A Royal Likeness Page 6

  What must the interior be like? she wondered.

  As if reading her mind Claudette said, “I hear that the inside is large enough to hold a circus. I certainly hope there isn’t one in there now. I don’t think the smell of animal droppings is quite fitting with Marie’s elegant creations.”

  The three of them climbed out of the carriage and smoothed the wrinkles out of their clothes. William instructed the driver to return in an hour, then they went in to find Madame Tussaud’s exhibition, still known as Curtius’s Cabinet of Wonders, even though Curtius had been dead for nine years.

  The interior was as glamorous as the entry suggested it might be. Crystal chandeliers dangled in resplendent brilliance from the lofty ceiling painted in various Greek allegories. The bright red carpet had a random pattern in it, done to look as though crystal baubles had dropped from the chandeliers and shattered on the floor. It was breathtaking.

  After several inquiries of passersby, they learned that Tussaud’s exhibition was located next to Philipsthal’s Fantastic Phantasmagoria Show. They climbed a wide set of steps to another floor in a wing off the center of the building.

  Here they discovered the entrance to Philipsthal’s show. They were greeted by a large sign proclaiming:

  PHILIPSTHAL’S FANTASTIC PHANTASMAGORIA SHOW A GRAND CABINET OF OPTICAL AND MECHANICAL CURIOSITIESAMAZING INVENTIONS! WONDERS FROM AROUND THE WORLD!BE AMONG THE FIRST TO COMMUNICATE WITH SPIRITS FROM THE BEYOND.PAY A VISIT TO A SORCERER AT WORK.FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY!And in very tiny type beneath all of this:CABINET OF WONDERS IN GALLERY TO THE LEFT

  “Communicating with spirits? Does Marie’s partner claim to be a medium?” William asked Claudette.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t mention much about him.”

  “Curious that his sign makes so little mention of her exhibit.”

  “Uncle William, let’s go find Madame Tussaud.” Marguerite was impatient to meet her new mentor and get a glimpse of what a wax exhibition looked like.

  They parted the curtains covering the doorway located several steps to the left of the Phantasmagoria show. Marguerite gasped at what she saw.

  Beyond the curtain lay a gallery nearly forty feet long, with no other patrons in sight. The sparkle-infused carpeting of the hallway continued the length of the gallery. At five-foot intervals were double-armed sconces high up on the pale blue damask walls. The walls met ceilings adorned with plaster friezes surrounding more crystal chandeliers.

  Candles burned brightly in each sconce, their wax dripping onto glass catch plates fixed at the base of each sconce, throwing a comforting glow over the room’s inhabitants. Beneath each sconce stood a gilded Greek column about three feet in height. Atop each column was a bust of some famous figure of English society. Each bust faced either right or left, and had a regal draping carved into its base and covering its shoulders. A placard on the wall under the sconce provided a visitor with the name of the historical figure and a brief biographical sketch. Some had been typeset, and some were written in a loose scrawl.

  Interspersed randomly throughout the gallery were life-sized figures, bewigged and clothed as if real human beings. Marguerite was reminded of nothing more than the grandes Pandores of the doll shop.

  In the center of the exhibition hall sat a raised platform. Atop the platform was a glass-encased sarcophagus. Were the contents of that real or wax? Marguerite wasn’t sure she was ready to know.

  At the end of the gallery lay a door to some unknown room. It sprang open and a petite woman in a plain dress and lace cap bustled out.

  “Sorry, friends, I am working in my closet. Admission to the Cabinet of Wonders is—”

  The woman stopped and took in who her visitors were. Then covering the distance still separating them, she burst into a torrent of French.

  “Claudette! I didn’t realize you were arriving this exact day. This must be your William. Very pleased, sir, very pleased. And this is Mrs. Ashby. Lovely girl. Happy you are here. There’s much to learn.”

  Marguerite tried to keep up with the barrage of dialogue. Her mother had taught her French as a child, but she hadn’t used it much since her mother died. After the execution of Marie Antoinette, doll orders from France had declined rapidly and eventually disappeared altogether while Claudette still ran the shop, so there had been little reason for Marguerite to practice it. She had just figured out that Marie Tussaud was welcoming her, mostly because the woman was grasping her hand and pumping it up and down, when the Cabinet’s proprietress turned around and called back to the rear door.

  “Joseph! Nini! Come, boy, I need you.”

  The door opened again and out came a young boy, walking with an intent and purpose of a much older young man.

  “How may I be of service to you?” The child spoke in precise English and executed a very elegant bow before his guests.

  “This is my boy, Joseph. I call him my Nini. He’s a good boy. Only here nine months and knows English. Soon he will be a native, won’t you, Nini?” Marie placed a hand on Joseph’s head.

  Joseph was dressed in a miniature uniform resembling that of a soldier. His heavily lashed, inquisitive eyes were the color of cocoa, and were obscured by his hair, which swept across his forehead in a determined march down into his dark pools of vision.

  “Yes, Maman. Do you need me to take admission?” The boy switched back and forth from English to French easily.

  “No, no, these are your mamans friends. These are Lord and Lady Greycliffe. Lady Greycliffe was your mamans friend in France. And this is Mrs. Ashby, Lady Greycliffe’s former ward. She’s to be our new apprentice. You like that, eh, Joseph?”

  The boy frowned, unsure. “What will the new apprentice do?”

  “She’ll learn wax modeling. She’ll help your maman with the exhibition.”

  “But that’s what I do.”

  “Yes, son, but maman needs another adult to help, too.”

  “Oh.” Joseph cut his eyes over to Marguerite. “As you wish, Maman.”

  Before a threatening cloud of silence could envelop them, Claudette changed the subject.

  “Marie, my friend, you have quite a collection of marble busts here. Show them to us.”

  “Marble! No, not stone. Wax. All wax. Come, look.” She led them to a column near the center of the gallery. “See?” She tapped the figure on the shoulder. “Voltaire in wax.”

  They crowded in to examine the French philosopher’s figure. His wax portrait was of him near the end of his life.

  “Madame Tussaud, did you sculpt him from life?” Marguerite asked.

  “Yes, I do life mask of him before he died.”

  “Life mask?”

  “Yes, I will teach you.”

  They wandered through the gallery looking at other wax portraits such as that of the American Benjamin Franklin, a favorite of both the French and the English. Marguerite and Claudette were impressed by the casting of the figures, which was much sharper and better defined than what they had been able to do with their wood molds, and they said so to Madame Tussaud.

  “Yes, my process has improved. I will teach Mrs. Ashby everything. Now, do you wish to see my secret figures?”

  She led them through the rear door of the gallery, which opened into a space that was a jumbled combination of storage, art studio, and exhibit space. It reminded Marguerite of the doll shop’s workroom, except it was larger and contained piles of wax bricks.

  “I don’t let visitors back here because it will scare them, but I show you, Claudette.”

  She drew them to the rear of the space, where several large crates were stored. Lifting the hinged lid on one of the crates, she motioned for them to look inside. Nestled in the crate was a figure of a woman that lay on a reclining couch, her arm across her forehead in repose. Upon closer examination, they could see that the woman appeared to be breathing. Claudette uttered a spontaneous “Oh my!” and Marie laughed in her sharp, birdlike way.

  “Do you like it? This is Madame du Barry, fav
orite of King Louis XV. She may have met her end at the blade like so many others—oh, sorry, my dear—but she lives on here in wax. My mentor, Curtius, made this about thirty years ago for his salon in Paris. I plan to put up a separate curtained area to display it. For a separate charge.”

  William, Claudette, and Marguerite nodded in agreement.

  “I have more to display with her. Look over here.” She led them to another crate, opened it and removed one cloth-covered object from several. It was a replica of the guillotined head of Louis XVI. She held it by a wood post inserted through the base of the neck. Made in wax, it had stringy hair sewn into its scalp, and red paint had been applied around the neckline to give the impression of blood. It was quite theatrical, but the resemblance to the late king was unmistakable.

  “Marie!” Claudette shrieked.

  “Hah! Too much for your dollmaker sensibilities.”

  “Too much for anyone’s sensibilities! Please, put it away.”

  “Wait,” Marguerite commanded. “I would like to see it.”

  Nodding her approval, Marie handed it over to her new apprentice.

  Marguerite held the head at arm’s length, scrutinizing it, then bringing it close to sniff it. She wrinkled her nose.

  “It smells dreadful. Is that part of its realism?”

  Marie looked confused, so Joseph jumped in to serve as translator for his mother. Marie laughed, or rather barked, in return. “No, it’s just remnants of glues and paints and plaster sitting together for so long in a closed crate.”

  Marguerite looked at the face again. “These figures seem gruesome at first, but it seems as though people here in England would want to see what King Louis looked like. I’ve only seen drawings of the late king, but it seems to me that this is a very good likeness.”

  “It is a good likeness. It’s from his death mask.”

  “What is a death mask?”

  “I put a plaster mold on his face after his execution to ensure I get all the details.”

  “Do you mean … after he was … you went and …” Marguerite held the head back out at arm’s length for Marie to put away.

  “Yes, some of the best figures are made from the infamous. The infamous usually get that way by having bad ends. I try to be on hand for these bad ends. It became a habit after revolutionary mobs forced me into it.”

  “Are you saying that you attend executions?”

  “If it is someone worthwhile, yes. Never just for shock. Always someone famous. Already we have Marie Antoinette, Marat, Robespierre, and the king, and a few notorious Englishmen. We must get the death mask while the subject is still fresh.”

  “We?” Marguerite’s voice was barely above a squeak.

  Joseph imitated Marguerite’s high-pitched “we” while translating, and was rewarded with laughter all around. Emboldened, he provided his own response.

  “Are you frightened, Mrs. Ashby? Mama does not let me go with her to make death masks, but I am not afraid at all. When Maman says I’m old enough, I’ll be the one to go with her, and you can stay home and be afraid.”

  Marguerite realized that she had a formidable opponent in the form of her employer’s son.

  “I’ve no doubt of your bravery, and I am most happy to see you display your courage in the graveyards of London. I don’t believe I’ll be ready to visit another grave site again in my entire life.”

  After concluding the tour of the back room and the outer gallery, Marie Tussaud invited them to tea and cakes at her rented rooms, where Marguerite’s things had already been sent. She closed the exhibition for the day, quietly tutting in French about the loss of income from closing early, and they all went to the Surrey Street lodgings in the Greycliffe carriage. On arrival, Marguerite watched as William had the driver fetch a wrapped package from their luggage before joining the women and Joseph in the entrance hall.

  “My driver will take care of unloading your belongings into your rooms, Marguerite, although you’ll have to unpack yourself.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Uncle William. It will keep my mind occupied as I get adjusted to being in London again.”

  The landlady, Mrs. Slade, greeted them, curtsying hastily upon realizing by William’s dress that an aristocrat stood before her. She showed them around the building, consisting of four apartments, two on the ground floor and two on the floor above, divided by a worn but sturdy staircase.

  Marie and Joseph kept their lodgings on the ground floor to the left side of the staircase. Marguerite was shown to her new quarters, located on the upper floor on the other side of the house. Her bedchamber was simply furnished with a quilt-covered bed, a plain oak table and chair for correspondence, and a washstand. An embroidered sampler dated 1765, by someone named Lizzie, hung over the bed. A small room beyond held hooks for dresses, hats, and other belongings. It was a far cry from her luxurious surroundings at Hevington, and would even be considered greatly reduced circumstances from the townhome she shared with Nicholas, but it didn’t matter. Marguerite had little care for her living quarters as compared to her interest in her new apprenticeship, and said so aloud upon seeing Claudette’s distressed look.

  A parlor located behind the staircase on the ground floor was shared by the residents. Its furniture bordered on the shabby side, but it had a serviceable spinet in one corner and a four-shelf bookcase weighed down with well-worn books, mostly on botany, theology, and literature. The books had belonged to her deceased husband, Mrs. Slade told them.

  “And now would you like tea?” she asked.

  They sat in the parlor while Mrs. Slade bustled off to get their refreshments. The relaxed surroundings soon had Claudette and Marie chattering quite happily in French about their shared experiences, while William and Marguerite took turns listening in and poring over the shelved books. Joseph’s translation skills were not needed, so he amused himself by teasing a spider that had been perfectly content in her web atop a window sash.

  The only break in their conversation came when Mrs. Slade returned with a tray of tea and cakes. They praised the landlady’s rich caraway seed cake, and returned to their chat after Mrs. Slade’s lengthy explanation of how the recipe had been handed down through her family.

  After Mrs. Slade’s departure, Claudette’s and Marie’s French became so rapid that not even William could follow.

  “William, did you bring it in with you?” Claudette’s voice broke back into English, disturbing the cadence of the discourse.

  He straightened up from where he had been pulling out a rare French volume on chess. “What? Yes, I did.”

  He handed his wife the paper-wrapped parcel that he had set on a table just inside the room. She untied the string securing it.

  “Marie, do you remember this?” Claudette held up a large doll with a sweet, narrow face, dressed in a once-elegant dress that was faded by wear and time.

  “Ah, yes, the princesse. I am still missing her. I wasn’t able to do her mask. Maybe I will do her figure from memory one day.”

  Marguerite recognized the doll as a replica of the Princesse de Lamballe, the close friend of Marie Antoinette and the subject of Aunt Claudette’s most revered commission.

  “I miss her as well, Marie,” Claudette said. “Sometimes it’s still too much to think about.”

  “No tears, no tears, my girl. Eh, what about another figure of you?”

  “Of me?”

  “Yes. I’d like to make a tableau of the Revolution. When the public is ready for it. I will put on display my death masks of the king, the queen, Marat … and you, as one who was dear to the queen yet avoided the guillotine.”

  Claudette declined. “I have enough unspeakable memories of that interlude without a permanent reminder of my horror set up as a public spectacle.”

  Marie Tussaud shrugged. “Well, maybe you change your mind one day. Do you still have the figure I give you for your wedding?”

  Marie had shipped a large crate to William and Claudette upon their marriage. Inside they found
a life-sized wax figure of Claudette carving a doll. Claudette kept it in a special room back at Hevington, along with the Princesse de Lamballe doll.

  “Of course I still have it. The children love it.”

  With an exaggerated look at his pocket watch, William pointed out to his wife that it was time to be going. Marie embraced Claudette fervently before departing for her own quarters with Joseph. Marguerite walked with William and Claudette to the front door.

  “Remember that you’re always welcome back at Hevington. Anytime.”

  “I know, Uncle William. Thank you both for everything.”

  Claudette produced a tiny parcel from inside her reticule and offered it to Marguerite. Inside was a watch pin, the casing worked in intricate silver filigree.

  “Aunt Claudette, this is beautiful.”

  “It’s from William and me, so you can track the time until we see you again.” Claudette fastened the brooch to the bodice of Marguerite’s dress before clutching her niece tightly.

  “We’ll miss you. But I know this is the right thing for you. And, dear”—she released Marguerite enough to put a hand against her face and whispered so no one else could hear—”promise me you might consider finding another young man one day.”

  The sharp pain twisted through Marguerite again briefly.

  “No, Aunt Claudette. I can’t go through this pain again. It’s too much. I barely survived the first time. I couldn’t endure it a second time.”

  Claudette patted her face. “You may eventually change your mind. At least I hope you will, for your own sake.”

  Marguerite watched from the entryway as they returned to their carriage. All of her luggage was gone, placed in her room by the driver while they were having tea. She waved furiously as they departed, holding back sentimental tears at seeing her two favorite people left in the world rumble away from her down the dusty street.

  She shut the door and rested her head against it. Like the door, her old world was completely closed to her now. Her stomach gave voice in no uncertain terms that she was a cluttered mix of trepidation, excitement, and guilt as to her feelings of anticipation over her new life.