Madame Tussaud's Apprentice Read online

  I bite my lip. Please let me be right.

  “It is so detailed,” the Comte says. “She has every hair on the back of my hand.”

  I let out a silent sigh of relief. As I had hoped, the Comte is gazing at the image of himself and not of Algernon. I thank the stars above for his self-absorption.

  “C’est incroyable,” the sergent agrees. “Every arcade in the Palais-Royal is drawn to perfection, too. Can it truly be accurate?”

  “It is,” Manon says, looking sharply at me, as she moves from the open door where she has been standing to inspect the drawing more closely.

  “But how can you be sure?” the Comte asks. “How can you know if there are two windows in the second arcade on its third floor? Perhaps there are more?”

  “There are not. You forget, monsieur, that my job requires that I notice details,” Mademoiselle Manon says. “I see them and then must work hard to remember them. But I cannot draw or remember it as she has. Her recall is superb.”

  I look away from her to hide my delight. She is right. I have recalled well—the face of the homeowner from last night is now Algernon’s face. And one of the men arguing in the alley this morning is now the face of Nicholas. Fools! How I wish Algernon was here to share in my triumph.

  “Well, we have our information,” the Comte says. “Now you may hang her.”

  What has he said? Mon Dieu! Why did I ever trust this man? I wish I had pulled out his heart with my bare hands. Now, I think bitterly, he will go back to his estate for a good meal while I mount the gallows to my death.

  “Wait!” Manon commands. “I cannot let you do this.”

  “You have no choice, mademoiselle,” the Comte says, frowning. “It is my decision, not yours. She is nothing but a thief. And not a very good one, at that.”

  “Hear me out,” Manon says. “Give the girl to me.”

  I stare at her. What is she saying?

  “Whatever for?” the Comte asks. “Are you as crazy as she is?”

  “Crazy as a fox, Monsieur le Comte,” Mademoiselle Manon says, smiling, “for the girl has a rare gift. Her memory and ability to draw what she has seen are unusual skills. And ones that, in my business, are invaluable.”

  The Comte pauses, and then chuckles low in his throat. “Ah, I see. You could use her for your museum, to draw scenes for you to display.”

  He purses his lips and gives the matter some thought. “All right, mademoiselle. But let us make a contest of this, shall we? In three months’ time, if the girl is not reformed, she will be hanged, and you will owe me a thousand livres. Agreed?”

  “Oui,” the lady says.

  I watch them bartering over me as if I were a side of beef. Do they think I cannot hear? Do they find me of so little value that they will make decisions about my life without my consent?

  “I won’t work for you,” I say into the lull.

  “You have no choice,” Manon replies matter-of-factly. “You work for me, or you hang for robbery. And we will find your accomplice and hang him, too.”

  I suck in my breath with her words. My powerlessness washes over me in a wave of understanding. She is right. Once again, I have no options. Either I hang, or I take my chances with her.

  But then, I pause. I have tricked them already today with my drawing. I can think this one through, too. I am smart. I can outwit them twice.

  I hesitate, my mind spinning and thinking. And then, I have it.

  I will go with the lady now, but then, I will escape. I will run to warn Algernon and Nicholas, helping them take to the countryside until the fervor over this botched robbery dies down. I can do this.

  I nod my agreement.

  The Comte lets out a loud, hearty laugh, and I grimace at the sound.

  Just you wait, I think. Someday, I will have my revenge on you, and we will see who feels powerless then.

  Chapter Three

  They bind my feet and hands. I can barely walk, and the rope cuts hard into my ankles and wrists. I stumble my way out of the prison, the sergent’s musket pushed roughly against my back.

  My insides twist and turn as if I have eaten something unsavory, though in truth, I have had nothing to eat at all today.

  I hope that Algernon is not lurking somewhere nearby, for if the Comte spots him, it could jog his memory. And then we both will see the end of a rope. And yet, I am almost certain that he will be here, waiting. Since the day he rescued me from the side of the road and certain death, he has never left me behind, even when the sergents du guet were hot on our heels. Why would he stop now?

  Rain has begun to fall, and the road before us is quickly turning into a muddy river of garbage, full of bones picked clean, vegetable peelings, spoiled meat, and raw sewage that the people of Paris throw into their streets.

  Beside me, the Comte d’Artois swears as he slips in the mud, and in spite of my anxiety, I cannot help but give a ragged laugh.

  He gives me a withering look and immediately raises a hand in the air. A beggar boy comes running, lugging two large planks of wood with him. The Comte tosses a coin at the child, who catches it deftly in one hand.

  “Quickly, boy,” the Comte commands.

  Once again, the Comte’s wealth affords him privileges none of the common folk can afford. The Comte will pay for us to avoid the mud, and he will not even notice that the hungry boy before him will be slick with it before the Comte is done using him.

  The boy runs eagerly forward, bowing and dragging the boards heavily toward us. For him, the coin means food for the day.

  The boy lays the first of the planks down in front of Mademoiselle Manon. Lifting her skirts, the lady walks the length of the plank, and then waits patiently until the boy lays the second plank in front of her. In this way, we all proceed back toward the Palais-Royal, waiting on one plank while the boy runs behind us to gather up the plank we walked on earlier, placing it in front of the one we have just crossed. The boy does this over and over again, growing muddier and muddier as the rain continues, while the four of us are wet but unsullied. The unfairness of it burns in my chest.

  “Ah, there is my driver now,” the Comte d’Artois says, waving his cane toward a carriage. “May I offer you a ride home, Mademoiselle Manon?”

  “Oui, Monsieur le Comte,” Manon replies, smiling for the first time, as if leaving the prison walls has resolved the dilemma of her missing bag and miraculously restored her to good humor. “If it would not be too much trouble.”

  I stare at the carriage. The vehicle stands before us, looking fine, all gold and gleaming, the horses’ manes perfectly groomed. People from the Palais-Royal’s arcades and shops circle the carriage, eyeing it with admiration. The animals shake their heads, and their harnesses rattle with silver buckles. The taxes the Comte demanded of my family have paid for the upkeep of this coach. It doesn’t seem right that I should ride in it.

  Reaching the carriage, the Comte opens the door. “Mademoiselle?”

  Manon nods her head graciously. “Come along, Celie.”

  What am I to do?

  “Hurry, girl,” the Comte commands. “I am getting wet.”

  The Comte’s words decide me.

  I sit down hard, not caring that the mud of the streets seeps into my skirts. I will not get in that carriage.

  “Get up,” the Comte snarls. “Your filth will ruin the silk of my seats.”

  Looking deliberately at the Comte, I grab some mud with my tied hands and spread it all over my bodice. The smell of human waste, rotted vegetables, and dirt envelops me. The Comte regards me with horror. Rebellion may stink to the heavens, but it feels sweet.

  I throw myself onto my side, rolling back and forth in the mud, until it covers me completely. The crowd lets out a roar of laughter. Even the street musicians stop their playing to watch.

  “Get up,” the sergent snaps at me. “Get up, I said.” He kicks me hard in the side with his boot.

  I let out a cry of pain, for his boot has caught me in the ribs.

&nb
sp; Then, from somewhere nearby, I hear the distinct sound of tapping. I hold still, listening.

  Go, the tapping says. Go. I will follow.

  Algernon is signaling me with our coded words.

  I sit there, mud dripping from me, rain soaking me, wishing he had not asked this of me. It will mean swallowing my pride in front of the Comte.

  “She’ll not soil my carriage with that filth,” the Comte says, shaking his head as I rise to my feet. “Strip her. She may ride unrobed.”

  The crowd roars with laughter again, and my cheeks flame in panic. In order to obey Algernon, will I be reduced to standing in the streets naked? Will Algernon see me paraded to the carriage unclothed? The thought is unbearable.

  “There will be no need for that,” Manon responds, coming to my rescue.

  I dislike the woman, but at least she has some sense of decency in her. She takes off her shawl and wraps it around me. I walk reluctantly with her to the carriage, and she gives me her hand in spite of the mud, and helps me in.

  Outside the vehicle, the Comte lets out a loud guffaw. “Mademoiselle, I can already hear the sound of your coins in my pocket. There is no way you will win this bet. The girl is a wild animal.”

  “We shall see, Monsieur le Comte,” Mademoiselle Manon says, smiling slightly, and then she climbs in beside me.

  The Comte d’Artois steps in after the lady. “Where to, mademoiselle?”

  “Number twenty, Boulevard du Temple,” she replies.

  I have never been to that part of Paris before. My heart skips a beat as the carriage moves forward, whisking me away to an unfamiliar corner of the city. Will Algernon be able to find me? Can he follow the carriage at its swift pace?

  I look out the carriage window, searching for any sign of him, and then I see him, hidden discretely, but watching nonetheless. My breath catches at the sight of his face. His eyes meet mine, and he gives me a slow wink.

  The coach pulls away, and we are soon on our way to the Boulevard du Temple. I sit back and watch Paris slide by. The horses are swift, and the cushions soft. I have to admit—it is a lovely way to travel.

  And yet, I am not completely distracted by the ride. For when the Comte and the lady Manon are looking the other way, I lower my tied hands to my side and wipe as much filth and mud as I can upon the red silk of the Comte’s seats. It is a small act of defiance, but one that I hope will make the seats smell as bad as the filthy streets of Paris for a few weeks, at the very least.

  The carriage finally comes to a halt in front of a tall building with white iron ornamentation curling about its mansard roof. The rain has stopped, and the boulevard is still muddy. Yet all up and down the street, people saunter about, laughing and talking. The theater owners are beginning to light lanterns for their evening festivities. Orange sellers, oystermen, and coffee vendors call out their wares.

  My time in Paris has revolved around the Palais-Royal, its shops, theaters, and exhibits. But now before me is a new street filled with as many displays, shops, and wealthy people as the Palais-Royal has offered. I think immediately of all the coins and jewelry Algernon and I can lift from the pockets of the ladies and gentlemen roaming here when I flee.

  “I thank you for the ride, Monsieur le Comte,” Mademoiselle Manon says, as the door to the carriage swings open.

  “And I thank you for the afternoon’s entertainment,” the Comte replies. “Let us hope our esteemed officers of the law will shortly catch up with those thieves and return our valuables to us.”

  The lady gives me a quick glance. “Yes, let us hope so.”

  If she thinks I will help her further in finding Algernon or Nicholas, she is sadly mistaken. I have only one thought in my mind now. Escape.

  “Come, Celie,” Manon says, stepping from the carriage. “We are home.”

  The Comte grins at me, as I, too, alight from the carriage. “You are a beastly child. And I hope for my sake, you never change.”

  I ignore him.

  At least I know that I have muddied his precious seats.

  My feet are still bound, so I cannot step down smoothly. Manon goes to lend me a hand, but I ignore her and jump instead. I stumble as I hit the ground, for my ribs still ache from the sergent’s kick.

  “Oh, dear. Let me help you up there, child.”

  An old woman bends over and gives me her arm.

  “Merci, Ma ….” I stop.

  It is Algernon looking at me, Algernon dressed in women’s clothing. Wisps of his brown curls poke out in an unruly fashion from his bewigged head, and his lip twitches as he tries to contain his mirth.

  “Mademoiselle,” I finish, working hard not to laugh, also.

  Clever Algernon. He has beaten the carriage by taking the back alleyways.

  “I am always helping my children up when they trip and fall,” Algernon says. “My oldest, who is eleven now, fell just yesterday in the alley over there.”

  Algernon inclines his wigged head toward a dark passageway. I understand at once. I am to meet him tonight at eleven in the alley. I wonder why he doesn’t spirit me away now? Still, if this is how he means to have it, I will do as he says.

  “I hope your child was not hurt, for injuries like this can often attract unwanted parasites,” I say, hoping he will get my meaning, that he will understand that he is in danger and the guet are still looking for him.

  At this, Algernon grins. “He is a sturdy lad and escapes easily from danger.”

  A great weight is lifted from me. I need not worry on that score. Algernon is aware.

  Mademoiselle Manon comes over. The Comte’s carriage has departed with a clattering of hooves.

  Before Manon can examine Algernon too closely, I move to block her view as best I can. But already Algernon is hobbling away from us, walking as an old woman would, wobbling side to side in scuffed wooden clogs and a threadbare shawl. Still, Manon’s eyes linger on him longer than I would like.

  Slowly, she turns back to me. Then she bends down and unties the ropes that bind my feet. When she stands, she unbinds my hands, too. “There. Now you will not trip and fall again. But do not think about running away.”

  She needn’t fret. I have no thought of escaping now. Instead, I will wait until eleven as Algernon has instructed.

  I follow Manon up the stairs to the house at 20 Boulevard du Temple. The door to the house swings open, and an elderly woman welcomes us.

  “You’re late,” she says. “L’Oncle has been waiting for several hours.”

  Manon steps inside, pulling me with her. “I had a little trouble. My bag was stolen from me at the Palais-Royal. The police are still looking for the culprit.”

  I glance around the house. The lady Manon is well-to-do, although not fabulously wealthy. The decorative wall fixtures are porcelain, not gold. Still, there are some fine prints on the wall. My eyes flick to the lock on their door. It would not be hard for me to pick it.

  “Oh dear, all that work wasted,” the woman says. She looks at me. “And who is this?”

  “Maman, this is Celie,” Manon replies. “Please set up a bath for her and get her some decent clothes. I’ll go tell l’Oncle about the situation.”

  A door opens further down the hall, and an elderly gentleman walks toward us, tugging at his waistcoat. “Manon, where have you been?”

  “Bad news, uncle,” Manon says. “I was robbed at the Palais-Royal.”

  “After you delivered the package, I hope?” he asks.

  Manon shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. We’ll have to start over.”

  “But we need that display quickly,” the uncle says.

  And then, he seems to notice me, standing there and dripping mud. “Who is this filthy thing?”

  “If I am filthy, it is hardly of my doing,” I snap at him. “Some of us do not have the luxury of homes in which to clean ourselves.”

  When I see the old man’s scowl, I immediately wish I could bite back my words. I do not want him to refuse me that bath. Already, I can feel the
warmth of soapy water against my skin.

  “The girl has a tongue,” the uncle says, “and a sharp one at that. Why did you bring her here?”

  “The day was not a total failure, uncle,” Manon says. “I have found a solution to the problem we’ve been having with the museum displays. We will no longer have to worry about people complaining about inaccuracies. Look at what the girl can do.”

  Manon pulls my drawing out of her pocketbook. I stare at her in surprise. She has not left it with the sergents?

  She sees the question on my face and nods. “Oui, Celie. You did not draw the real man who robbed us. I knew that at once.”

  “If you knew,” I ask, “why did you not say anything?”

  “You have an ability we can use,” Manon says bluntly. “I mean for you to earn this favor back, or I will return you to the sergents du guet tonight.”

  That silences me.

  She unfolds my drawing and holds it out for the old man to see.

  “This is quite good,” the uncle says, looking at the drawing. “Did you find her sketching at the Palais-Royal?”

  “Non,” Manon answers. “She did it from memory.”

  “Impossible,” the uncle says.

  “Not impossible,” I tell him, without thinking. “I do it all the time.”

  “Hmmm,” the uncle says, looking once more at the drawing and then at me. His eyes narrow as if I am his prey. “If that is true, then you are right, Manon. She could prove quite valuable to us.”

  The uncle turns to walk back down the hall. “I’ll be in the study. Bring her there when she is presentable.”

  With that, we are dismissed. And in spite of my irritation over being discussed as if I have no voice, I have to admit that I am looking forward to that bath.

  • • •

  Manon’s mother wastes no time producing a vat of hot water that the cook in the kitchen has boiled. I slip gratefully into the warmth of the copper tub, which has hastily been set up behind a curtain that does not close completely.

  “I’m sorry for the lack of privacy, child,” Manon’s mother apologizes, turning once I am fully submerged, “but from the look of things, a bath was long overdue.”