Faces of the Dead by Suzanne Weyn

Author:Suzanne Weyn [Weyn, Suzanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2014-09-21T16:00:00+00:00

It’s early in a rainy September that a Revolutionary guardsman comes to the exhibit workroom with a huge bundle slung over his shoulder. It’s wrapped in a coarse blanket and heaved without ceremony onto the workroom floor, and the blue-gray foot that peeks out from a fold in the cloth tells me it’s a corpse that he’s just tossed into the room.

“She was murdered by the citizens of the new Republic of France before she had the honor of being guillotined,” the guard tells Mademoiselle Grosholtz, as though this is amusing in some way. “We need two masks. One to parade on a pike so that the people can see what happens to those who would deny the people their rights, and another to keep as a record of French traitors.”

Mademoiselle nods listlessly and gestures him toward the door.

“How soon can you have it?” the guard demands without moving.

“I’ll send you word,” she says, her voice flat as she stares down at the body. With workmanlike detachment, she removes the blanket.

I cry out when I see that the dead body belongs to the Princess de Lamballe, one of Mama’s dearest friends. She’s hideously slashed, and her entire corpse is marbled with purple-black and yellow bruises. They’ve hacked away her luxurious hair, and her face is twisted into an expression of anguished horror.

It’s too horrible! I turn away, trembling.

Seeing my distress, Mademoiselle covers the body once again. She takes stationery from a drawer, hastily writes a message, and instructs Henri and me to bring it to Rose at rue du Temple.

“What kind of monsters are these people?” I ask Henri as we walk, heads down against the driving rain.

“We’re the ones collecting loose heads,” he reminds me.

“But we’re forced to.”

Henri draws me beside him and puts his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t think too much,” he advises. “It’s easier that way.”

I know he’s right. I try to push the awful image of the Princess de Lamballe out of my head. Instead, I focus on the warmth of Henri beside me. These days I only feel safe when he’s near me, protected from the outside world and also from the demons of fright that run rampant in my mind. These days, if I smile at all, it’s only with him.

We find Rose’s apartment building and a maid lets us inside. It’s a small but elegant place with heavy red velvet drapes, regal furniture, and gold-framed artwork on the walls. Most of the oil paintings depict tropical landscapes, and I wonder if they remind her of her home in Martinique.

Rose sits on a couch in the living room, across from a uniformed military man. His elaborate red jacket lies atop a white shirt, vest, and breeches with tall boots. From his many medals, it’s clear he’s some sort of general. He’s short and has sharp features, and yet he emanates strength and power.

“Perhaps, then, you can speak to Robespierre on behalf of my husband,” Rose implores him as she bids us enter with a wave of her hand.

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