‘Oh yes, but while you were busy with your plain chant you wouldn’t be spying on people and practising the art of manipulation.’ She laughed – without merriment now. ‘I suppose you thought, until you came into the drawing room, how worldly-wise and sophisticated I was? That I never put a foot wrong?’
‘Oh no. Until then, I thought what a boring life you had.’
‘I’d like to ask you to forget what has happened in the last few days.’ Annette paused, a rose in her hand. ‘But you won’t, will you, because you’re stubborn and vain, and bent on seizing what you – quite wrongly – feel to be your advantage.’
‘I didn’t spy on you, you know.’ She wanted, very badly, to put this right. ‘Adèle dared me to walk in. What would happen if I said yes, I want to marry him?’
‘That’s unthinkable,’ her mother said. One flower, icy-white, escaped to the carpet.
‘Not really. The human brain’s a wonderful thing.’
Lucile retrieved the long-stemmed rose, handed it back to her mother. She sucked from her finger a bead of blood. I may do it, she thought, or I may not. In any event, there will be more letters. She will not use Montesquieu again, but will file them inside Mably’s disquisition of 1768: Doubts on the Natural Order of Societies. Those, she feels, have suddenly become considerable.
III. Maximilien: Life and Times
MERCURE DE FRANCE, June 1783: ‘M. de Robespierre, a young barrister of great merit, deployed in this matter – which is in the cause of the arts and the sciences – an eloquence and wisdom that give the highest indications of his talents.’
‘I see the thorn that’s in the rose
In these bouquets you offer me …’
Maximilien de Robespierre, Poems
THE CUTTING was growing yellow now, worn from much handling. He had been trying to think how to preserve it and keep it clean, but the whole sheet was curling at the edges. He was certain that he knew it by heart, but if he simply repeated it to himself, it might have been something he had made up. But when you read it, held the paper in your hand, you could be sure that it was another person’s opinion, written by a Paris journalist, set up by the printers. You could not say that it had not happened.
There was quite a long report of the case. It was, of course, a matter of public interest. It had all begun when a M. de Vissery of Saint-Omer got himself a lightning conductor and put it up on his house, watched by a dour crowd of simpletons; when the work was finished they had clumped off to the Municipality and claimed that the thing actually attracted lightning, and must be taken down. Why would M. de Vissery want to attract lightning? Well, he was in league with the devil, wasn’t he?
So, to law over the subject’s right to have a lightning conductor. The aggrieved householder consulted Maître de Buissart, a leading figure at the Arras Bar, a man with a strong scientific bent. Maximilien was well in with de Buissart, at the time. His colleague got quite excited: ‘You see, there’s a principle at stake; there are people trying to block progress, to oppose the dissemination of the benefits of science – and we can’t, if we count ourselves enlightened men, stand idly by – so would you like to come in on this, write some letters for me? Do you think we should write to Benjamin Franklin?’
Suggestions, advice, scientific commentary poured in. Papers were spread all over the house. ‘This man Marat,’ de Buissart said, ‘it’s good of him to take so much trouble, but we won’t push his hypotheses too strongly. I hear he’s in bad odour with the scientists of the Academy.’ When, finally, the case went to the Council of Arras, de Buissart stood aside, let de Robespierre make the speeches. De Buissart hadn’t realized, when the case began, what a strain on his memory and organizational powers it would be. His colleague didn’t seem to feel the strain; de Buissart put it down to youth.
Afterwards, the winners gave a party. Letters of congratulation came – well, pouring in would be an exaggeration, but there was no doubt that the case had attracted attention. He still had all the papers, Dr Marat’s voluminous evidence, his own concluding speech with the last-minute emendations down the side. And for months when people came calling the Aunts would take out the newspaper and say, ‘Did you see about the lightning conductor, where it said Maximilien did so well?’
Max is quiet, calm and easy to live with; he has a neat build and wide, light eyes of a changeable blue-green. His mouth is not without humour, his complexion is pale; he takes care of his clothes and they fit him very well. His brown hair is always dressed and powdered; once he could not afford to keep up appearances, so now appearances are his only luxury.
This is a well-conducted household. He gets up at six, works on his papers till eight. At eight the barber comes. Then a light breakfast – fresh bread, a cup of milk. By ten o’clock he is usually in court. After the sitting he tries to avoid his colleagues and get home as soon as he can. His stomach still churning from the morning’s conflicts, he eats some fruit, takes a cup of coffee and a little red wine well diluted. How can they do it, tumble out of court roaring and backslapping, after a morning shouting each other down? Then back to their houses to drink and dine, to address themselves to slabs of red meat? He has never learned the trick.
After his meal he takes a walk, whether it is fine or not, because dog Brount does not care about the weather and makes trouble with his loping about if he is kept indoors. He lets Brount tow him through the streets, the woods, the fields; they come home looking not nearly so respectable as when they went out. Sister Charlotte says, ‘Don’t bring that muddy dog in here.’
Brount flops down outside the door of his room. He closes the door and works till seven or eight o’clock; longer, of course, if there is a big case next day. When finally he puts his papers away, he might chew his pen and try some verse for the next meeting of the literary society. It’s not poetry, he admits; it’s proficient, unserious stuff. Sometimes more unserious than others; consider, for example, his ‘Ode to Jam Tarts’.
He reads a good deal; then once a week there is the meeting of the Academy of Arras. Their ostensible purpose is to discuss history, literature, scientific topics, current affairs. They do all this, and also purvey gossip, arrange marriages, and start up small-town feuds.
On other evenings he writes letters. Frequently Charlotte insists on going over the household accounts. And the Aunts take offence if they are not visited once a week. They have separate houses now, so that takes up two evenings.
There had been many changes when he returned to Arras from Paris, with his new law degree and his carefully modulated hopes. In 1776, the year of the American war, Aunt Eulalie to the general amazement announced that she was getting married. There is hope for us all, said the spinsters of the parish. Aunt Henriette said Eulalie had taken leave of her senses: Robert Deshorties was a widower with several children, including a daughter, Anaïs, who was almost of marriageable age. But within six months, Aunt Henriette’s sour grapes had turned to secretive pink blushes and an amount of unbecoming fluttering and hint-dropping. The following year she married Gabriel du Rut, a noisy man, aged fifty-three. Maximilien was glad he was in Paris and could not get away.
For Aunt Henriette’s godchild, there was no marriage, no celebration. His sister Henriette had never been strong. She couldn’t
