Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution by Michelle Moran Read Free Book Online

sits back as if I have slapped him. “The king has read Rousseau?” His glasses have slipped down his nose. He pushes them up with his thumb. “What does he know about the Social Contract? Or La Nouvelle Héloïse ? Or the Confessions ?”
    “Nothing!” the Duc exclaims. “My cousin has always been an impostor.”
    “And the queen?” Robespierre demands. “What did the queen have to say?”
    I wish I had another answer for him, since I know how this will reflect on Her Majesty, but I don’t lie. “She asked if he dressed like an Armenian.”
    Robespierre looks triumphantly around the room, pausing to nod meaningfully to Camille and my uncle. “What have I told you?” He has neglected his food, and while everyone else eats, he pushes back his chair. “Vanity! And while our countrymen are starving, she is decorating herself with diamond aigrettes! Did she mention,” he asks rhetorically, “that his Armenian robes would bar him from attending her Grand Couvert? That he would be laughed at in her gilded halls at Versailles?” My mother and I exchange looks across the table. “Do you think she cares that we are suffering from the worst harvest in living memory? That candles are to be had only by the wealthy and flour by the even wealthier?”
    “Of course not. It’s a plot!” Marat interjects, speaking for the first time tonight. Because he never bothers to swallow before he speaks, we can all see his sharp teeth covered in food. Marat narrows his eyes, and now he truly looks like a feral animal. “The monarchy knows its way of life is in peril, so they plan to starve the populace into subservience!”
    “You don’t really believe that?” Henri asks, aghast. “The monarchy could easily deploy the army to smother any rebellious acts.”
    “Not in the Palais-Royal!” Marat shouts.
    The Palais-Royal is owned by the Duc. Once it was a vast garden shaded by chestnut trees, but eight years ago the Duc had the trees chopped down to make way for a sprawling shopping arcade. Anything can be found in the Palais-Royal: Madeira wine, English shoes, Indian coffee, exotic women. Until last year, we rented one of the Duc’s shops to house the museum, but the prostitutes who lingered outside were driving our wealthy customers away. The Palais-Royal has become a veritable den of iniquity, sheltering every type of thief and anarchist. But since the grounds belong to the Duc, the king’s soldiers are forbidden from policing inside any of the hundred and eighty arcades.
    “And if the king took back the Palais-Royal?” Henri asks.
    “He would never do that!”
    Henri fixes Marat with a practical gaze. “He is king. He may do as he wishes.”
    I am impressed with his rhetoric.
    Everyone looks to the Duc to see if he agrees. “I have been banished twice to the Villers-Cotterêts. What is to stop my cousin from exiling me entirely and taking the Palais-Royal for himself?”
    “The p-people!” Camille exclaims. “W-we—we would never allow it. The Estates-General meets at Versailles in three months,” Camille reminds him. “We will s-see then how loud the voice of the people can be.”
    “I hope louder than their costumes,” the Duc remarks. “I am told that the Third Estate is required to come entirely in black. Black three-corner hats, black coats with tails, plain black cravats, and black knee breeches. The clergy, however, will be wearing scarlet silk.”
    Robespierre leans forward. “And the nobility? What will the nobility be wearing?”
    The Duc sighs, as if it pains him a great deal to relay this message. “Their hats will be designed in the style of Henri IV, and their vests are to be of black silk, trimmed in lace and embroidered with gold.”
    It is as if a powder keg has exploded. Everyone begins shouting at once, with the exception of the Duc, who sits back and watches the fire that he has ignited. When my mother and I rise to clear the plates from the table, Lucile grabs my arm.
    “Do you see why