Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (10 page)

Algernon waved his hand to quiet me, but I did not see the gesture.

“And the priest was allowed to take the first of the harvest,” I had continued, oblivious, “and then, Maman had to pay the salt tax, too, even though we didn’t want salt. Do we have to pay salt tax here
again
?”

A soldier had whirled upon me then. He grabbed me out of the line and began to roughly search me. I clearly remember the feeling of powerlessness as he ran his hands up and down my body, his fingers lingering where they shouldn’t.

“Enough of that!” Algernon had snapped at the guard, his eyes dark with anger. “The girl’s too thin for the
rags
she’s wearing. She hasn’t got the
room
to smuggle anything into your city.”

I was relieved to have Algernon stand up for me. But then the guard turned on Algernon, poking and prodding him as if to make up for his interference. Algernon fought back, his fists cracking hard against the soldier’s jaw. Then, other soldiers had descended and thrown Algernon to the ground. When they were done beating him, they had doffed their hats and apologized profusely for the “accident,” laughing all the while.

As we stumbled toward the city, Algernon with a black eye, I was frightened that he would leave me behind. Why would he keep a skinny girl who opened her mouth and nearly got him killed? But I had not known about Julia then. Or about how she had perished. I did not know that because of her, he would always fight to the death before another girl died beside him, no matter who she was.

Now I tremble, thinking about going through that search once more, and how Algernon had been beaten, and how Julia had met her end, too.

“There is a long line,” I say to Manon, sitting back in the carriage, my voice cracking a bit.

“We shall be through quickly,” Manon says.

“But there are a lot of people waiting,” I say.

“You shall see,” Manon says.

In less than a minute, a guard comes over to the carriage, bypassing the line of people waiting on foot. He pulls open the door, and glares inside, his hand on his sword.

I pull myself into a ball in the corner, praying the guard will not touch me.

“We are on official royal business,” I hear the coachman yell down from his seat.

The guard lets his eyes sweep over me, and then, mercifully closes the door.

“Be on your way then,” he says. He waves a hand, and the other guards on duty part the long line of people. The coach rolls smoothly through.

“We won’t be searched? We don’t have to pay …” I stop, still unwilling to say the word
taxes
.

Manon shakes her head. “Not if you are of noble birth, or in one of the king’s carriages on the king’s business.”

I look back at the ragged and cold people, waiting to leave the city for their small villages and their homes. I think of the rough way they are treated as they try to enter or leave. And the fire in my belly burns bright. I forgive Algernon his anger. Does he not have the right to be resentful, seeing me all dressed up as one of the very people he despises? Does he not have the right to be angry over the injustice he has witnessed himself? I think long and hard on this, and my determination grows to do the best drawings I have ever done for him and for Monsieur Mirabeau, and to find a way to get those drawings back to Paris to feed the flames of rebellion.

When I first glimpse
Versailles
, I think I am dreaming. How can anyone’s home be so large, so grand? The structure in front of me, with its wide graveled avenue, 700 rooms and 2,153 windows is for one family, and one family alone. If I could draw one thing to represent wealth, I would draw
Versailles
. How can the king sit in this luxury, day after day, when his own subjects work themselves to death to maintain this lifestyle?

I glance over at Manon and find the lady’s eyes steady upon me. I want to ask her what she thinks of
Versailles
, if she had been as affronted at its grandeur and size the first time she saw it. But I suspect that Manon will not answer, so I keep the question to myself and do my best to swallow my incredulity.

When the carriage finally comes to a stop, a servant dressed entirely in blue, with quarter-inch silver buttons, white lace, and silk stockings, his hair powdered and tied neatly back with a thin blue velvet ribbon, opens the door. As if she has been born to it, Manon descends from the carriage.

I rise, too, and totter precariously at the edge of the vehicle, cursing my top-heavy hair and wide skirts. I just manage to climb from the carriage without falling face first.

The servant bows, and Manon takes off, walking sedately across the courtyard and toward the back of the palace.

“Aren’t we going in?” I ask, following her.

Manon smiles slightly. “
Non
, Celie. The king’s sister tends to stay at the
Petit Trianon
, a smaller palace on the grounds here, or in her home by the gates on the road from Paris. I left Madame Élisabeth last at the
Trianon
, so I thought we would go there first. But even if she is not there, I thought you might enjoy seeing the grounds of
Versailles
. Study them closely. I may have you draw them later for a display at the museum.”

We round the corner of the palace and come into the gardens. I gaze out at the wide vista of green lawns, ornamental trees, and fountains. I have never seen anything so lovely. The grass seems to stretch on for miles, with trees lining each side of the pathways. Directly in front of me, a large fountain spouts out arcs of water, a statue of Apollo rising from the middle, four horses dragging his chariot from the depths, their mouths open, straining as if they bear a tremendous weight. Two tritons announce Apollo’s arrival as dolphins swim beside him. The middle arc of water forms a perfect
fleur-de-lis
, the symbol of the French royal family. Beyond the fountain lies an enormous canal, upon which float brightly painted gondolas. Peacocks strut about, screeching their odd cry of mating.

Women stroll the grounds, parasols raised to guard their white skin against the early spring sunshine. Men accompany them, their white powdered wigged heads tilted just so, listening intently to their companions’ conversation even as their eyes sweep the gardens back and forth, taking note of everyone else who is out and about. A gentle breeze ruffles the newly sprouted leaves of the trees.

“Ahem.” Manon coughs. She moves her hands so they rest lightly on the large hoops of her skirt. I understand. Now is the time to remember the rules of the court.

I follow Manon’s lead and rest my hands as Manon has done. Daintily, I stroll along, remembering from the book that was read to me that when you walk, you are to look as if you are gliding, not taking a step. I don’t see how the women manage it, as the small pebbles of the pathway dig into my silk slippers. I want to grimace, to hop up and down and swear when a stone tears into my instep. But instead, I bite my lip and carry on beside Manon. The whole charade is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever encountered.

We pass couple after couple. Occasionally, Manon coughs slightly, reminding me to curtsy deeply when we encounter someone of noble blood, rising only when our betters have passed.

I try to stay steady, but I am busy noting all the dresses and coats, the cut and style of each, the colors, and the decorations that trim them. The women’s bodices glow with the red of rubies and the flash of diamonds. The men’s jackets have silver threads running through them. The richness of the cloth makes my head spin.

If a servant passes us, Manon nods slightly, and the servant always returns the nod, even if they are carrying trays of food and drink or hats and riding gear.

“A very deep curtsy, if you please,” Manon suddenly instructs me.

I look ahead and am startled to see the Comte d’Artois heading toward us with two elaborately dressed companions: a lovely lady in a gold brocade gown with buckled shoes and real silk stockings, and a man with a dark green waistcoat and silver buttons. Annoyance burns through me at the Comte strolling so carefree through such beautiful gardens. I do not want to bow to this man, and so, I hesitate.

“I will pay you half my takings if you do as I have asked,” Manon whispers.

Instantly, I am in a curtsy so deep, I am afraid I will need someone to help me up. Already I am thinking of what Algernon and I could buy with those coins. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the sides of Manon’s lips curl up in amusement.

“Monsieur le Comte,” Manon says, rising and presenting once more an implacable face.

“Mademoiselle Manon,” the Comte d’Artois says. “How pleasant to see you.”

I rise from my curtsy, too, and raise my eyes to meet the Comte’s.

He steps back, shock written on his face.

“So nice to see you again, Monsieur le Comte,” I say, keeping my face agreeable though my cheeks ache with the effort of it.

“What a pretty girl,” the lady with the Comte says.

“Pretty girl? That little urchin gave me this.” The Comte pulls down the lace at his collar to show his friends a white scar on his neck, and I have to swallow a grimace. Though I do not like the man, I did not mean to mar him, and again, I am ashamed of having resorted to violence when wit is a better game.

“The Comte has made a bet that I will be unable to bring the girl into line,” Manon says.

“It seems that you have lost then, Monsieur le Comte,” the lady with the Comte says, “for the girl curtsies and smiles quite prettily.”

“And so she does,” the man beside them agrees. “How much did you wager?”

“Our bet was for one thousand
livres
.
Oui,
Monsieur le Comte?” Manon answers.

My head spins with the thought of one half of one thousand
livres
. It is difficult for me to even imagine that much money. But what I can envision is Algernon’s pleasure. With half of one thousand
livres
, we would never need worry about food or shelter again. And maybe we would have time for other things, such as rebellion and romance.

I see us living on a little plot of land, growing our own food, keeping our own cottage, writing pamphlets, holding meetings. I am heady with these ideas, and determined to win now that I am to share in the profit.

The Comte scowls. “The bet was that she would behave properly, not that you could dress her correctly. In your business, that would be too easy a task. The question is, have you truly contained her wild nature? And for that, Mademoiselle Manon, we shall have to give the urchin time to prove herself one way or another.”

The dream of Algernon’s arms around me evaporates with his words.

“But I’ve just been nice to you, you toad,” I bark out before I can stop myself.

The Comte looks at me as if stunned. “Is that any way to speak to the king’s brother?” He smiles wickedly. “Perhaps I shall win the bet after all.”

The lady and gentleman with the Comte laugh with him, reducing me to the fool. I have let my anger get the best of me yet again.

But Manon only smiles. “We shall see,
monsieur
. We shall see.”

And with that, the Comte passes us by, the elegant lady and gentleman going with him, leaving Manon and me deep in another curtsy, my eyes on the ground, my cheeks burning with shame. My head pounds, and my nails bite into the palm of my hand. I curse my loud mouth.

I will prove that man wrong, and I will have that money for Algernon and me if it is the last thing I do.

• • •

The Petit Trianon is a solid block of a palace with large windows and columns. A broad portico surrounds the chateau. There were so many people walking the garden paths, and here, even more sit on benches.

“How many people
live
here?” I ask, my head spinning.

“The king’s family, of course, and all their servants,” Manon says. “And thousands of courtiers live nearby. They come daily so that they may gain favor with the king.”

“Thousands?” I echo. It is one thing to think that the king ignores the plight of the poor, but I cannot comprehend how thousands of people can do the same. Have they not seen what is happening beyond these walls?

Manon nods. “That book you spent so much time memorizing was written to keep these courtiers’ minds from plotting against the king while they are here.”

“That’s clever,” I say bitterly, thinking of the king spending his time writing decrees to keep his throne safe from the hands of those who would wrest it from him, rather than concentrating on matters of state.

“Mmm,” Manon says. “Do you think so? If everyone is so busy worrying about following these rules, then when is there time to do the work of the country?”

I pause. I had not considered that even the king’s men are not working on the problems of France. “Is that why so many people are starving?”

“Perhaps,” Manon says. “Or perhaps it was just a poor harvest?”

“Well, which is it?” I ask, irritated by Manon’s evasiveness.

Manon smiles slightly. “You must decide that yourself, Celie.”

I frown. What does she
think
? Is she for the king, or against him?

But Manon is already far ahead of me on the path, and I have to hurry to catch up, hoping I do not trip over my wide skirts as I run lightly along. We approach a small door hidden around a corner of the
Petit Trianon
. A servant stands at attention by it. He bows when he sees Manon and opens the door for us.

We enter a windowless corridor fitted with rounded ceilings, crowded with servants rushing here and there. I sigh. Unfortunately,
this
feels more like where we belong. The place smells of hot breath and bodies packed too closely together.

I follow Manon up four flights of stairs. My corset digs into my sides, making me stop several times to catch my breath, and I have to keep turning to get my wide
pannier
hoopskirt up the stairs. I almost laugh as I imagine trying to live on the streets in these contraptions. Every criminal would be caught easily, as they could never run away.

At last, we reach the very top. Manon walks down another narrow corridor until we are in front of an open door. We enter a room with a single bed and dresser.