Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (25 page)

“Truly,” he says. “I saw Dr. Curtius before I came up here. How did you think I got in?”

He laughs loudly again, and then he is gone.

And I am left to enjoy the way he has played me.

Then I pause. For although we are escaping, we have not avoided the guillotine just yet.

• • •

Several days later, rain pierces the night as we slip from the house at 20 Boulevard du Temple. The weather has now worsened.

Dr. Curtius and the aunts are to stay behind and watch over the People’s Museum. They were never at Versailles, and Dr. Curtius is providing food to the National Assembly from contacts he has. The risk of death for them is minimal. For Manon, Algernon, and myself, the danger is constant, and I will not leave Jean-Louis behind.

There is no moon, and so the night is black. Wind whips through the streets of Paris, but nothing else occupies these alleyways. The National Assembly has imposed a curfew that has left everyone indoors, and our footsteps are loud in the eerie emptiness. Where once these streets would have been filled with the sounds of laughter and gaiety, they are now deserted and silent.

We slip from building to building like shadows. But our progress is slow. While Algernon and I could have fled fleetly on foot, Manon in her corset and Jean-Louis with his little legs slow our pace maddeningly. When we reach the walls of the city, Algernon palms the guard some coins. The man turns his back as we slip out to a waiting wagon. We climb up, and though the horses Algernon has paid for are old and slow, we move more quickly than on foot.

I begin to breathe more easily. Then, behind us in the distance, I see a line of light.

“Algernon,” I whisper, “men with lanterns on horseback.”

He turns and looks over his shoulder, and I see his face go white. He flicks the whip across the horses’ backs, but they move no faster.

“Algernon?” I say.

“We aren’t far,” he says, but his voice is tight, and already I can see the line of light is drawing nearer.

At last I hear the sound of water, and in the darkness and the rain and the fog I can just make out a vessel lying at anchor out on the Seine. But along with the lapping of waves, I can also hear the pounding of hooves getting closer.

Algernon stops the wagon. He climbs out and swings Manon down, then lifts Jean-Louis to the ground. A small skiff awaits us at the dock, and Manon and Jean-Louis run toward it over the wet cobblestones. The sailor waiting for us is already signaling that he means to leave in quick order and will abandon us if we do not hurry.

We must not be caught. We would all be executed for our attempt at escape, but if the Assembly learns who we are, even Dr. Curtius and the aunts will suffer.

Algernon reaches up his arms for me just as a shot rings out. He stumbles, and I fall upon him.

“
Dépêchez-vous! Dépêchez-vous!
” the sailor calls, urging us to move quickly.

I grab Algernon’s arm and pull him to his feet. Together we run for the boat as more shots ring out. The horses are coming at us fast.

We scurry aboard, and the sailor begins to row frantically. The skiff slides away from shore at a frustratingly slow pace. The riders arrive at the water’s edge. But the fog has grown heavier now, and at last, we are too far into the river for them to reach us. We are free.

I almost weep with relief. Once again, Algernon and I have slipped the grasp of those who would see us jailed.

I turn to him, smiling. And then I see his face, drawn and gray, and that he clutches his side. He slumps over, and I am upon him in a flash, moving his hand away so that I see it—the hole, the blood.

When we reach the boat that will transport us to the channel and on to England, we carry Algernon below. Manon rips apart his shirt and probes the wound. Blood flows out. And I have to steady my thoughts, or I will faint.

Can I have come this far only to lose him now?

“Is it bad?” I ask, my voice shaking.

Manon doesn’t answer. “Fetch my waxwork bag, Jean-Louis. Celie, ask one of the sailors above to give you a pail of hot water, clean cloths, and a bottle of alcohol, whatever they may have.”

Jean-Louis hurries to do as Manon bids, but I stand there, rooted as an oak. I do not want to leave him.

“Celie,” Manon barks at me.

Algernon moans.

“Celie,” Manon snaps, “if you want to give him the slightest chance to live, go now and get what I need.”

That gets me moving. I run, visions of Papa, Maman, and Jacques flashing through my mind so clearly that I feel I will scream. I tap my foot impatiently as the ship’s cook heats the water. I pace as clean cloths are pulled out of the captain’s trunks. I pull at my hair as a sailor goes in search of a bottle of rum.

When I get back, Jean-Louis is there, and I see that Manon has taken out one of the knives she uses to shape her wax heads.

I hand her the pail of hot water and the clean cloths. Then she takes the bottle of rum from me.

“Celie. Jean-Louis,” she says sharply. “I need you to leave.”

Jean-Louis obeys and silently climbs aboveboard.

I want to follow him. Every fiber in my being is telling me to run, not to stay here and be forced to see what violence can bring about. But I look at Algernon, see his pale face, his forehead beaded with sweat—my Algernon. His eyes are closed, and he is panting with pain.

And I know, then, that I cannot turn from everything unpleasant in life. To be an adult means troubles have to be faced. Like Manon, I must learn to be strong, to deal with this and any other difficulties that lie ahead. I must be done with running.

I take a deep breath.

“
Non
,” I say, and I am proud to hear the resoluteness of my voice. “I’ll stay. What do you need me to do?”

Manon looks at me in surprise, and I make myself look steadily back at her without blinking. A spark of admiration comes into her eyes. She nods.

“Take his hand,” she says. “This is going to hurt.”

There is nothing she could ask of me that I would rather do.

Algernon’s skin is hot. He opens his eyes, sees me, and forces a smile to his lips.

Manon pours the alcohol into the wound. Algernon screams, and the grip of his hand in mine grows tight as a noose. Then it suddenly releases, and I see that he has lost consciousness.

I go to shake him back to life, but Manon stays my hand.

“It’s better this way,” she assures me. “Come. We must get the bullet out.”

For the next hour I work beside Manon, helping to hold back the skin as she probes the wound. I am grateful Algernon is not aware of what we are doing. I cannot imagine how much pain he would be in.

When at last I see her draw the bullet out and hear it drop onto the wooden floor beneath our feet, I gasp, as if I have been holding my breath for days.

Manon turns to look at me before she goes about sewing up and dressing the gash. “Do not rest easy just yet, Celie. There is still the risk of infection.”

• • •

I stand on the deck, and a gust of sea air washes over me. Storm clouds are gathering on the horizon. The crew has told us that we are headed for a squall.

Already the waves are beginning to wash over the bow of the boat, and the ship is heaving from side to side.

There is an ache in my belly as I look back toward the shores of France, though I can no longer see them. I realize that I will probably never again walk the farmlands of my youth, nor the cobblestone streets of Paris. The memories of those days with my family and with Algernon dance before me in all their glory, and all their violence, and all their loss.

The revenge I wished for was not so sweet. Others’ lust for power waylaid its charm.

And so I lay down that burden, that sense that some price must be exacted for all my loss. Let others pick up and carry on with the cause. It has lost its appeal for me. Maman and Papa and Jacques have been gone for two years now. I can do no more for them by staying in a country so divided.

Perhaps France will stabilize and rise again as a great nation. Perhaps it will continue on its bloody path and destroy any hope for redemption. I wish with all my heart to see peace in my country, but others will decide that fate—not me, not Algernon.

As for my partner in crime ….

I feel a hand upon my arm and turn to look up into the eyes that once rescued me from death. He is pale, but he will live.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” I reprimand him. “You could fall and rip open your stitches.”

He rolls his eyes. “Since when have I avoided danger, Celie?”

He turns me back around and wraps his arms about my waist. He rests his chin upon my shoulder, and together we gaze across the churning water, our future uncertain.

There is a crack of thunder behind us. A wave spills across the bow of the boat.

“We may drown,” I say to him.

He laughs softly. “Or we may live. One never knows.”

“Where is Jean-Louis?” I ask.

“Below,” he says. “I think he is feeling a bit seasick already.”

“And Manon?” I ask.

“Watching him carefully. And drawing up plans for a tour around England, promising to build a museum in the city of London that will be grander than the one in the Boulevard du Temple.”

I think of our work, safely stowed before our escape to the boat that has smuggled us from France’s shores. Surely, the English are no different from the French in that they will be eager to see the wax heads of the late and newly executed king and queen of France. So perhaps, in some small measure, I have had my revenge. The wealthy dead will pay my living now. And I am alive, as is Algernon.

I turn back toward him, my boy rascal, and tilt my head up to his.

He bends his head toward mine and kisses me soundly as the rain begins, one hand firmly on my waist, the fingers of his other hand trailing along my spine in a light pitter-patter that makes my heart thump out a tune of pleasure.

The boat lurches hard to one side. A chill runs up my spine as the wind makes the boards creak, and the sailors shout to one another in panic.

“I have heard a rumor,” Algernon whispers in my ear, his voice low and husky from pain and lack of sleep. “They say there is a man coming to England very soon, a man of great wealth.”

He pauses. “French wealth.”

I realize what he is saying and pull away from him, just as lightening streaks the sky. I am no longer even aware of the rain falling down on us.

I know I am meant to forget. I know I am meant to move on. But if it is truly him, if we live through this storm and land safely in England, how can I ignore the information Algernon has just given me?

I had heard stories, but with everything that has happened, I had all but forgotten them. I try to recall what I had heard: that he had escaped his would-be captors through his brother’s insistence that he flee, that he had stolen away to Austria and taken with him thousands of gold coins of the realm, that he was safe and unharmed and living the high life.

Algernon grins wickedly at the flush he must see coming to my cheeks. “Ah, as I suspected. We are not finished with our fun just yet, Celie, are we?”

Rain is coming down hard now. The boat rises up and falls into deeper and deeper troughs. We should be going down below, but neither of us moves.

“I’m done with revenge and revolution, Algernon,” I say to him.

“As am I,” Algernon says, his voice no longer light but taut with resolve. “Still, it would be a shame to let an opportunity such as this slide by. For I have heard this man is to be staying at a certain house in London. I have made inquiries, and have a friend there who would not be unhappy to have a new maid on his staff, a maid with access to the room of the great and noble—”

“Comte d’Artois,” I finish for him. I laugh loudly as flashes of lightening strike the sea with deafening noise.

Algernon’s eyes dance with merriment. Rain soaks his hair and runs down his face. “We have not become so incredibly dull that we are giving up on a little fun at the great Comte’s expense, have we?”

The storm roars above us. The sailors call for us to go below, to stay safe.

My boy knows me well. Danger has always been what we crave.

Excitement is setting me on fire. I can feel it deep in my gut, can see it in his lips, which twitch with mirth. He pulls me roughly to him, and I go willingly. He buries his fingers in my hair, and brushes his lips upon my neck.

Rain pours down by the bucketful, soaking us, daring us. And I am dizzy with him and the danger of the storm, and with the thrill of perhaps again matching wits with the Comte d’Artois.

And so it seems, as I give in to Algernon’s touch and the possibility that this storm may pull us down to watery graves, that if we live, we will plot yet again. For though the revolutionary boy and the girl seeking revenge have died, there is still a bit of the rebel and the thief left in us both.

Marie (Manon) Grosholtz Tussaud led a fascinating life. Her father died before Manon was born in Switzerland in 1761, and her mother went to work as a housekeeper for Dr. Philippe Curtius.

Dr. Curtius was known for his waxmaking skills, often sculpting anatomical parts so that young medical apprentices could practice surgical procedures. (Operating on cadavers was illegal at that time.) In 1763, a French count saw Dr. Curtius’s work and commissioned him to come to Paris. Four years later, Dr. Curtius sent for Manon and her mother. Manon was six years old.

On arriving in France, Dr. Curtius’s wax figures caught the attention of the king, and commissions for wax likenesses began pouring in. To fill the high demand for his work, Dr. Curtius began teaching Manon the art of waxmaking, eventually letting her mold a likeness of the great writer, Voltaire.

When the king’s sister, Élisabeth, expressed interest in learning the process, it was Manon, at the age of twenty, who was sent to be her tutor. (Dr. Curtius was busy creating and opening his new museum,
La Caverne des Grands Voleurs
.) Manon worked for Madame Élisabeth for ten years, living at
Versailles
for long periods of time. The king was indeed a master locksmith, a passion of his that he spent many hours perfecting.