Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (3 page)

“I’ve been robbed, too!” the Comte shouts.

I cannot help it. I laugh.

This is, of course, a horrible mistake.

The woman in black quickly grabs my arm, ripping the dark glasses from my face. And there I am, standing in the sunshine, held fast, revealing to everyone that I am not a blind beggar at all, but a girl with bright blue eyes: eyes that can see everything.

• • •

I am dragged from the square by my hair, the crowd jeering and laughing, my feet banging hard against the cobblestones. My mouth is dry with fear.

The Comte will see me hanged. And all because today, I have forgotten Algernon’s first rule of stealing: Always run.

Like an idiot, I lingered to enjoy my revenge.

When we reach the closest prison, the
sergent
throws me into a dank cell, pushing me so hard that I fall onto the straw that reeks and crawls with lice. I hear the heavy thud of the cell door closing me in, and the sound of moans and dripping water nearby. A rat scurries across the floor.

I lie there, not moving, but thinking, frantically thinking. I have seen men and women hang, know the ugliness of it, the look of eyes popping from their sockets, the blackness of the tongue that protrudes as the body gasps for air. The neck is rarely broken as it should be when the body drops. It is not a quick way to die.

My hands shake, and I dig deep for strength.

If I am to be hanged, then I will go to my death with dignity. I will not weep like a coward. And so I force myself to sit up and scrub away the dirt on my face. I straighten my skirts and prepare my face: ready, defiant, the same strong girl who watched dry-eyed as her mother and brother were buried just a year ago.

That day, I had stood there unflinchingly as the Comte’s fat and well-paid priest prayed over them. I did not cry as they were lowered into the hastily dug hole in the churchyard. And when that self-serving little toad of a holy man had held out his hand for payment, I had spit in his face.

Today, I will be strong again. I will stand here without fear and self-pity, but with obstinate courage. I will die in a fashion that would make Maman and Papa proud.

A few minutes later, I hear the key turn in the lock. I stand, and the cell door swings open. The
sergent
who arrested me is there with the lady whose bag Nicholas stole, and behind them both, my sworn enemy, the Comte d’Artois.

The Comte sniffs, putting a lace hanky to his nose. “
Mon Dieu
, it smells in here.”

“Is there not a bigger space in which we may question the girl?” the lady asks, looking nervously around. She lifts her skirts an inch or so, showing sturdy boots beneath.

“Perhaps the Comte’s brother, the king, will lend us one of
his
rooms, so you will be more comfortable,
mademoiselle
?” I say with what I hope is a sneer on my face.

But I pay for it.

The
sergent
reaches out and slaps me hard across the face. I wheel back into the wall.

“Enough sass, girl,” he says. “Who stole this man’s money and this woman’s bag? Tell us at once.”

He is on me, grabbing my arm, his fingers digging so deeply into my skin that I wince. My cheek aches from his blow.

But I stand my ground. “I’m no snitch!”

The Comte waves his hanky in front of his face again. “If she will not confess, then hang her.”

There they are. The two little words I knew would be coming. And yet, when he speaks them, my stomach lurches. My love for living has betrayed me, and I curse myself for it.

“You waste our time, child,” the lady suddenly snaps, her unease in the prison cell obvious. “There is nothing in my bag of value, anyway. The boy who stole from me will find only wax heads inside, and nothing more. Those heads will be worthless to him, but for me they represent countless hours of work. I want them back.”

If my situation were not so dire, I would laugh. Nicholas has stolen some
wax heads
? What a surprise he will have when he opens that bag! But who can laugh when the state of my
own
head is at stake?

“Speak for yourself,
mademoiselle
,” the Comte says, his face twisted and angry. “My bag was filled with coins—my coins, many, many of my coins.”

His anger gives me strength. I press my lips firmly together.

Then the lady pulls out a piece of parchment paper and a charcoal pencil from her waistband. I stare at the drawing tools as she walks toward me. I have never seen paper so fine.

“Perhaps you could
draw
our criminals for us so that we may pass the likeness on to the
guet
, and they can find them,” she says to me. “Then, with a clear conscience, you will be able to tell your friends that you did not give them away by
telling
on them. And maybe you will be given prison time rather than the rope.”

I look at the paper. My fingers flutter at my side. How can this woman know the one thing in the entire world I cannot resist? How can she have guessed? Is she a seer or a witch, able to read people’s lives through their faces?

“That is an excellent idea,
mademoiselle
,” the Comte says.

“
Merci
, Monsieur le Comte,” the lady answers.

“You know me?” the Comte asks in surprise.

“I do,
monsieur
,” she answers. “I am often at
Versailles
, working with your sister, Madame Élisabeth. I am tutoring her in waxmaking.”

“Ah, I know you now,” the Comte exclaims. “You work for Monsieur Curtius. I have seen your art. It is good. You did the head of the writer Voltaire, I believe. It was quite extraordinary.”

The lady nods, acknowledging the Comte’s praises.

The Comte’s brow wrinkles in concentration as he snaps his fingers. “But your name? I can’t recall your name.”

“Marie Tussaud, Monsieur le Comte,” she answers.

“Ah, yes,” the Comte says, smiling. “They call you Manon,
n’est-çe pas
?”

The lady inclines her head. “
Oui, monsieur
.”

I listen to them prattling on, my mind racing. It isn’t fair that I will be hanged or imprisoned for Nicholas’s crime. But I can’t give him away, either. And I definitely will not betray Algernon. But there is that parchment, all shiny and clean, tempting me to draw. I have to escape.

I sidle toward the door while watching Mademoiselle Manon and the Comte in deep conversation. The
sergent
is distracted too, intent on the discussion. Now is my chance.

I run for the door, but I’m not fast enough.

The Comte steps in front of me, blocking my escape. “I think not, little urchin.”

Without thinking, I fly at the Comte, dragging my nails across his neck. Blood spills onto the Comte’s silk shirt and lace collar, and he howls with rage.

I stand frozen. What have I done? I meant to get revenge as Papa taught me—using my mind and my words, not my hands.

The
sergent
has recovered his senses, and he yanks me hard, back into the cell.

“Shoot her,” the Comte d’Artois snarls, his fingers dabbing at his bloodied neck.

The
sergent
raises his musket.

“Stop!” Mademoiselle Manon barks, and she shocks everyone by stepping between the musket and me. “I need my things back. Shooting her will accomplish nothing.”

“
Mademoiselle
,” the
sergent
protests, “she has attacked the king’s brother.”

“And killing her will not help,” Manon snaps. “I want those heads. Do you not want your coins, Monsieur le Comte?”

The Comte hesitates. Then, he sighs. “
Oui
. I do.”

He waves toward the paper. “Draw for us, you stupid girl.”

I cannot think. My hands are still shaking from my uncontrolled attack a moment earlier. How can I have committed that act of violence? How can I have lost control of myself like that?

When I make no move toward the paper, the Comte turns to the
sergent
. “Beat her until she does. And I don’t care what a mess you make of her, as long as her hands can hold a pencil.”

I stare at him in horror. My family did not raise me with whippings. Torture will most definitely break me. So what am I to do?

The lady moves closer. “What is your name, child?”

My mind is clouded with images of fists coming toward me, of having my fingernails ripped from me or fire burned into my skin—all things I have heard are done to prisoners of the king.

“I am trying to help you,
ma petite
,” the woman says, her voice rising, “but I will not protect you for long if you do not begin to cooperate.”

“Celie Rousseau,” I whisper, my mind still casting up pictures of my body broken and bruised, my eyes swollen and black.

Loathing fills me as soon as I speak. A real rebel would never have answered so easily.

Mademoiselle Manon nods slowly. “Well, Celie Rousseau, do you think you could draw a picture of the man who robbed me, and the one who robbed the Comte?”

I finally look at the parchment paper in the lady’s hands. I can feel it again, the itching to draw, the longing to pick up the instrument and create from it. And still, I hesitate.

“Take her below,” the Comte says. “We will wait in your office until she breaks.”

My defiance slips away like water from a leaky pail. Fear fills my every pore. Once again, the Comte wins. And I have only the choice to obey, or to be crushed. And then, mercifully, my mind begins to work, and I know a way that might save us all.

I lift the paper from Manon’s hands, taking the charcoal pencil from her, too, and spread the paper out on the floor of the cell. I touch the parchment gently, my thoughts already moving from the dire situation I face to the pleasure of my art.

The paper is so clean. I spin the pencil in my fingers, reveling in its smoothness. It is so much nicer than a charred stick, which digs its bark into my fingers. Tentatively, I apply the pencil to the parchment. The line it leaves is clear and fine.

I begin to draw, praying that the Comte is as unobservant as I suspect he is. My fingers fly across the paper. Images crowd my head—the large brass handle on the door of the bookstore, the iron rungs on the chairs of the gaming tables, the red color of the chestnut seller’s cart, the worn façade of the stone on the Palais itself. I draw and draw.

A half-hour later, I put the pencil down. There is a strange silence in the room, and I look up to see the three of them staring at my work.

I bite my lip. Please let me be right.

“It is so detailed,” the Comte says. “She has every hair on the back of my hand.”

I let out a silent sigh of relief. As I had hoped, the Comte is gazing at the image of himself and not of Algernon. I thank the stars above for his self-absorption.

“
C’est incroyable
,” the
sergent
agrees. “Every arcade in the Palais-Royal is drawn to perfection, too. Can it truly be accurate?”

“It is,” Manon says, looking sharply at me, as she moves from the open door where she has been standing to inspect the drawing more closely.

“But how can you be sure?” the Comte asks. “How can you
know
if there are two windows in the second arcade on its third floor? Perhaps there are more?”

“There are not. You forget,
monsieur
, that my job requires that I notice details,” Mademoiselle Manon says. “I see them and then must work hard to remember them. But I cannot draw or remember it as she has. Her recall is superb.”

I look away from her to hide my delight. She is right. I have recalled well—the face of the homeowner from last night is now Algernon’s face. And one of the men arguing in the alley this morning is now the face of Nicholas. Fools! How I wish Algernon was here to share in my triumph.

“Well, we have our information,” the Comte says. “Now you may hang her.”

What has he said?
Mon Dieu!
Why did I ever trust this man? I wish I had pulled out his heart with my bare hands. Now, I think bitterly, he will go back to his estate for a good meal while I mount the gallows to my death.

“Wait!” Manon commands. “I cannot let you do this.”

“You have no choice,
mademoiselle
,” the Comte says, frowning. “It is my decision, not yours. She is nothing but a thief. And not a very good one, at that.”

“Hear me out,” Manon says. “Give the girl to me.”

I stare at her. What is she saying?

“Whatever for?” the Comte asks. “Are you as crazy as she is?”

“Crazy as a fox, Monsieur le Comte,” Mademoiselle Manon says, smiling, “for the girl has a rare gift. Her memory and ability to draw what she has seen are unusual skills. And ones that, in my business, are invaluable.”

The Comte pauses, and then chuckles low in his throat. “Ah, I see. You could use her for your museum, to draw scenes for you to display.”

He purses his lips and gives the matter some thought. “All right,
mademoiselle
. But let us make a contest of this, shall we? In three months’ time, if the girl is not reformed, she will be hanged, and you will owe me a thousand
livres
. Agreed?”

“
Oui
,” the lady says.

I watch them bartering over me as if I were a side of beef. Do they think I cannot hear? Do they find me of so little value that they will make decisions about my life without my consent?

“I won’t work for you,” I say into the lull.

“You have no choice,” Manon replies matter-of-factly. “You work for me, or you hang for robbery. And we will find your accomplice and hang him, too.”

I suck in my breath with her words. My powerlessness washes over me in a wave of understanding. She is right. Once again, I have no options. Either I hang, or I take my chances with her.

But then, I pause. I have tricked them already today with my drawing. I can think this one through, too. I am smart. I can outwit them twice.

I hesitate, my mind spinning and thinking. And then, I have it.

I will go with the lady now, but then, I will escape. I will run to warn Algernon and Nicholas, helping them take to the countryside until the fervor over this botched robbery dies down. I
can
do this.