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dishes for the Swiss philosopher.
    “So tell me,” the king says, “was the man himself as brilliant as his writing?”
    Everyone turns to me, and I can see that Henri is holding his breath. “There has never been a more remarkable man,” I reply. “With the exception, of course, of Your Majesty.”
    The king smiles widely, and the queen steps so close to me that I catch the scent of her jasmine perfume. “Did he really dress like an Armenian?” she asks.
    “In vests and caftans.” I am careful not to add that he sometimes adopted the American habit of wearing a fur cap. “And he was enormously fond of my mother’s Käsespätzle.”
    “Käsespätzle,” she repeats, and I wonder how long it’s been since she has tasted the food of her homeland. “I would love some Käsespätzle.”
    My mother gasps, then says in her best French, “It would be an honor to prepare some for Your Majesty.”
    “You understand,” the king says sorrowfully, “that we cannot eat here.”
    But my mother is already shaking her head. “I shall make some to take home with you.”
    I look at Curtius, and neither of us can believe what is happening. It is one thing to feed philosophers, but to provide food for queens … We will have customers beating a path to our door for days. Perhaps even weeks! After the Duchesse de Polignac visited the snuff shop on the Rue Saint-Honoré, the owner had to hire extra help for a month. My mother rushes off to begin a batch of Käsespätzle , and I smile at Rose, who brought this all about. I take the royal family to the last tableau. It is covered with white sheets, and as Curtius unveils the final scene, Rose puts her hand to her mouth. It is always a shock for clients to see themselves as they truly are, and I have spared nothing—neither cost nor vanity. She is excessively plump, with a second chin and pudgy eyes. But her lips are beautiful, and her dress is fit for the halls of Versailles. She is part of an intimate tableau with the queen in her dressing room. The wax Antoinette stares at herself in a handsome mirror, dressed in a heavy linen shift that will be changed into a revealing gauze nightgown tomorrow. Meanwhile, the wax Rose is holding a gazette des atours , a heavy book filled with swatches from which the queen chooses her outfits each morning.
    The queen approaches her seated figure with awe. Unlike the previous models, with their horsehair bodies, this one has been made entirely of wax, from her Hapsburg lip to her painted toes. “You are responsible for this?” the queen asks.
    I can see that Henri is nervous, but there is nothing to be ashamed of. “Yes,” I reply.
    “And who thought of this?” the king questions.
    “I did,” I say, before Curtius can answer. “I wished to show Her Majesty as she truly is, full of grace and beauty even before she is dressed in her robes à la française.”
    The queen smiles, and then her daughter speaks. “I think it is improper.”
    “There is nothing improper,” the king overrules. “The queen is covered, and the act of dressing is a part of life.”
    “What about her feet?” Madame Royale sticks out her lower lip, an unattractive gesture on any child, but particularly on her. Hands on her hips, she feels obliged to add, “Madame Campan says—”
    “It is quite fine,” the queen says impatiently. “Dr. Curtius, Mademoiselle Grosholtz, you have an exceptional museum.”
    My uncle leads the royal family to the last stop on our tour. “The Curiosity Shop,” he says, and both princes clap their hands in delight. Filling the shelves are miniature wax models of all the figures in our museum. There are little wax kings and tiny wax princes. There are also models of houses and theaters. On the highest shelves are the wax figures for adults. When the queen’s brother Emperor Joseph II came to visit, he bought two miniatures of Venus in the nude. The princes want to see and touch everything, while Madame Royale stands back,