Word has spread about the city.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, thinking back on our time together at
Versailles
. “Why would the king order the soldiers to shoot at his own people?”

“You’ve seen the king,” Manon says. “Do you think
he
sent those orders?”

I shake my head. “Then why did they shoot?”

“Frightened people do foolish things,” Manon says.

“But why were they frightened of us?” I ask, still bewildered. “We had no weapons.”

“Words are weapons, Celie,” Manon says, “as are symbols. Never forget that. The power of change can come not just by force, but by speech or a peaceful marching crowd.”

I breathe in the lavender scent of the lady.

“Now go to sleep,
ma petite
,” Manon says. “All will look better in the morning light.”

I pray that she is right.

Jean-Louis jumps from his chair when I come down to breakfast. In the chaos of yesterday, I had forgotten him.

“Celie!” He throws his little arms about me.

“The boy barely slept a wink last night,” Tante Anne-Marie says, smiling. “He went to your room over and over to be sure you were all right.”

“Foolishness, if you ask me,” Tante Marthe grumbles. “Why a man would ever take a young girl to a protest march is beyond me. I knew that scoundrel was no good, and I was right.”

“Algernon didn’t know it would turn violent,” I protest, defending Algernon, even though I am no longer sure that this is entirely true.

“Then your
brother
has got rocks in his head,” Tante Marthe spits out. “Now sit down and eat. Do you think I have all day to make breakfast?”

I sit down next to Jean-Louis, who scoots his chair closer to mine. It is good to be back in l’Oncle’s house, back with the aunts and Manon, and to have Jean-Louis with me. It is an oasis from the violence I have just witnessed.

The door from the museum swings open, and Algernon comes in with l’Oncle.

Gratitude fills me once more that we are here, safe, and not out on the streets.

“I’ve just come to tell you that I’m off, Celie, but Manon and Dr. Curtius have agreed to watch over you until I get back,” he says.

My smile disappears. “Where are you going?”

“To help out with the cause. We talked about this yesterday,” Algernon says. “Don’t look like you didn’t expect it. How many times have I told you that I would be involved in the revolution if the moment ever came?”

“Rebellion,” I protest, hating the word
révolution
and not wanting him to go, fear for his safety thick in my throat. “And I thought we would be together.”

“You want to go with me
now
?” Algernon asks, looking me directly in the eye. “You want to sleep in alleyways or sewers if the king’s men decide to root you out, scuttle about town with messages that could land you in prison or worse if you are caught?”

“
Non
,” I answer, “but I don’t want you to do that, either. What if there is more violence? What if you get hurt?”

Algernon kneels beside me. He takes my hands in his. “Celie, I must do this. It is who I am, what I was made for. And I promise to come for you when it is time for you to join me.”

I think of Julia. He is getting his revenge at last.

“What if I need you before that?” I manage to say.

Algernon’s eyes soften. “If you should need me, tie a ribbon to your door. Our people will watch for it, and they will let me know.”

He rises to go.

“Please just stay here, Algernon,” I try, begging one last time.

“I can’t, Celie,” Algernon says, his voice soft but firm. “You know I can’t.”

I do, but it doesn’t make me feel any better when I watch him walk out the door. And it is all I can do not to run after him.

• • •

The day passes quietly enough, but the next morning, Jean-Louis comes running into the kitchen, sweat on his brow.

“Where is the water from the water man, Jean-Louis?” Tante Marthe asks, rolling her eyes. “Was the bucket too heavy for you to carry again? Celie, go help him,
s’il te plaît
.”

“
Non. Non
,” Jean-Louis cries. He stops to catch his breath.

“What is it?” Tante Anne-Marie says. “What is wrong, Jean-Louis?”

“They have ….” He coughs. “The people have descended on the
Bastille
.”

“The old prison?” Manon asks. “Whatever for?”

Jean-Louis pauses, takes a deep breath. “They went to get gunpowder and muskets. They mean to fight against the king’s soldiers.”

“What?” I ask.

Jean-Louis looks at me. “There have been shots fired.”

“Was anyone hurt?” I ask. I think of Algernon, and for a moment, I cannot breathe.

“I don’t know,” Jean-Louis says. “That is all I have heard.”

Manon rises from her chair at the table. “Wait here. All of you.”

She returns in a moment with l’Oncle. He wears a National Guard uniform, which startles me.

Algernon was right. L’Oncle has sensed the winds of change, and he has turned with them. In the space of a day, he has outwardly dropped his loyalty to the king. He is a revolutionary, as Algernon predicted he would become. He dons a hat and nods at us all. “I’ll be back.”

“Where is he going?” I ask.

“To see what is happening,” Manon answers.

• • •

An hour later, the sound of singing rings out loud and clear from the streets. Jean-Louis and I go to the window. Down the Boulevard du Temple, thousands of people march, some carrying pitchforks, some carrying muskets.

A loud banging is heard in the front hall. The knocking is repeated, stronger and more insistent, as if thousands of fists are pounding on our door.

I follow Manon into the hallway. “Keep back,” she orders Jean-Louis and me. “Both of you.”

Tante Anne-Marie comes from the kitchen, wringing her hands. “Oh, if only l’Oncle were here.”

“Well, he isn’t. So we shall have to deal with this on our own, Maman.” Manon takes a deep breath and opens the door.

The crowd stands before us. A man is at the front, a large grin on his face, and in his hand, is the bloody head of the governor of the Bastille Prison.

“
Mon Dieu
,” Tante Anne-Marie says, her hand going to her chest.

I bite back a scream. Have the king’s soldiers beheaded their own governor?

“
Oui
, it is quite a sight,
n’est-çe pas
?” the man holding the head asks. “The first of many heads that shall be rolling, if the people have their way.”

“The people have done this?” I cry before I can stop myself.

“
Oui
,” a woman shouts out. “He wouldn’t let us in to have our gunpowder.”

“What would you want gunpowder for?” I ask.

“Shush, Celie,” Manon snaps.

She turns to the crowd gathered at her door. “What do you want with us?”

“We want you to make one of those wax heads from this,” the man says, holding the decapitated head higher, “and put it in your museum.” Blood drips down his arm. Behind him, the crowd lets out a loud cheer.

“
Oui
, we wish to show the country what can happen if the king’s soldiers oppose us again,” someone else shouts.

“We make heads from drawings,” Manon tells them, “not from real ones.”

“Today you’ll make a wax head the way
we
want you to make it,” the man snaps.

“Very well,” Manon says, her face impassive, as if she receives requests like this every day. “Celie, go make some plaster.”

I feel as if my feet are nailed to the floor. Does Manon truly mean to do this? Beside me, Jean-Louis whimpers.

“Celie. Now.” Manon’s voice is sharp.

“Don’t bark at the child,” the man in front says, grinning and revealing several black teeth. “We’ll just go with you into your museum,
n’est-çe pas
? That way, you needn’t bring your things out into the street.”

Manon blocks his way. “Sorry. But the museum is closed at the present.”

How can they have done this? How can they have
murdered
someone? And how can they take such
pleasure
in it? Don’t they understand that by murdering someone, they are no better than the king’s men who fired at an innocent crowd only two days earlier?

I do not want these people in here any more than Manon does. These are not the people, the true people of France. These people are mad, violent, crazy.

I come to my senses, turn, and walk quickly to the back room, my mind racing. Where is Algernon? And where is l’Oncle? Why have they not prevented these nasty people from coming here? Why have Algernon and Mirabeau not stopped them from committing this awful act?

I grab the sack of plaster dust and mix it in a bucket of water. My hands shake, and I spill some dust on the floor. I take a deep breath to steady myself. I have to be sure that the consistency is right, yet I sense that if I do not hurry, the crowd will force itself into Manon’s home like a rushing river overflowing its banks. At last the mixture is ready, and I head back with the plaster and brushes.

Calmly, Manon takes the plaster and the brushes from my hands, thanking me. “I will need your help,” she says.

“My help?” I ask, my voice squeaking in shock.

“Maman, take Jean-Louis inside and close the door,” Manon commands. “Celie and I will be in shortly.”

Tante Anne-Marie does as Manon asks her.

“What do you want
me
to do?” I ask.

“I will need you to apply the plaster,” Manon says.

My heart beats wildly in my chest. How can I work on a dead man?

“I will hold the head steady for you,” Manon says. Then she lowers her voice. “Please, Celie. If we do not do this, I fear the crowd will have our heads also.”

I had not thought of that. I nod, my stomach already queasy. Reluctantly, I follow Manon out into the street, the crowd parting as we walk through. I see in their faces that they are filled with excitement. It sickens me even more. Who are these people who welcome this violence?

Manon kneels in the dirt of the street. She turns to the man who holds the governor’s head. “Please hand him to me.”

The man laughs and tosses the head to Manon. Like an overripe melon, the head makes a squishing sound as Manon catches it, which almost makes me throw up.

Manon does not blink. “Come along, Celie. Let us begin.”

I kneel down. My hands tremble as I take up the brush.

Manon turns the head until the dead man’s eyes stare up at me, unseeing. I look at him, and Papa’s lifeless eyes waver in front of me. I gag.

“Steady,” Manon says in a low voice.

I swallow the sickness in my throat. With shaking hands, I dip the brush into the wet plaster and then begin slowly applying it to the dead governor’s head.

“Oooh, don’t he look good, all covered in goo?” someone yells out.

The crowd lets out a cheer.

“Keep your brush strokes even, Celie,” Manon says.

I look up and find Manon looking fixedly at me. I lower my head and go back to work, keeping my mind on Manon’s calming voice as Manon softly speaks, instructing me the whole way, as if I have never cast a plaster mold before.

When we are finished with the face, Manon sits back on her heels. “We must let it dry for a bit,” she informs the crowd, looking up at them. “You could go on, and I will finish the job.”