Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (7 page)

Discouraged, I pull out the drawing I did of Manon’s kitchen, unroll it, and place it near me.

“Ah,” Algernon says, leaning over and peering at the drawing, “so
that
is the inside of their fine house, eh?”

His face is close to mine. I could kiss him if I wanted to. His eyes move from my drawing to my face, and his jaw twitches. He sits up and moves away once again. This time, I am prepared for the rejection. I look wearily up at the sky.

The first rays of morning sunlight suddenly flicker in the alleyway, making me squint at the brightening sky.

Algernon stands, his eyes roaming the bodies packed next to each other. “Ah, there is that rogue, Nicholas. Let’s go have some fun, shall we?”

He turns and offers me a hand up. I take it, the feel of his skin warm against mine. He pulls me to my feet, makes sure I am up and steady before dropping my hand. Then he strides away, leaving the puppy and me to follow.

When Algernon reaches a lump curled in the dirt, he gives the figure a poke with his foot.

Nicholas groans and looks up, his eyes still unfocused from sleep. “What?”

“Heard your takings at the Palais-Royal were a little unusual yesterday,” Algernon says, grinning down at him.

In spite of my frustration with Algernon, I laugh.

“That’ll teach you to stay away from my section of the Palais,” Algernon tells him. “I see you there again, I’ll give you something really unusual to think about—a good beating.”

“You ain’t the king, last time I checked,” Nicholas spits out. “If I feel like doing a little pickpocketing there, I’ll do as I like.”

“Anxious for more of those wax heads then, I take it?” I ask, teasing him.

Nicholas scowls up at me.

“He may not be, but I am!”

I turn. Behind us, Manon stands with a
sergent
, both disguised in dirty old rags. They look like any of the criminals in the alley, except for one thing: The
sergent
is holding a musket.

We are caught, and I am a fool! Why had I thought that this woman would give up so easily, that she would be content to let matters drop? She must have followed me here.

I should have been more careful, and I want to kick myself for my stupidity.

“You’d best be on your way,” Algernon says, planting his legs firmly and crossing his arms. He reaches out and moves me behind him to defend me, his fingers resting lightly on my arm. “One word from me, and these fine people will rip you limb from limb.”

The
sergent
steals a glance nervously over his shoulder at the other criminals in the alley. But Manon does not quiver. Her gaze on Algernon and me is rock steady.

“I’ve come for the girl,” Manon says, “and my heads.”

“You can have the heads,” Algernon tells her.

He waves carelessly toward Nicolas. “You heard the lady, Nicky. Give her the bag you stole from her yesterday.”

“Why should I?” Nicholas whines.

“Because I’ll give you to the
sergent
here if you don’t,” Algernon says. “Now hand it over.”

Nicholas turns his back on us and rifles through a pile of things lying near him. In a moment more, he hands over the bag. Manon takes it from him and glances inside. She nods, seemingly satisfied.

“And now the girl,” Manon says.

“You
can’t
have her,” Algernon says, his green eyes darkening. “She’s my sister. And even fancy folks such as you aren’t allowed to take our own siblings away from us.”

He pauses, then adds mockingly. “Even if we are poor.”

Sister? I almost cry, for—unfortunately—brotherly is the only way he has ever treated me.

“Your sister?” Manon says, ignoring Algernon’s jibe about being poor. “You must have different fathers then.”

Algernon doesn’t flinch. “That’s really none of your business, now is it? We’re family, and that’s just the way of things.”

“It is also
just the way of things
that men who rob the brother of our good king usually find themselves swinging at the end of a rope,” Manon says softly, “and then what would happen to your
sister
?”

Her words chill me.

“Lay a hand on him,” I warn, stepping forward, “and I will kill you myself.”

Algernon puts his arm about my waist and squeezes a warning. His fingers graze the space between my shirt and my pants. I can feel that touch all the way to the roots of my hair.

“What is it you want with Celie?” Algernon asks.

“Her skills at drawing,” Manon answers without hesitation.

Algernon nods his head, as if mulling this over. “Perhaps we can work something out?”

I feel a sudden quiver of uncertainty. Is he about to treat me as something to be bartered for?

Algernon’s grasp on me tightens, so I say nothing.

“How much would you like for her?” Manon asks.

Algernon laughs. “I would never
sell
Celie,
mademoiselle
.”

Giddy relief washes over me. How could I have doubted him?

Manon snorts. “Ah, a thief with morals. Then what do you propose,
monsieur
?”

“A place to sleep and eat for the both of us,” Algernon says without hesitation. He glances at the
sergent
. “And a promise to drop all charges, of course.”

Manon does not flinch. “Agreed. But you will work to earn your keep. And let me warn you,
monsieur
, should you choose to steal from me, it will be the noose you’ll sleep with.”

“Eh, that isn’t fair,” Nicholas whines. “I should be the one getting food and a bed. It was me that stole the bag in the first place!”

“And it was you on my turf in the second place,” Algernon says, and the anger in his voice makes Nicholas flinch.

Algernon turns to me. “Grab up your things, sister. Seems as if we are
moving
this fine day to better accommodations than these streets.”

“Two more things,” Manon says.

She points to the animal at Algernon’s feet. “No dog. In my line of work, puppies are much too boisterous to have around.”

Algernon considers for a moment and then nods. He scoops up the puppy and hands him to Nicholas. “For you. Take good care of him, or you’ll answer to me.”

Nicholas’s face lights up. He hugs the animal tightly. I can see they are a good match, though Algernon looks a bit bereft.

“And the second thing?” I ask.

“While you are packing,” Manon says, “please bring along the china swan and the silver hairbrushes you took from me when you ran away.”

Manon’s eyes on me are steely hard. Suddenly, I wonder if Algernon has done the right thing. The lady seems clever and quick, and I pray that Algernon doesn’t think he can outsmart her. In that contest, I’m not so sure we would win.

• • •

I wake the next day in the late morning and stretch myself out in the clean sheets. My wish has been granted. I have had time to sleep in this bed and luxuriate with dreams of Algernon.

My boy was smart to bargain for this. Now, we will be fed and clothed and for a time not have to worry about getting caught by the
sergents du guet
. Instead, we can work on ingratiating ourselves with the rebels in Paris while living in safety.

I rise and dress, easily making my way to the kitchen in the daylight this time. When I push the door open, Tante Anne-Marie greets me with a smile, which is kind considering I betrayed her by escaping last night.

“Ah, our little sleepyhead is finally awake,” she says. “Come and have some breakfast.”

I think I will faint with pleasure. Cook is spooning out a heap of fresh eggs onto a plate with sliced bread, her apron splattered with grease.

I walk swiftly to the table, and grabbing a fork, I dig in fast. The last time I tasted eggs was the morning my father was shot.

“Cooking this late in the morning isn’t right,” Cook grumbles. “The girl should rise at a decent hour if she wants breakfast.”

“Ah now, Marthe,” Tante Anne-Marie says, “she was tired from all the goings-on last night.”

“Goings-on? I’ll say!” Cook says. “Stealing our stuff, and then Manon bringing her back. Should have turned the three of them over to the
sergents du guet
, if you ask me.”

I had not thought of this before. Algernon and I are fairly trapped in this house, there for the taking should Manon become displeased with us or change her mind. We will need to arrange an escape route as soon as possible.

“Where is Algernon?” I ask.

“That’s the culprit’s name, is it?” Cook says, as she plunges her arms into soapy water to wash her frying pan.

“He’s already out in the salon working, Celie,” Tante Anne-Marie tells me. “And when you are finished, you must change and go there, too.”

“The place with those heads?” I ask, and I shiver, remembering the blood that looked so real.

“In the morning light, I think you will find that the heads are far less menacing than they were in the dead of the night,” Tante Anne-Marie says.

I’m not so sure of this. Still, this is the deal we have made to escape the streets. At least for the time being, I will enjoy the luxury of a roof over my head.

Tante Anne-Marie brings me a clean dress and apron. “Where Manon will be taking you, you will need to dress properly.”

“And where will that be?” I ask, envisioning crime scenes or prison cells.

“Ach, so many questions,” Cook says, shaking her head with its white starched cap. “Take her away, Anne-Marie. She is giving me a headache with all her questions.”

Tante Anne-Marie laughs. “You must ignore my sister. She complains much but does not mean most of it.”

I start in surprise. The grouchy cook is the sister of kind Tante Anne-Marie?

“Come, Celie,” Tante Anne-Marie says before I can ask. “Manon is waiting.”

I follow her out of the kitchen and down a small corridor to a door I do not recognize. Tante Anne-Marie turns the knob.

“Welcome to La Caverne des Grands Voleurs,” she says.

“At last!” Manon’s uncle says, looking up and seeing me as I step inside. “Child, I indulged you today, but you must rise earlier if you intend to eat my food and sleep in my house. Do you understand?”

“
Oui, monsieur
,” I say. But I say it automatically, for my attention is caught by the comings and goings in front of me. The rooms of the waxworks museum are lined with oil lamps and mirrors. Rich tapestries hang on the walls.

Several men and women are working to finish a display. The men are lifting and moving various pieces of furniture about. Algernon is among them, and he turns, pleasure lighting his face when he sees me.

His hair shines, all clean and tousled, and his face is free of dirt. He wears new breeches and a shirt with the cuffs rolled to his elbows. The muscles in his chest are tight against his new clothes. He looks like a handsome young gentleman doing chores on his estate, one for whom high-class women would swoon when he took off his jacket. And I can almost believe he belongs right here, among the wealthy and living this fine life.

He raises a sardonic eyebrow at my dress, and I smile, for he has noticed the change in me, too. But even soap can’t erase the gleam in his eyes or the devil in his smile. He is plotting something, I can tell.

“We are creating a scene of Monsieur and Madame Baston,” Tante Anne-Marie says, interrupting my thoughts. “Do you know of them?”

I nod in response to Tante Anne-Marie’s question. All of Paris knows of the Bastons. The husband killed his wife by stabbing her twenty times and then cutting out her heart.

I look at the
tableau
in front of me. The women in the room are tweaking the clothing of the waxwork people, adding pieces of jewelry to the neck and gown of the lifelike display. A wax woman sits upon a chair, her hand to her chest, and her eyes wide with fright. Blood drips down the front of her bodice. Above her, a wax man stands with a bloody knife, his hand poised to bring the blade down again.

I think then of seeing my own family, each of them lying dead, breath gone from their bodies. The violence of the scene reminds me of Papa’s bloody forehead, and I quickly look away before I am sick.

Manon comes out from behind a screen, wiping her hands. “
Bonjour
, Celie. Are you ready to get started?”

“Please. I don’t want to draw dead or murdered people.” I am barely able to whisper.

“It is not just the people I will have you draw, but their living spaces and surroundings. And I do not want to hear complaints. You have a roof over your head, and food in your stomach,” Manon says, her voice firm. “Now you must earn those things. All of us must.”

“Some people don’t,” I snap back, my heart thudding with the thought of drawing bloody crime scenes. “Some people sit all day doing nothing, while the rest of the world waits on them. I’ve seen them in the Palais-Royal.”

“And do you think
you
are one of these people?” Manon snorts. “
Non
, Celie,
you
have but two choices in this life you’ve been given,
ma petite
. You may continue to steal from the rich, as you have in the past, sleeping in a filthy, muddy alley and starving most days, hoping you are never put in jail or hanged. Or you may work to entertain them, robbing them legally as we do, and sleep in fine sheets with your belly full.”

I am brought up short by her words. It has never occurred to me that there are more ways to take from the very people who have taken from me. Could this work—legitimate work—help assuage the anger that burns deep in my gut? Can I find the same satisfaction here that I get each time I steal a silver trinket from a baroness’s house, or lift a pocket watch from a marquis?

“So what will it be, Celie?” Manon asks. I can see her patience is beginning to run out.

I hesitate. I do not know if I can find the courage to face these horrors, but I can try. For food and a bed and a chance to practice my art, I can try. Slowly, I nod. And with that gesture, I begin my training.

• • •

Manon gives me a tour of the waxworks first. At
La Caverne des Grands Voleurs
—the Cave of the Great Thieves—the exhibits consist of gruesome scenes of murder and hangings. Here, fake blood spills on lovely rugs. Eyes pop from skulls. Black tongues hang from severed heads. A blue light casts eerie shadows over the criminals, creating a world of sinister intents. Walking around these exhibits, I begin to regret my hasty agreement to draw these scenes.