me say,’ Laclos remarked, ‘that it does appear that you are less than wholly devoted to the Duke’s interests yourself.’
‘Some of us were discussing what plans you might have, afterwards, for the less-than-wholly-devoted.’
Camille waited. Laclos thought, how about a one-way ticket to Pennsylvania? You’d enjoy life among the Quakers. Alternatively, how about a nice dip in the Seine? He said, ‘You stick with the Duke, my boy. I promise you’ll do well out of it.’
‘Oh, you can be sure I’ll do well out of it.’ Camille leaned back in his chair. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Laclos, that you might be helping me to my revolution, and not vice versa? It might be like one of those novels where the characters take over and leave the author behind.’
Laclos brought his fist down on the table and raised his voice. ‘You always want to push it, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You always want to have the last word?’
‘Laclos,’ Camille said, ‘everyone is looking at you.’ It was now impossible to go on. Laclos apologized as they parted. He was annoyed with himself for having lost his temper with a cheap pamphleteer, and the apology was his penance. As he walked he composed his face to its usual urbanity. Camille watched him go. This won’t do, he thought. If this goes on I’ll have no soul to sell when someone makes me a really fair offer. He hurried away, to break to d’Anton the excellent news that he was about to be offered a bribe.
JULY 11: Camille turned up at Robespierre’s lodgings at Versailles. ‘Mirabeau has told the King to pull his troops out of Paris,’ he said. ‘Louis won’t; but those troops are not to be relied on. The Queen’s cabal is trying to get M. Necker sacked. And now the King says he will send the Assembly to the provinces.’
Robespierre was writing a letter to Augustin and Charlotte. He looked up. ‘The Estates-General is what he still calls it.’
‘Yes. So I came to see if you were packing your bags.’
‘Far from it. I’m just settling in.’
Camille wandered about the room. ‘You’re very calm.’
‘I’m learning patience through listening to the Assembly’s daily ration of drivel.’
‘Oh, you don’t think much of your colleagues. Mirabeau – you hate him.’
‘Don’t overstate my case for me.’ Robespierre put his pen down. ‘Camille, come here, let me look at you.’
‘No, why?’ Camille said nervously. ‘Max, tell me what I should do. My opinions will go soft. The republic – the Comte laughs at it. He makes me write, he tells me what to write, and he hardly lets me out of his sight. I sit beside him each night at dinner. The food is good, so is the wine, so is the conversation.’ He threw his hands out. ‘He’s corrupting me.’
‘Don’t be such a prig,’ Robespierre said unexpectedly. ‘He can get you on in the world, and that’s what you need at the moment. You should be there, not here. I can’t give you what he can.’
Robespierre knows – he almost always knows – exactly what will happen. Camille is sharp and clever, but he gives no evidence of any ideas about self-preservation. He has seen Mirabeau with him in public, one arm draped around his shoulders, as if he were some tart he’d picked up at the Palais-Royal. All this is distasteful; and the Comte’s larger motives, his wider ambitions, are as clear as if Dr Guillotin had him on a dissecting table. For the moment, Camille is enjoying himself. The Comte is bringing on his talents. He enjoys the flattery and fuss; then he comes for absolution. Their relationship has fallen back into its old pattern, as if the last decade were the flick of an eyelid. He knows all about the disillusionment that Camille will suffer one day, but there’s no point in trying to tell him: let him live through it. It’s like disappointments in love. Everyone must have them. Or so he is told.
‘Did I tell you about Anaïs, this girl I’m supposed to be engaged to? Augustin tells me I suddenly have rivals.’
‘What, since you left?’
‘So it seems. Hardly repining, is she?’
‘Do you feel hurt?’
He considered. ‘Oh, well, you know, I have always been vastly full of amour propre, haven’t I? No…’ He smiled. ‘She’s a nice girl, Anaïs, but she’s not over-bright. The truth is, it was all set up by other people anyway.’
‘Why did you go along with it?’
‘For the sake of a quiet life.’
Camille wandered across the room. He opened the window a little wider, and leaned out. ‘What’s going to happen?’ he asked. ‘Revolution is inevitable.’
‘Oh yes. But God works through men.’
‘And so?’
‘Somebody must break the deadlock between the Assembly and the King.’
‘But in the real world, of real actions?’
‘And it must be Mirabeau, I suppose. All right, nobody trusts him, but if he gave the signal – ’
‘Deadlock. Signal.’ Camille slammed the window shut. He crossed the room. Robespierre removed the ink from the path of his ire. ‘Is a signal something you give by waving your arms?’ He fell to his knees. Robespierre took his arms and tried to pull him to his feet. ‘Good, this is real,’ Camille said. ‘I am kneeling on the floor, you are trying to get me on my feet. Not metaphorically, but actually. Look,’ he said, hurling himself out of his friend’s grasp, ‘now I have fallen straight over on my face. This is action,’ Camille said to the carpet. ‘Now, can you distinguish what has just happened from what happens when somebody says “the country is on its knees”?’
‘Of course I can. Please get up.’
Camille stood up and brushed himself down a little.
‘You terrify me,’ Robespierre said. He turned away and sat down at the table where he had been writing the letter. He took off his spectacles, rested his elbows on the table and covered his closed eyes with his fingertips. ‘Metaphors are good,’ he said. ‘I like metaphors. Metaphors don’t kill people.’
‘They’re killing me. If I hear another mention of rising tides or crumbling edifices I shall throw myself out of the window. I can’t listen to this talk any more. I saw Laclos the other day. I was so disgusted, finally, I thought I shall have to do something by myself.’
Robespierre picked up his pen and added a phrase to his letter. ‘I am afraid of civil disorder,’ he said.
‘Afraid of it? I hope for it. Mirabeau – he has his own interests – but if we had a leader whose name is absolutely clean – ’
‘I don’t know if there’s such a man in the Assembly.’
‘There’s you,’ Camille said.
‘Oh yes?’ He applied himself to the next sentence. ‘They call Mirabeau “The Torch of Provence”. And do you know what they call me? “The Candle of Arras”. ’
‘But in time, Max
