Faces of the Dead Read online

  Flustered and embarrassed by the gaze of the crowd, I run out of the tent and spy Henri among the people watching a man who is standing on a wooden crate orating. Breathless with fear, I clutch his arm. “You won’t believe what happened!”

  “Belle Zulima winked at you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “She does that every now and then. They say it’s good luck if Belle Zulima winks at you.”

  “You mean she’s alive?” I ask.

  Henri laughs. “Of course she is. It’s only a show.”

  “Then why do the men pay to see her if they know she’s not really a two-hundred-year-old corpse?”

  “She’s pretty.”

  “How does she stay still for so long?” I wonder.

  “I don’t know,” Henri says. “She models for the wax museum sometimes; the figure of Venus looks just like her.”

  “Death to tyrants!” the orator cries, startling me. “May their blood flow in the streets of Paris. Let no citizen flinch from the duty of seizing freedom!” The speaker has a squat, gnarled body and hunched shoulders. His blistered skin is flushed red with zeal.

  “Who is that?” I ask Henri.

  “Jean-Paul Marat. He publishes a paper.”

  “What kind of paper?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t read it.” He walks to a table that is stacked with folded papers and hands me one.

  I read a headline that cries out for the deaths of the royal family, and my hands begin to tremble. They accuse my parents of having bankrupted the people. A hideous cartoon shows my mother sitting on the lap of some nobleman. My father is depicted as a large pig wearing a crown.

  So much hatred directed at my family!

  Henri snaps the paper from me. “I’m sorry, Ernestine. I just saw the cartoons. You shouldn’t be reading this.” He notices my shaking and cradles my hands in his own.

  In the warmth of his clasp, I stop quaking with fear. “The people he wants to kill are my friends. Would they murder the servants as well as the aristocrats?”

  “Don’t be afraid, Ernestine. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “You can’t protect me,” I protest.

  “I can. You’ll see. A new world is coming — can you feel it?”

  I shake my head.

  “When the new world comes, every person will be equal and all of us will be free from tyranny. Life will be better for all of us.”

  “Do you really believe that?” I ask.

  Studying my face, he nods. “My brothers are involved in the fight, right at the center of things. They say a new day is dawning for France. But don’t you worry. You can count on me, Ernestine. I promise.”

  The more I get to know Paris, the clearer is my idea of what Henri has been telling me. Filthy children live on the street, working hard for the little they have to eat. Sick and ragged mothers beg with outstretched hands while rocking naked infants. Dogs with protruding ribs roam the streets.

  I notice other groups of women who gather in the doorways of stores, speaking in hushed tones. Their hands are always busy with knitting or crochet work, and they watch all who go by with suspicious, narrowed glares. I can feel their eyes on me as we pass them. “What are they doing?” I ask Henri.

  “It’s not only the men who are angry about the way things are,” he tells me. “The women talk, too, and sometimes they’re even more thirsty for blood than the men. Many of them have watched their children die of starvation.”

  I remember the rage in the women’s faces the night they marauded through Versailles. I was young when that happened but old enough to be terrified. The women broke into the palace and stormed up the stairs, demanding food. They got as far as Mama’s bedroom and sliced up the sheets. Luckily, Mama, Louis-Charles, and I escaped to Papa’s quarters through a secret passage.

  “What do the women talk about?” I ask.

  He leans closer to me. “Revolution,” he whispers.

  Revolution?! The word makes my throat tighten as if someone is clutching it in a viselike grip.

  With animal instinct, I feel the women’s eyes boring into the back of my head and swing around to check. As I suspected, their gazes are still locked on me.

  Snapping back around, I clutch Henri’s arm to steady myself, for I feel dizzy with fear. “Why are they staring?” I hiss in a panic. Henri shrugs casually, but I pray it’s not recognition as we hurry on.

  * * *

  On our way to the Palais-Royal, we stroll past a man selling red-white-and-blue-striped ribbons fanned into a kind of layered circle like the one Henri wears on his jacket. I know that it’s a sign of support for the revolutionaries. Henri buys one of them from the man and pins it to the side of my shirt. “You’d better wear the tricolor, too,” he advises.

  “No!” I insist, taking it off. “I don’t want to wear it.”

  “It’s safer, trust me.”

  “I don’t care!” I’m not wearing the hateful thing, and he can’t make me.

  Henri drags me off the street into an alley. He clutches my arm too tightly. I don’t like it and shake him off harshly.

  I’m still holding the ribbon, and I toss it into a puddle. “Don’t ever try to put this on me again!” I shout.

  Lunging at me, Henri covers my mouth with his hand. “Be quiet,” he hisses in my ear.

  I pry his hand away. Unexpectedly, my eyes brim with tears, and this show of weakness mortifies me. Breaking away from him, I turn to face into the alley. “Go away,” I say. “Leave me alone.”

  Standing there trembling with emotion, I wait until I hear his retreating footsteps. Only then do I pull in a deep breath and try to steady myself.

  This is all such torment. I understand how it all seems to Henri. I see the squalor, the poverty, the unfairness of it all. I’m not blind!

  But to join his cause?! We’re talking about my family! These people hate us with a burning fire. They talk about killing Mama and Papa along with many of our dearest friends. How can I be in favor of that?

  But how can I blame Henri? He doesn’t know who I really am. I long to tell him, but it would put him in an impossible position. And perhaps it’s myself I’m thinking of. I don’t believe he’d ever reveal my secret, but what if he shunned me?

  I couldn’t bear that.

  Looking to the puddle, I see that the tricolor ribbon is gone. Henri must have picked it up.

  He only wants to protect me.

  I walk out of the alley and Henri is waiting, leaning up against the building. “Sorry to be so rough, Ernestine,” he says. “Do you understand that I don’t want anything to happen to you?”

  I nod. “But you must understand that the people they talk about harming are my friends.”

  “Ernestine, I’ve never wanted to mention this … I didn’t want to upset you,” Henri says quietly. “But you know, don’t you, how much you resemble the princess?”

  My jaw drops. I didn’t realize he’d noticed. But, of course, he is familiar with the wax likeness. “I suppose I do.”

  “You suppose?”

  “All right! I do look like her. I know it,” I say, throwing my arms wide in pretend exasperation. “It’s just a coincidence.”

  Henri leans in close. “Learn to whisper,” he advises softly. Henri slips the ribbon into the pocket of my skirt. “If you won’t wear it, keep it nearby. Your life may depend on it someday.”

  * * *

  “Do you know where Mademoiselle Grosholtz has been?” I ask him as we walk back toward the exhibit.

  “She still goes to the palace but she is spending more and more time helping Dr. Curtius.”

  “What new figures is she doing?”

  “She’s done a figure of Madame de Pompadour and Madame du Barry in an exhibit called Royal Consorts.”

  “But how did she model them? Madame de Pompadour is dead and Madame du Barry has gone to England.”

  “She often uses portraits and death masks.”

  “Death masks?” I cry, a
larmed by the sound of it. “What’s that?”

  “It’s an ancient tradition, taking a cast of a dead person’s face right after the person dies,” he explains. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz told me that the ancient Egyptians made them. She showed me some death masks Dr. Curtius has in his collection. Some are coated with gold or silver or bronze. They’re creepy.”

  “What other figures has she done?” I ask.

  “The king’s cousin, the duc d’Orléans, was posing the other day. Mademoiselle Grosholtz was talking to him.” I make a face, not being overfond of my self-impressed uncle. This causes Henri to laugh. “I suppose you know them all, don’t you?”

  “I guess I do,” I admit. “They’re just people. No different from me or you.”

  Henri laughs so hard that he staggers backward. “Ernestine, sometimes I just can’t believe the things you say.”

  One night I return and Ernestine is waiting for me just inside the kitchen door, dressed in my finest gown. “What took you so long?” she scolds in a whisper.

  The kitchen staff and servants bow and curtsy as we pass. Everyone knows that Ernestine and Madame Royale have a special friendship, so no one is surprised to see us together — only they think she is me and I am she. Ernestine speaks so quickly I can’t understand what she’s saying. “Take a breath to calm yourself,” I advise her.

  “Your cousin the duc d’Angoulême is here,” she tells me more slowly. “I have been entertaining him for hours pretending to be you.”

  I have only seen my cousin twice before, when we were much younger. I remember him as a nice boy, quiet and polite. He is seventeen or eighteen years of age by now.

  “Is Louis-Antoine nice?” I ask hopefully.

  “Wonderful!” she replies with a sigh. A sigh? Is she smitten with Louis-Antoine?

  But there is no time to ask.

  “Thank goodness he’s a decent fellow,” I tell her as we hurry on through the halls, “because he is my intended.” I suddenly wonder if I’ve ever told her that before.

  I needn’t wonder for long because her expression is completely dumbstruck. “Marry Louis-Antoine?!” she exclaims. “Oh, you are the luckiest girl in the world!”

  A smile spreads across my face at this. I have spent a lot of time imagining how the round-faced, cherubic little boy would grow. As a child he had a striking resemblance to my father, who — though I adore him completely — is not the handsomest man in the world. “Can you tell he’s a Bourbon?” I ask, since all the Bourbon family on my father’s side have the same unfortunate appearance.

  “His mother must be very beautiful,” she answers with tact. “Just as you favor your lovely mother in looks, so must Louis-Antoine resemble his, for he is quite handsome.”

  I clasp her hands. “Good! Very good!” It’s no doubt shallow of me, but I would hate to be betrothed to an ugly man.

  In my bedroom, we change clothing in a flurry of thrown petticoats, stockings, and dresses. “He must wonder what’s become of you. I’ve been gone so long,” Ernestine worries.

  My hair is disheveled but there is no time to fix it. I will have to think of some excuse. “Hurry!” she urges me and nearly pushes me out into the sitting room where my cousin awaits.

  “You’re back!” he cries happily, standing. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten about me.”

  “I’m sorry, cousin,” I say.

  “You forgot. I asked you to call me Antoine.”

  “Sorry, Antoine.”

  “You’ve changed your hairstyle?” He notices.

  “Ah, yes. That’s what took me so long. The wig I was wearing was hot and I needed to take it off.”

  “So this is now your own hair, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s very lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  I sit, and then he sits. Ernestine was right that he’s grown to be a handsome young man. His blond hair is wavy and short. You can tell he’s a Bourbon, but other familial influences have improved on the unfortunate Bourbon features.

  “So, what brings you here?” I ask to break the awkward silence that has fallen between us.

  “You have a short memory. Weren’t we just talking about it a brief while ago?”

  I answer with a forced giggle. “How foolish of me! Of course we were. Well, I am very glad you were able to fit me into your schedule.”

  He seems confused. “As I said, Father has business to discuss with the king, and I asked him to bring me so I could see you.”

  “Of course. You did say that, didn’t you?”

  I am afraid to say anything more for fear of further revealing that I have no idea of what he and Ernestine have been talking about these several hours. More uncomfortable silence follows.

  Antoine coughs.

  “Some water?” I offer.

  “No. Thank you.”

  I smile tensely. “How is your mother?”

  “Fine.” He taps the table and then smiles a bit stiffly. “I fear I’ve worn you out.”

  “How so?”

  “You were so lively until you went off to change your wig. We were getting on so well. Now you seem changed in some way.”

  I’m tempted to just tell him the truth, but I don’t dare. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, I don’t know if I can trust him with my secret. Obviously, Ernestine and he have warmed to each other, but to me, he’s like a stranger.

  He stands and takes my hand. “It’s funny to think that we shall be married before too long. You’ve become such a beauty.”

  I like the compliment, but oddly, something about it rankles me. “Is that what you wanted to find out?” I ask.

  He blushes again and nods.

  I have to smile at his shyness — and his honesty. I can’t really blame him for wishing to assess me, since I wanted to know the same thing about him. “Do you think we’ll be happy together?” I ask.

  At this his expression becomes thoughtful. “It’s hard to say. If you’re really like the person you were just before, then yes. If you are more often as you are now …” He hesitates. “I’m sure it is just that I have fatigued you.”

  It’s true that I’m tired. I have been walking for hours through Paris.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say suddenly, thinking of the day I’ve just spent. “Do you think the people of France hate us?”

  Some emotion behind his eyes flares. Surprise at my boldness? Fear? “I think they do,” he says with feeling.

  “Why?”

  “I hear talk. In fact, my father is here to speak with your father about that very fact. Papa believes a revolution could be brewing.”

  Revolution! He fears it, too. It’s not just me who is so upset by the talk. His words let me know that this threat is real, and a chill runs through me.

  “My father thinks we Bourbons should flee the country,” Antoine adds.

  “Flee!” I cry, shocked.

  “Yes, while it’s still possible.”

  An image of Henri’s face flashes into my mind. “No! We can’t leave France. It’s impossible.”

  Never to see Henri again? Unthinkable!

  “Your father is wrong,” I insist passionately. “We are the royal family. This is our country, and we must address the problem before the people are pushed too far. There’s still time. I know it! We can never leave. Never!”

  Henri and I meet at the Place de la Concorde and I immediately notice something new on the plaza — a very tall rectangular object. Even in the dusty city, a blade gleams from halfway up the frame from which it’s suspended. “What’s that?” I ask.

  Henri looks at me and his face is deadly serious. “It’s called a guillotine.”

  “What does it do?”

  Henri takes a deep breath before answering. “It cuts off heads.”

  His words make me recoil with horror. “Why do they need a killing mechanism?”

  “They say it’s merciful,” Henri says bitterly, “swifter and faster than the executioner’s axe.”r />
  This is horrible. “How many heads do they intend to sever?” I ask as the realization of this new invention sinks into my mind. “Who are the people they intend to kill?”

  Henri covers his face with his hand as a shudder runs through him.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” I urge him to tell me.

  “They have taken her, Ernestine! Last night they came for Mademoiselle Grosholtz!”

  I look sharply at the guillotine. Is he telling me that Mademoiselle Grosholtz is to be one of its victims? It can’t be! “Who has taken her?” I ask Henri. “Taken her where?”

  “The people have formed their own army. They’re arresting anyone thought to be an aristocrat or a friend of the royal family. Everyone knows Mademoiselle Grosholtz works at the palace. They say she’s spying on revolutionaries and reporting their activities to the king.”

  “That’s not true. I never saw her talking to my … to the king.”

  “She talks to the king’s sister, though,” Henri says. “I once asked her what she thought of the Revolution, and she said she didn’t care about it. She just wanted to be left alone to make her wax figures.”

  “Can’t she tell them that? They’ll let her go if she does, won’t they?”

  Henri shakes his head. “It’s not enough to say you don’t care. You have to be for the Revolution.”

  Suddenly, I jolt to my feet. An open cart rumbles by, and in the back stand two women with their hands bound. Henri is immediately by my side, mouth ajar. We exchange horrified glances.

  One woman is tall and beautiful with large, dark eyes and tight black curls. Beside her is Mademoiselle Grosholtz!

  A million emotions play across Henri’s anguished face.

  I grip Henri’s arm.

  People in the street are eyeing Mademoiselle and the other woman darkly, but no one speaks. A man spits in the gutter.

  “Mademoiselle!” I cry.

  She turns toward me. Her eyes widen in alarm. She sees Henri and seems even more stricken. Then she averts her gaze, deliberately ignoring us, gazing up into the gray sky.

  Behind me a window is shattered, and so is the silence. Angry cries and hissing voices fill the air, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles as a chill breeze blows across the square. “The king has dismissed Necker!” someone shouts.