Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (22 page)

• • •

L’Oncle comes back from the country with food and with news. “They are to put the king on trial.”

I look up in shock from the drawing I have been doing. “What for?”

“Gamin, the locksmith who worked with the king at
Versailles
, led the revolutionaries to a concealed wall safe at the Tuileries in which papers were found that implicate the king in a plot to free the monarchy,” l’Oncle tells us. “The revolutionaries have had the papers for some time, but have just decided to act on them.”

I cannot believe that the locksmith of
Versailles
betrayed the king. The king had spent most of his time with the man. Did the man have no gratitude?

But then, it dawns on me. Would the king’s locksmith not have been one of the first to be executed as a Royalist? Perhaps by turning these papers over to the revolutionaries, he saved his own neck.

“Impossible,” Manon says. “Our king could no sooner organize a plot than Jean-Louis could.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jean-Louis whispers. “They do not really need a reason to put our king on trial.”

I start at Jean-Louis’s words. The little boy is growing up fast, and it saddens me to know that he needn’t live in the streets to understand the madness that is surrounding us.

• • •

It does not take long for the king to be found guilty and condemned to the guillotine. He is no longer the king but a simple citizen of France, stripped of his title. Soon Louis Capet, as he is now called, will die.

• • •

The day of the king’s execution, the streets of Paris are silent. All the shops are closed, as are the windows of every house. A cold winter wind sweeps the streets of Paris, though the sun shines brightly. I huddle near Manon as we watch the closed coach carrying the king sweep by our home.

Others gather along the boulevard, weeping into their handkerchiefs. They turned their backs on their king, and now they are sad about it?

“We don’t have to go, do we, Manon?” Jean-Louis asks, tears streaming down his face. “We don’t have to go see him at the guillotine?”

“Of course not,” Manon says, pulling Jean-Louis closer. “But I am glad you stood here to watch him go by.”

“Perhaps he looked out and saw me,” Jean-Louis says. “Perhaps he even knew me. Perhaps he said to himself, oh, there is the little boy who brought suitcases to my guest rooms at the Petit Trianon.”

“
Oui
, perhaps he did, Jean-Louis,” Manon says. “And even if he didn’t, I am sure he was honored by the quiet and solemn way you watched him pass by.”

Behind the king, another carriage comes down the boulevard, stopping short of our house.

Dismay sweeps over me, for the man who gets out of the carriage is the same man who came to get me the day I needed Algernon. He walks toward us, pausing just below our steps. “The time has come, Mademoiselle Celie. The National Assembly has need of your services.”

Manon looks at me in confusion as the man turns toward her.

“And of yours,
mademoiselle
,” he adds, bowing.

I turn to Manon. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to make a deal to free you.”

“And exactly what was the deal you made, Celie?” Manon asks.

“I don’t know,” I babble. “They wouldn’t tell me. They just made me promise that when they came for us, we would do as they said, no questions asked.”

But I do know what they want. As soon as I saw the king’s carriage roll by and the familiar man step from the one behind it, I knew. So does Manon.

“You would like me to bring my materials, I presume?” she asks, turning back toward the man, who stands tapping his foot impatiently.

“That would be wise,” the man answers.

“I will get them and be with you in a minute,” Manon tells him. “Celie, Jean-Louis, inside, please.”

“She will come with you,
mademoiselle
,” the man says.

“I believe I can handle this job on my own,” Manon says.

“I am sure you can,
mademoiselle
, but my instructions were quite clear. The girl comes with you.” The man glances over at Jean-Louis. “The boy can stay.”

I let out the breath I have been holding. I cannot imagine how I would have felt if Jean-Louis had been forced to go with us to do our job. It would have broken his heart. Now, it will only break mine. But at least Manon will not have to do this on her own.

“We will be right back, then,” Manon says. “Come, Celie. Help me gather the things we will need.”

Inside, I stumble over myself to find the right words to apologize to Manon.

But before I can say much of anything, Manon whirls on me and grabs me by the shoulders, startling me. “Enough. You did what you had to. Did you think I would blame you?
Non, ma petite
. You have learned well. We have survived. The politics are nothing but nonsense. Survival is all. Remember that. Always.”

Tante Anne-Marie comes down the stairs, her arms filled with laundry. “Has it happened then? Has he gone past?”

“
Oui
, Maman,” Manon says, “but Celie and I have a job we must do now.”

Tante Anne-Marie drops her bundle. “
Non
. They have not asked it of you?”

“They have,” Manon says. “And so we shall comply. Please watch Jean-Louis for me. This will not be an easy day for him.”

Tante Anne-Marie comes and puts her arms around her daughter. “Please don’t go. What if something goes wrong? And how can
you
do this today? You
know
your king. You have spoken to him and worked for him. It is beyond belief that they would ask this of you.”

“Nothing is beyond belief when there is a revolution and the future of a country with all its power at stake, Maman,” Manon says.

Tante Marthe comes into the hallway, a bucket and mop in her hand. “Saw the king’s coach roll by from the kitchen window. Poor man.”

She stops. “What has happened?”

“Manon and Celie will be going to the execution,” Tante Anne-Marie says. “They have been requested to do some work.”

“
Mon Dieu
,” Tante Marthe snaps. “We have traded fools for savages.”

“No matter,” Manon says. “We must not keep our escort waiting.”

• • •

As we roll up to the square where the king is to be executed, I look out at the crowd that has gathered. They are a large group, but somber and quiet. At least, they seem bent on giving the king some respect in the final moments of his life.

The guillotine looms large on the scaffold. Its blade glints in the sunlight. I turn my head.

“Out you go,” the man orders us.

Manon and I descend from the carriage. Manon wraps her arms around me. “Shut your eyes. It will be over quickly.”

“
Non
,” says the man who is with us. “Everyone here must witness the event.”

“We are doing what you have asked of us,” Manon snaps. “But we will do it in the
manner
we want.”

“You will not,
mademoiselle
,” the man says, “for if you both do not watch, I will take you back to prison.”

“It’s all right, Manon,” I say, remembering Manon’s words on surviving. “I am a good patriot. I can do this.”

The king mounts the steps of the scaffold. He has on simple clothes, but he walks as if he is wearing the royal ermine robes to which he is accustomed. Louis XVI holds his head high, and his eyes are steady as he looks out at the crowd. At
Versailles
, he had seemed such a simple and lonely man. But today, he is a king.

He steps forward and opens his mouth. I wait, wanting to hear what he has to say to us, hoping his words will be of forgiveness. But at that moment, the captain of the guard makes a motion, and the drums begin to beat. The king’s words are lost in the noise.

Louis XVI closes his mouth and gives a slight smile. Two men come forward and help him to his knees. The king looks out at his people once more, then lets himself be strapped below the blade of the guillotine.

The executioner steps forward and pulls the lever. With a loud whoosh, the blade comes tearing down from its position high above the king. In less time than it takes me to cover my mouth, the king’s head is severed from his body. His head rolls forward into a bucket that has been placed there to catch it. Blood shoots from the headless torso, spattering those who stand at the front of the crowd.

The people rush forward, dipping handkerchiefs or pieces of cloth into the blood of the king. The executioner lifts the head from the bucket and holds it up for everyone to see. But there is no cheering. Instead, people weep, and for that, I am glad. Perhaps the people’s lack of enthusiasm for the king’s beheading will end this. France can recover and go on as a republic.

The executioner begins to cut away at the king’s hair, slipping locks of it into his pockets. Later, he will sell these locks of hair to anyone who wants to have a souvenir of the event. I know it is his right as the executioner, but that does not make it less gruesome.

“Come,” the man says. “They will be bringing Louis Capet’s body to La Madeline. You may do your job there.”

He helps Manon and me back into the carriage. I am not sorry to leave the
Place de la Republique
, but I know what lies ahead will be worse.

• • •

When the king’s head and body are finally delivered by three men to the cemetery, he has been stripped naked.

“Where are his clothes?” Manon snaps.

“The executioner took the buttons. We took the rest. They have been burned. And Louis Capet will be buried in limestone naked, without a coffin, so no one may raise him up again as a protest,” Algernon says as he walks up to the churchyard grounds.

I wish he had not come.

“It’s indecent to have him like this,” Manon says.

“Feeling sorry for royalty?” Algernon asks, his eyes narrowing.

“
Non
, it wouldn’t matter to me if he was a thief,” Manon says, looking pointedly at Algernon. “I’d still prefer not to have a naked man placed before me.”

“Not your choice,
mademoiselle
,” Algernon says.

“But it is yours,” she says, waving a hand toward me as I try my best not to look at the king.

Algernon has the good grace to redden at Manon’s words, and I am glad that some decency remains deep within him. He undoes his jacket and lays it over the body. “Now, be about your business.”

Manon reaches down and picks up the king’s head. “Remember the governor of the Bastille,” she whispers to me. “It is no different than that.”

But Manon is wrong. It
is
different this time. Making a wax head from a beheaded stranger is terrible, but making a wax head from someone you have known alive is worse.

I keep thinking that the king will open his eyes and suddenly start speaking, asking me how I unlocked his doors, what he has done wrong.

And having Algernon standing there, watching me, makes it all the worse. How can he watch me do this? Has he never cared for me at all? Where is the kindness he once showed me? Bitterness nips at me.

“You aren’t having trouble, Celie, are you?” Algernon asks. “You do appreciate the favor you have been granted, to make the wax head of the king, don’t you? It will bring in much money to your precious museum, and I know how much that means to you and Mademoiselle Manon. Of course, first you will lend it to us, and it will travel throughout France, so everyone may see their late king.”

My insides turn at his words. I bite back a sob. Why is he being so mean? Who is this cruel boy who stands before me now? How can he be the same boy I once loved so much?

Algernon bends down to look at me. I stare back at him defiantly.

His green eyes harden. “Crying for him, are we? That’s not very patriotic, Celie.”

“
Non
, Algernon,” I whisper, looking at the poor king lying before me. “I am not crying for Louis Capet. I am crying for you, for what you have become.”

“I am who I always was,” he snaps.

I raise my eyes to meet his. “
Non
, you’re not. I don’t know
who
you are anymore.”

We stare at one another, until finally, Algernon drops his gaze. He rises and turns, walking away into the darkness that is descending in the graveyard. He does not look back.

We finish casting the king’s head. Manon treats it with the greatest of respect. I follow her lead, trying not to think about what I am doing, or about Algernon walking away.

Manon rises and turns to the three men who are left. “Come to the house in two weeks’ time. It will be ready for you then.”

The man who brought us here leads us from the graveyard. I look over my shoulder and see the two other men begin digging up dirt, preparing the unmarked, unadorned grave for the king.

It is over. The monarchy in France is ended.

• • •

The months that follow are utter chaos. Extra taxes are imposed, ones that are in addition to the taxes we already paid under the king. There are daily food riots. The few
livres
people are able to earn are worth less and less, buying fewer and fewer of the scarce items that can be found. Raids are conducted on homes, often in the middle of the night, to ensure that no one is hoarding food. A new calendar and a new way to tell time are created. The new systems confuse everyone. And anyone who speaks out against the National Assembly is quickly imprisoned and executed. A reign of terror rules.

Manon insists that we go out as little as possible. I am not sorry for this enforced imprisonment. The streets terrify me—violence is an everyday occurrence now, and people often disappear without warning. Every time Tante Anne-Marie or Tante Marthe go off in search of food, I hold my breath until they return safe and sound.

The man Marat, who freed Manon from prison, is murdered. Even the leaders of the revolution have begun to turn on one another

My only solace is work. Drawing and making models soothes me. It helps me block out all the horror that surrounds us.

Then, one day, there is a knock at the door. To my surprise, Algernon’s man is there again.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“We have need of your services,” he says. “The queen is to go on trial.”