Lucile looked at her warily these days, not knowing what was going on in her head. They had ceased to speak to each other, in any sense that mattered. When others were present they managed some vapid exchanges; alone together, they were mutually embarrassed.
LUCILE: she spent all the time she could alone. She re-read La Nouvelle Heloïse. A year ago, when she had first picked up the book, Camille had told her he had a friend, some odd name, began with an R, who thought it the masterpiece of the age. His friend was an arch-sentimentalist; they would get on well, were they to meet. She understood that he himself did not think much of the book and wished a little to sway her judgement. She remembered him talking to her mother of Rousseaus Confessions, which was another of those books her father would not allow her to read. Camille said the author lacked all sense of delicacy and that some things were better not committed to paper; since then she had been careful what she wrote in her red diary. She recalled her mother laughing, saying you can do what you like I suppose as long as you retain a sense of delicacy? Camille had made some remark she barely heard, about the aesthetics of sin, and her mother had laughed again, and leaned towards him and touched his hair. She should have known then.
These days she was remembering incidents like that, turning them over, pulling them apart. Her mother seemed to be denying as far as one could make out what she was saying at all that she had ever been to bed with Camille. She thought her mother was probably lying.
Annette had been quite kind to her, she thought, considering the circumstances. She had once told her that time resolves most situations, without the particular need for action. It seemed a spineless way to approach life. Someone will be hurt, she thought, but every way I win. I am now a person of consequence; results trail after my actions.
She rehearsed that crucial scene. After the storm, a struggling beam of late sun had burnished a stray unpowdered hair on her mothers neck. His hands had rested confidingly in the hollow of her waist. When Annette whirled around, her whole face had seemed to collapse, as if someone had hit her very hard. Camille had half-smiled; that was strange, she thought. For just a moment he had held on to her mothers wrist, as if reserving her for another day.
And the shock, the terrible, heart-stopping shock: yet why should it have been a shock, when it was give or take the details just what she and Adèle had been hoping to see?
Her mother went out infrequently, and always in the carriage. Perhaps she was afraid she might run into Camille by accident. There was a tautness in her face, as if she had become older.
MAY CAME, the long light evenings and the short nights; more than once Claude worked right through them, trying to lay a veneer of novelty on the proposals of the new Comptroller-General. Parlement was not to be bamboozled; it was that land tax again. When the Parlement of Paris proved obdurate, the usual royal remedy was to exile it to the provinces. This year the King sent it to Troyes, each member ordered there by an individual lettre de cachet. Exciting for Troyes, Georges-Jacques dAnton said.
On 14 June he married Gabrielle at the church of Saint-Germain lAuxerrois. She was twenty-four years old; waiting patiently for her father and her fiancé to settle things up, she had spent her afternoons experimenting in the kitchen, and had eaten her creations; she had taken to chocolate and cream, and absently spooning sugar into her fathers good strong coffee. She giggled as her mother tugged her into her wedding dress, thinking of when her new husband would peel her out of it. She was moving on a stage in life. As she came out into the sunshine, hanging on to Georgess arm harder than convention dictated, she thought, I am perfectly safe now, my life is before me and I know what it will be, and I would not change it, not even to be the Queen. She turned a little pink at the warm sentimentality of her own thoughts; those sweets have jellified my brain, she thought, smiling into the sun at her wedding guests, feeling the warmth of her body inside her tight dress. Especially, she would not like to be the Queen; she had seen her in procession in the streets, her face set with stupidity and helpless contempt, her hard-edged diamonds flashing around her like naked blades.
The apartment they had rented proved to be too near to Les Halles. Oh, but I like it, she said. The only thing that bothers me are those wild-looking pigs that run up and down the street. She grinned at him. Theyre nothing to you, I suppose.
Very small pigs. Inconsiderable. But no, youre right, we should have seen the disadvantages.
But its lovely. It makes me happy; except for the pigs, and the mud, and the language that the market ladies use. We can always move when weve got more money and with your new position as Kings Councillor, that wont be very long.
Of course, she had no idea about the debts. Hed thought he would tell her, once life settled down. But it didnt settle, because she was pregnant from the wedding night, it seemed and she was quite silly, mindless, euphoric, dashing between the café and their own house, full of plans and prospects. Now he knew her better he knew that she was just as hed thought, just as hed wished: innocent, conventional, with a pious streak. It would have seemed hideous, criminal to allow anything to overshadow her happiness. The time when he might have told her came, passed, receded. The pregnancy suited her; her hair thickened, her skin glowed, she was lush, opulent, almost exotic, and frequently out of breath. A great sea of optimism buoyed them up, carried them along into midsummer.
MAÎTRE DANTON, may I detain you for a moment? They were just outside the Law Courts. DAnton turned. Hérault de Séchelles, a judge, a man of his own age: a man seriously aristocratic, seriously rich. Well, Georges-Jacques thought: we are going up in the world.
I wanted to offer you my congratulations, on your reception into the Kings Bench. Very good speech you made. DAnton inclined his head. Youve been in court this morning?
DAnton proffered a portfolio. The case of the Marquis de Chayla. Proof of the Marquiss right to bear that title.
You seem to have proved it already, in your own mind, Camille muttered.
Oh, hallo, Hérault said. I didnt see you there, Maître Desmoulins.
Of course you saw me. You just wish you hadnt.
Come, come, Hérault said. He laughed. He had perfectly even white teeth. What the hell do you want? dAnton thought. But Hérault seemed quite composed and civil, just ready for some topical chat. What do you think will happen, he asked, now that the Parlement has been exiled?
Why ask me? dAnton thought. He considered his response, then said: The King must have money. The Parlement has now said that only the Estates can grant him a subsidy, and I take it that having said this they mean to stick to it. So when he recalls them in the autumn, they will say the same thing again and then at last, with his back to the wall, he will call the Estates.
You applaud the Parlements victory?
I dont applaud at all, dAnton said sharply. I merely comment. Personally I believe that calling the Estates is the right thing for the King to do, but I am afraid that some of the nobles who are campaigning for it simply want to use the Estates to cut down the Kings power and increase their own.
You applaud the Parlements victory?
I dont applaud at all, dAnton said sharply. I merely comment. Personally I believe that calling the Estates is the right thing for the King to do, but I am afraid that some of the nobles who are campaigning for it simply want to use the Estates to cut down the Kings power and increase their own.
I believe youre right, Hérault said.
You should know.
Why should I know?
You are said to be an habitué of the Queens circle.
Hérault laughed again. No need to play the surly democrat with me, dAnton. I suspect were more in sympathy than you know. Its true Her Majesty allows me the privilege of taking her money at her gracious card table. But the truth is, the Court is full of men of good will. There are more of them there than you will find in the Parlement.
Makes speeches, dAnton thought, at the drop of a hat. Well, who doesnt? But so professionally charming. So professionally smooth.
They have good will towards their families, Camille cut in. They like to see them awarded comfortable pensions. Is it 700,000 livres a year to the Polignac family? And arent you a Polignac? Tell me, why do you content yourself with one judicial position? Why dont you just buy the entire legal system, and have done with it?
Hérault de Séchelles was a connoisseur, a collector. He would travel the breadth of Europe for a carving, a clock, a first edition. He looked at Camille as if he had come a long way to see him, and found him a low-grade fake. He turned back to dAnton. What amazes me is this curious notion that is abroad among simple souls that because the Parlement is opposing the King it somehow stands for the interests of the people. In fact, it is the King who is trying to impose an equitable taxation system
That doesnt matter to me, Camille said. I just like to see these people falling out amongst themselves, because the more they do that the quicker everything will collapse and the quicker we shall have the republic. If I take sides meanwhile, its only to help the conflict along.
How eccentric your views are, Hérault said. Not to mention dangerous. For a moment he looked bemused, tired, vague. Well, things wont go on as they are, he said. And I shall be glad, really.
Are you bored? dAnton asked. A very direct question, but as soon as it popped into his head it had popped out of his mouth which was not like him.
I suppose that might be it, Hérault said ruefully. Though one would like to be you know, more lofty. I mean, one likes to think there should be changes in the interest of France, not just because ones at a loose end.
Odd, really within a few minutes, the whole tenor of the conversation had changed. Hérault had become confiding, dropped his voice, shed his oratorical airs; he was talking to them as if he knew them well. Even Camille was looking at him with the appearance of sympathy.
Ah, the burden of your wealth and titles, Camille said. Maître dAnton and I find it brings tears to our eyes.
I always knew you for men of sensibility. Hérault gathered himself. Must get off to Versailles, expected for supper. Goodbye for now, dAnton. Youve married, havent you? My compliments to your wife.
DAnton stood and looked after him. A speculative expression crossed his face.
THEY HAD STARTED to spend time at the Café du Foy, in the Palais-Royal. It had a different, less decorous atmosphere from M. Charpentiers place; there was a different set of people. And one thing about it there was no chance of bumping into Claude.
When they arrived, a man was standing on a chair declaiming verses. He made some sweeping gestures with a paper, then clutched his chest in an agony of stage-sincerity. DAnton glanced at him without interest, and turned away.
Theyre checking you out, Camille whispered. The Court. To see if you could be any use to them. Theyll offer you a little post, Georges-Jacques. Theyll turn you into a functionary. If you take their money youll end up like Claude.
Claude has done all right, dAnton said. Until you came into his life.
Doing all right isnt enough though, is it?
Isnt it? I dont know. He looked at the actor to avoid Camilles eyes. Ah, hes finished. Its funny, I could swear
Instead of descending from his chair, the man looked hard and straight at them. Ill be damned, he said. He jumped down, wormed his way across the room, produced some cards from his pocket and thrust them at dAnton. Have some free tickets, he said. How are you, Georges-Jacques? He laughed delightedly. You cant place me, can you? And by hell, youve grown!
The prizewinner? dAnton said.
The very same. Fabre dÉglantine, your humble servant. Well now, well now! He pounded dAntons shoulder, with a stage-effect bunched fist. You took my advice, didnt you? Youre a lawyer. Either youre doing quite well, or youre living beyond your means, or youre blackmailing your tailor. And you have a married look about you.
DAnton was amused. Anything else?
Fabre dug him in the belly. Youre beginning to run to fat.
Whereve you been? What have you been up to?
Around, you know. This new troupe Im with very successful season last year.
Not here, though, was it? Id have caught up with you, Im always at the theatre.
No. Not here. Nimes. All right then. Moderately successful. Ive given up the landscape gardening. Mainly Ive been writing plays and touring. And writing songs. He broke off and started to whistle something. People turned around and stared. Everybody sings that song, he said. I wrote it. Yes, sorry, I am an embarrassment at times. I wrote a lot of those songs that go around in your head, and much good its done me. Still, I made it to Paris. I like to come here, to this café I mean, and try out my first drafts. People do you the courtesy of listening, and theyll give you an honest opinion youve not asked for it, of course, but let that pass. The tickets are for Augusta. Its at the Italiens. Its a tragedy, in more ways than one. I think it will probably come off after this week. The critics are after my blood.
I saw Men of Letters, Camille said. That was yours, Fabre, wasnt it?
Fabre turned. He took out a lorgnette, and examined Camille. The less said about Men of Letters the better. All that stony silence. And then, you know, the hissing.
I suppose you must expect it, if you write a play about critics. But of course, Voltaires plays were often hissed. His first nights usually ended in some sort of riot.
True, Fabre said. But then Voltaire wasnt always worried about where his next meal was coming from.
I know your work, Camille insisted. Youre a satirist. If you want to get on well, try toadying to the Court a bit more.
Fabre lowered his lorgnette. He was immensely, visibly gratified and flattered just by that one sentence, I know your work. He ran his hand through his hair. Sell out? I dont think so. I do like an easy life, I admit. I try to turn a fast penny. But there are limits.
DAnton had found them a table. What is it? Fabre said, seating himself. Ten years? More? One says, Oh, well meet again, not quite meaning it.