Madame Tussaud's Apprentice, Page 2

Several minutes later, I see Algernon making his way to the gaming tables in front of me. He wends his way past a harness maker and an engraver. Finally, he arrives and takes a seat, his boyish face lit by the morning sun, and pulls the puppy up into his lap. I feel a flutter in my belly as I gaze at him, sitting there.

  “A game, monsieur?”

  The deep voice startles me and reminds me that we are here to work. A tall man stands in front of Algernon’s table, his back to me. Algernon waves his hand to indicate that the stranger should take a seat.

  The man sits, spreading out his coattails as Algernon has done. But as he does this, I catch sight of his clothes and gasp with surprise. The man wears a jacket with emerald buttons, and a waistcoat shot through with golden threads.

  A servant appears at the stranger’s elbow, handing him a bag heavy with coins. I pause in my tapping and stare when I see both the size of the purse and the livery of the servant.

  For the man sitting with Algernon is none other than the king’s brother and the man who killed my family—the Comte d’Artois!

  Chapter Two

  My hands begin to shake, and I can barely catch my breath. I see Algernon frown. His look of annoyance reminds me why we are here, and I swallow my shock, and start to tap and call for alms again.

  My heart pounds hard in my chest with both fear and excitement as I realize that today, I might get some small revenge on the Comte—and far earlier than I had expected.

  The Comte’s men had not been the least bit sorry they shot Papa. They had understood what they were condemning us to. It had been impossible to work their fields without my father, to do the work of a strong and healthy man with just a middle-aged woman, a fifteen-year-old girl, and an eight-year-old boy.

  So when at last, my mother and brother died from starvation and the Comte’s men turned me out of the only home I had ever known, I had headed straight for Paris. I was determined to join the group of men and women who wanted to change the plight of the poor in this country, to stop those with less from being subjected to the whims of the wealthy. I had resolved to find that group and become one of them.

  Algernon’s passion to see change come about is as fiercely rooted as mine. “We must stand up against tyranny, always,” he tells me daily.

  Algernon’s penchant for rescuing things is what brought us together, but our mutual passion for change is what cemented our relationship. Both of us have been anxious to join the rebels who speak out against the king, but they are wary of new people, keeping themselves hidden in the sewers of Paris to avoid arrest. Slowly, Algernon and I have been working our way up their ranks, meeting others who share our beliefs, like the barkeep who hid us last night. We have been given small jobs for them, delivering a package, relaying a message. But earning their trust has taken time.

  So while I have not become a full-fledged member of those who work to make the king see reason, today I may still exact a small bit of vengeance on my own sworn enemy. My throat is thick with anticipation.

  I have heard the rumors that the king’s brother is deep in debt, but I had never expected the Comte to come all the way to the Palais-Royal to look for a game. He must be desperate indeed, when there are so many of his own people he could gamble with. Are his friends refusing him credit now? The thought delights me.

  Suddenly, the Comte turns. His eyes land on me, and it takes everything I have in me to continue my tapping and not fall over in fear. Does he realize that he is being set up? Will his man grab me and drag me off to finish the job that starvation at his hands could not accomplish?

  “Stop that infernal noise, girl,” he barks out at last, “or move to a different spot. You are annoying me.”

  I stop my tapping. What to do now? If the Comte forces me to stop or move, all will be lost. Anger rises in me. Here is a chance to cheat the man who has robbed me of my family, and once again, he will win. With his power, he can take away this small chance of mine to even the score.

  Algernon comes to my rescue before I can stand up and run off with the Comte’s coins, as the blood singing in my veins is urging me to do. “Ah, monsieur. You would not deny a blind girl her chance to earn a few sous for her meal, would you?”

  The Comte stares at me for a few more minutes. My armpits grow damp with sweat. Does he recognize me? I don’t think that is possible. He was too far above my family in station to have noticed us, but then, one never knows what the wealthy actually see or think.

  “Fine,” he finally snaps. “You may tap for your alms, girl, but keep the noise down.”

  I hide my smile and begin tapping again, softly, though, hoping that the sound will soon fade into the background and be of little notice to the king’s brother. Victory is now within my grasp—our grasp.

  The Comte turns back around to face Algernon. He adjusts his powdered wig, which has fallen slightly askew. “What are you waiting for? Deal the cards.”

  Algernon nods.

  I watch as the cards hit the table with a thwapping sound. When five each have been dealt, Algernon reaches for his. The Comte does the same, slowly spreading his cards as he brings them up to look at them, unaware as he does so that I can see them, plain as day.

  I tap out a sequence, our code, letting Algernon know what the Comte holds in his hand. I watch as Algernon easily wins the first round.

  Reluctantly, the Comte places more coins on the table. The next hand, Algernon deliberately loses, tempting his prey to play again.

  Algernon goes on to win the next three hands, and the coins begin to pile up in front of him. The Comte signals his servant to place more money on the table.

  I watch the silver grow and begin to dream of the food we might eat tonight: a succulent chicken, perhaps, with roasted potatoes, thin haricots verts in butter, pastries filled with cream—maybe a bone for the pup. My mouth waters, and my heart is full. I will eat tonight at the Comte’s expense. Nothing can please me more.

  Suddenly, shouting in the square shatters my daydream.

  “Arrêter! Arrêter!”

  A sergent du guet is yelling and giving chase to a young boy who is running in our direction. A woman in black is following close behind, trying desperately to keep up, though her corset is forcing her to stop frequently and take deep breaths.

  I catch sight of the boy they are chasing. It is Nicholas, the scoundrel! A burlap bag swings from his hands as he sprints through the crowds, pushing people aside. What is he doing here? He knows the Palais-Royal is the area that Algernon and I work. We made an agreement about it not two weeks ago, when Algernon and I had first come upon this scheme. In return, I had drawn a few houses for him to rob. So why is he here, ruining my revenge?

  Algernon must hear the commotion too, for he pauses at his cards, looking up just as Nicholas reaches us. Nicholas slams into the table at which Algernon and the Comte sit, sending the king’s brother to the ground and upending the table. Algernon and all our hard-won coins fly into the air. The puppy yips in fright.

  Nicholas scrambles to regain his footing, stepping squarely on the Comte’s hand and causing the Comte to swear loudly and grab for Nicholas’s leg. Nicholas kicks out violently, wrenching away. He stands and is off once more, the burlap bag still in his hand.

  The sergent du guet and the woman in black are upon us now. The Comte’s servant is helping him to his feet.

  “What in heaven’s name is happening?” the Comte demands, his face mottled with anger.

  The sergent snaps to attention when he sees who stands in front of him. “Oh, Monsieur le Comte. I am so sorry. This lady has been robbed. We were giving chase to the thief. Here, monsieur. Let me help you.”

  The sergent reaches down to right the table, and I am about to take off, as I should, when I see the Comte’s face blanch. I look to discover what could make him grow so pale.

  And I see at once.

  In all the confusion, Algernon has slipped away—and with him has gone both the pup and the Comte’s bags of coins.

  “
I’ve been robbed, too!” the Comte shouts.

  I cannot help it. I laugh.

  This is, of course, a horrible mistake.

  The woman in black quickly grabs my arm, ripping the dark glasses from my face. And there I am, standing in the sunshine, held fast, revealing to everyone that I am not a blind beggar at all, but a girl with bright blue eyes: eyes that can see everything.

  • • •

  I am dragged from the square by my hair, the crowd jeering and laughing, my feet banging hard against the cobblestones. My mouth is dry with fear.

  The Comte will see me hanged. And all because today, I have forgotten Algernon’s first rule of stealing: Always run.

  Like an idiot, I lingered to enjoy my revenge.

  When we reach the closest prison, the sergent throws me into a dank cell, pushing me so hard that I fall onto the straw that reeks and crawls with lice. I hear the heavy thud of the cell door closing me in, and the sound of moans and dripping water nearby. A rat scurries across the floor.

  I lie there, not moving, but thinking, frantically thinking. I have seen men and women hang, know the ugliness of it, the look of eyes popping from their sockets, the blackness of the tongue that protrudes as the body gasps for air. The neck is rarely broken as it should be when the body drops. It is not a quick way to die.

  My hands shake, and I dig deep for strength.

  If I am to be hanged, then I will go to my death with dignity. I will not weep like a coward. And so I force myself to sit up and scrub away the dirt on my face. I straighten my skirts and prepare my face: ready, defiant, the same strong girl who watched dry-eyed as her mother and brother were buried just a year ago.

  That day, I had stood there unflinchingly as the Comte’s fat and well-paid priest prayed over them. I did not cry as they were lowered into the hastily dug hole in the churchyard. And when that self-serving little toad of a holy man had held out his hand for payment, I had spit in his face.

  Today, I will be strong again. I will stand here without fear and self-pity, but with obstinate courage. I will die in a fashion that would make Maman and Papa proud.

  A few minutes later, I hear the key turn in the lock. I stand, and the cell door swings open. The sergent who arrested me is there with the lady whose bag Nicholas stole, and behind them both, my sworn enemy, the Comte d’Artois.

  The Comte sniffs, putting a lace hanky to his nose. “Mon Dieu, it smells in here.”

  “Is there not a bigger space in which we may question the girl?” the lady asks, looking nervously around. She lifts her skirts an inch or so, showing sturdy boots beneath.

  “Perhaps the Comte’s brother, the king, will lend us one of his rooms, so you will be more comfortable, mademoiselle?” I say with what I hope is a sneer on my face.

  But I pay for it.

  The sergent reaches out and slaps me hard across the face. I wheel back into the wall.

  “Enough sass, girl,” he says. “Who stole this man’s money and this woman’s bag? Tell us at once.”

  He is on me, grabbing my arm, his fingers digging so deeply into my skin that I wince. My cheek aches from his blow.

  But I stand my ground. “I’m no snitch!”

  The Comte waves his hanky in front of his face again. “If she will not confess, then hang her.”

  There they are. The two little words I knew would be coming. And yet, when he speaks them, my stomach lurches. My love for living has betrayed me, and I curse myself for it.

  “You waste our time, child,” the lady suddenly snaps, her unease in the prison cell obvious. “There is nothing in my bag of value, anyway. The boy who stole from me will find only wax heads inside, and nothing more. Those heads will be worthless to him, but for me they represent countless hours of work. I want them back.”

  If my situation were not so dire, I would laugh. Nicholas has stolen some wax heads? What a surprise he will have when he opens that bag! But who can laugh when the state of my own head is at stake?

  “Speak for yourself, mademoiselle,” the Comte says, his face twisted and angry. “My bag was filled with coins—my coins, many, many of my coins.”

  His anger gives me strength. I press my lips firmly together.

  Then the lady pulls out a piece of parchment paper and a charcoal pencil from her waistband. I stare at the drawing tools as she walks toward me. I have never seen paper so fine.

  “Perhaps you could draw our criminals for us so that we may pass the likeness on to the guet, and they can find them,” she says to me. “Then, with a clear conscience, you will be able to tell your friends that you did not give them away by telling on them. And maybe you will be given prison time rather than the rope.”

  I look at the paper. My fingers flutter at my side. How can this woman know the one thing in the entire world I cannot resist? How can she have guessed? Is she a seer or a witch, able to read people’s lives through their faces?

  “That is an excellent idea, mademoiselle,” the Comte says.

  “Merci, Monsieur le Comte,” the lady answers.

  “You know me?” the Comte asks in surprise.

  “I do, monsieur,” she answers. “I am often at Versailles, working with your sister, Madame Élisabeth. I am tutoring her in waxmaking.”

  “Ah, I know you now,” the Comte exclaims. “You work for Monsieur Curtius. I have seen your art. It is good. You did the head of the writer Voltaire, I believe. It was quite extraordinary.”

  The lady nods, acknowledging the Comte’s praises.

  The Comte’s brow wrinkles in concentration as he snaps his fingers. “But your name? I can’t recall your name.”

  “Marie Tussaud, Monsieur le Comte,” she answers.

  “Ah, yes,” the Comte says, smiling. “They call you Manon, n’est-çe pas?”

  The lady inclines her head. “Oui, monsieur.”

  I listen to them prattling on, my mind racing. It isn’t fair that I will be hanged or imprisoned for Nicholas’s crime. But I can’t give him away, either. And I definitely will not betray Algernon. But there is that parchment, all shiny and clean, tempting me to draw. I have to escape.

  I sidle toward the door while watching Mademoiselle Manon and the Comte in deep conversation. The sergent is distracted too, intent on the discussion. Now is my chance.

  I run for the door, but I’m not fast enough.

  The Comte steps in front of me, blocking my escape. “I think not, little urchin.”

  Without thinking, I fly at the Comte, dragging my nails across his neck. Blood spills onto the Comte’s silk shirt and lace collar, and he howls with rage.

  I stand frozen. What have I done? I meant to get revenge as Papa taught me—using my mind and my words, not my hands.

  The sergent has recovered his senses, and he yanks me hard, back into the cell.

  “Shoot her,” the Comte d’Artois snarls, his fingers dabbing at his bloodied neck.

  The sergent raises his musket.

  “Stop!” Mademoiselle Manon barks, and she shocks everyone by stepping between the musket and me. “I need my things back. Shooting her will accomplish nothing.”

  “Mademoiselle,” the sergent protests, “she has attacked the king’s brother.”

  “And killing her will not help,” Manon snaps. “I want those heads. Do you not want your coins, Monsieur le Comte?”

  The Comte hesitates. Then, he sighs. “Oui. I do.”

  He waves toward the paper. “Draw for us, you stupid girl.”

  I cannot think. My hands are still shaking from my uncontrolled attack a moment earlier. How can I have committed that act of violence? How can I have lost control of myself like that?

  When I make no move toward the paper, the Comte turns to the sergent. “Beat her until she does. And I don’t care what a mess you make of her, as long as her hands can hold a pencil.”

  I stare at him in horror. My family did not raise me with whippings. Torture will most definitely break me. So what am I to do?

  The lady moves clo
ser. “What is your name, child?”

  My mind is clouded with images of fists coming toward me, of having my fingernails ripped from me or fire burned into my skin—all things I have heard are done to prisoners of the king.

  “I am trying to help you, ma petite,” the woman says, her voice rising, “but I will not protect you for long if you do not begin to cooperate.”

  “Celie Rousseau,” I whisper, my mind still casting up pictures of my body broken and bruised, my eyes swollen and black.

  Loathing fills me as soon as I speak. A real rebel would never have answered so easily.

  Mademoiselle Manon nods slowly. “Well, Celie Rousseau, do you think you could draw a picture of the man who robbed me, and the one who robbed the Comte?”

  I finally look at the parchment paper in the lady’s hands. I can feel it again, the itching to draw, the longing to pick up the instrument and create from it. And still, I hesitate.

  “Take her below,” the Comte says. “We will wait in your office until she breaks.”

  My defiance slips away like water from a leaky pail. Fear fills my every pore. Once again, the Comte wins. And I have only the choice to obey, or to be crushed. And then, mercifully, my mind begins to work, and I know a way that might save us all.

  I lift the paper from Manon’s hands, taking the charcoal pencil from her, too, and spread the paper out on the floor of the cell. I touch the parchment gently, my thoughts already moving from the dire situation I face to the pleasure of my art.

  The paper is so clean. I spin the pencil in my fingers, reveling in its smoothness. It is so much nicer than a charred stick, which digs its bark into my fingers. Tentatively, I apply the pencil to the parchment. The line it leaves is clear and fine.

  I begin to draw, praying that the Comte is as unobservant as I suspect he is. My fingers fly across the paper. Images crowd my head—the large brass handle on the door of the bookstore, the iron rungs on the chairs of the gaming tables, the red color of the chestnut seller’s cart, the worn façade of the stone on the Palais itself. I draw and draw.

  A half-hour later, I put the pencil down. There is a strange silence in the room, and I look up to see the three of them staring at my work.