Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (2 page)

His praise swells my heart.

“But today, we will hit the
Palais
, no picking of locks,
ça va
?” he asks.

The Palais is the latest of our schemes, and a very successful one at that. At the gaming tables in the Palais-Royal, we find unsuspecting card players, and we relieve them of their cash.

Here is our ploy: Algernon goes to the square dressed as a gentleman in laces and jacket and shoes with fake silver buckles—clothes I stole for him on my first successful heist. He takes a seat at the gaming tables, waiting until a willing partner sits down to play him. Behind his opponent, I sit dressed as a blind beggar girl, tapping my cane and calling for alms. But in reality, I am not tapping for money at all. Instead, I am tapping out a code Algernon and I have devised, letting Algernon know the cards his victim has in his hand.

The idea was conceived by Algernon and is
très intelligent
. Already we have fed ourselves for days, without anyone suspecting.

“We should get going, then,” he says.

“I have to dress,” I remind him.

He reddens with my words. “Of course.”

When he turns, I hurry to throw on a dirty skirt and shirt.

In the alley around us, other ruffians are waking with the rising of the sun, some stirring up the ashes of fires gone out, some foraging through goods stolen last night. The smell of stale urine and unwashed bodies is overpowering.

There is a scuffle down the street, where two men are arguing over the
livres
they pickpocketed last evening. The men drunkenly stab at each other with their knives. I cringe at the scene.

I will never get used to the violence that often erupts here. After Papa’s death, any kind of physical altercation makes my knees weak. I still remember the bullet hole in my father’s forehead and the white coldness of his skin when I reached out my hand to touch him. My poor Papa was a man who never hurt anyone, who was gentle and kind and soft-spoken, and who taught my brother, Jacques, and me to always use our minds and not our fists—but he was killed by a gun. The irony of this makes my blood churn.

I turn my head. I cannot watch this fight in the alley. If there is blood, I will vomit.

“I’ll not let anyone touch you,” Algernon says to me over his shoulder. As usual, he has read my mind. “I’ll expose you to the pox first.”

I give a small laugh. I appreciate his gallant defense of me, but I certainly do not want to contract smallpox, with its heavy fevers and ability to mar the face and body with thick, round scars. Sometimes, when robbing houses, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and I know that my skin is smooth and fair. I may be poor. There is nothing I can do about that. But I refuse to be ugly just to ward off the men in the streets of Paris.

Algernon turns back around, a look of surprise on his face at my merriment, for usually I am voiceless when violence is involved.

He puts his hand under my chin, lifting my face until I am looking straight into his grass-green eyes. His fingers are warm on my skin.

“Best day of my life when I found you, Celie Rousseau,” he whispers. “I promise to always keep you safe.”

Our faces are so close that our breath mingles in the warm spring air. His eyes are soft. My heart thuds hard at his words of fidelity. Could today be the day he forgets Julia?

“I would have died if it weren’t for you,” I tell him.

I think of the first time I saw his handsome face, as I lay dying in a ditch beside the road to Paris. I remember how gently he lifted me up and gave me something to eat, and nursed me back to health.

He pauses, as if to say something more. Then his eyes glaze with memory.

“And I’d have lost a very good artist and a master lockpick to boot,” he finally says, his voice rough. He drops my chin and turns, gathering up what we will need for our work today.

Disappointment washes over me. And as quickly as it comes, I squelch it.

Why should I expect this morning to be different? And truthfully, what could we actually expect to share?

The reality is that a relationship in this alley would be less than romantic. I have seen couples here, quarrelling over a scrap of meat, no roof or bed to warm them. Do I really want my relationship with Algernon to become like that?

So while my heart might beat a tad too quickly when his handsome face is near mine, or my skin may ripple with pleasure when his fingers graze my arm, there is no room in a criminal’s life for love. There is only room for one thing here: survival.

I grab a cane and don a pair of dark green spectacles.“Let’s go. I’m ready to rob the wealthy of Paris.”

Algernon laughs as he stands, his white teeth gleaming against the dark tone of his skin. “You are always ready to rob the wealthy,” he reminds me, “as am I.”

I hear the bitterness in his voice and know he is thinking of her and of how much he wishes to change the plight of the poor in this country. And I am reminded of the way the Comte’s men turned me out of my home and sent me on my way, a young girl all alone. Bitterness binds my resolve with his.

I am ready. I am ready to steal from those who stole from me.

I follow him as he walks out of the alley, and into the light of the day, the puppy in his arms. A few streets later, as per our routine, he leaves my side to make his own way to the Palais, and I take the shorter route, hobbling and banging my cane about as if I truly am blind.

When I enter the Palais, I find my usual spot, sit down, and put my dirty cap in front of me for coins. Early spring sunshine has encouraged the people of Paris to meander out of doors on this fine day. The smell of coffee fills the air. I watch the people strolling about, the women’s wide skirts dusting the cobblestone courtyard, the men’s hats doffed to one another as they move from shop to shop, talking, laughing, seeing and being seen. Tonight, we will most likely have full bellies.

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!

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.