isn’t that I mean to blackmail you.’
‘All right. All right, I am then. She’s … touring. Listen, just wait for me a half hour, will you? I’ll be through as soon as I can. I hate this hack-work, Camille. My genius is being crushed. My time is being wasted.’ He waved an arm at the stage, the dancers, the theatre manager frowning in his box. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’
‘Everybody is disgruntled this morning. In your box-office they are having an argument about the composition of the Estates-General.’
‘Ah, René Hébert, what a fire-eater. What really irks him is that his triumphant destiny is to be in charge of the ticket returns.’
‘I saw Billaud this morning. He is disgruntled too.’
‘Don’t mention that cunt to me,’ Fabre said. ‘Trying to take the bread out of writers’ mouths. He’s got one trade, why doesn’t he stick to it? It’s different for you,’ he added kindly. ‘I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to write a play, because you’re such a complete and utter failure as a lawyer. I think, Camille dear, that you and I should collaborate on some project.’
‘I think I should like to collaborate on a violent and bloody revolution. Something that would give offence to my father.’
‘I was thinking more of something in the short-term, which would make money,’ Fabre said reprovingly.
Camille took himself into the shadows, and watched Fabre losing his temper. The singer came stalking towards him, threw herself into a seat. She dropped her head, swayed her chin from side to side to relax the muscles of her neck: then pulled tight around her upper arms a fringed silk shawl that had a certain fraying splendour about it. She seemed frayed herself; her expression was bad-tempered, her mouth set. She looked Camille over. ‘Do I know you?’
He looked her over in turn. She was about twenty-seven, he thought; small bones, darkish brown hair, snub nose. She was pretty enough, but there was something blurred about her features: as though at some time she’d been beaten, hit around the head, had almost recovered but would never quite. She repeated her question. ‘Admire the directness of your approach,’ Camille said.
The girl smiled. Tender bruised mouth. She put up a hand to massage her throat. ‘I thought I really did know you.’
‘I am afflicted by this, too. Lately I think I know everybody in Paris. It’s like a series of hallucinations.’
‘You do know Fabre, though. Can you do something for me there? Have a word, put him in a better temper?’ Then she shook her head. ‘No, forget it. He’s right, my voice has gone. I trained in England, would you believe? I had these big ideas. I don’t know what I’m going to do now.’
‘Well – what have you ever done, between jobs?’
‘I used to sleep with a marquis.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘I don’t know,’ the girl said. ‘I get the impression that marquises aren’t so free with their money any more. And me, I’m not so free with my favours. Still – move on is the best thing. I think I’ll try Genoa, I’ve got contacts there.’
He liked her voice, her foreign accent; wanted to keep her talking. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Near Liège. I’ve – well – travelled a bit.’ She put her cheek on her hand. ‘My name is Anne Théroigne.’ She closed her eyes. ‘God, I’m so tired,’ she said. She moved thin shoulders inside the shawl, trying to ease the world off her back.
AT THE RUE CONDÉ, Claude was at home. ‘I’m surprised to see you,’ he said. He didn’t look it. ‘You’ve had your answer,’ he said. ‘Positively no. Never.’
‘Immortal, are you?’ Camille said. He felt just about ready for a fight.
‘I could almost believe you’re threatening me,’ Claude said.
‘Listen to me,’ Camille said. ‘Five years from now there will be none of this. There will be no Treasury officials, no aristocrats, people will be able to marry who they want, there will be no monarchy, no Parlements, and you won’t be able to tell me what I can’t do.’
He had never in his life spoken to anyone like this. It was quite releasing, he thought. I might become a thug for a career.
Annette, a room away, sat frozen in her chair. It was only once in six months that Claude came home early. It followed that Camille could not have prepared for him; this was all out of his head. He wants to marry my daughter, she thought, because someone is telling him he can’t. And she had for years nourished this rare and ferocious ego in her own drawing room, feeding it like some peculiar house-plant on mocha coffee and small confidences.
‘Lucile,’ she said, ‘sit in your chair, don’t dare leave this room. I will not condone your flouting your father’s authority.’
‘You mistake that for authority?’ Lucile said. Frightened, she walked out of the room. Camille was white with anger, his eyes opening like dark, slow stains. She stood in his path. ‘You must know,’ she said, to anyone it concerned, ‘I mean to have another life from the one they’ve worked out for me. Camille, I’m terrified of being ordinary. I’m terrified of being bored.’
His fingertips brushed the back of her hand. They were cold as ice. He turned on his heel. A door slammed. She had nothing left of him but the small chilled islands of skin. She heard her mother crying noisily out of sight, gasping and gagging. ‘Never,’ her father said, ‘never in twenty years has there been a word said out of place in this house, there have been none of these upsets, my daughters have never heard voices raised in anger.’
Adèle came out. ‘So now we are living in the real world,’ she said.
Claude wrung his hands. They had never seen anyone do it before.
THE D’ ANTONS’ son was a robust baby, with a brown skin, a full head of dark hair, and his father’s eyes, surprisingly light blue. The Charpentiers hung over the crib, pointing out resemblances and saying who he would be. Gabrielle was pleased with herself. She wanted to feed the baby herself, not send him off to a wet-nurse. ‘Ten years ago,’ her mother said, ‘that would have been quite unthinkable for a woman in your position. An advocate’s wife.’ She shook her head, disliking modern manners. Gabrielle said, perhaps some changes are for the better? But apart from this one, she could not think of any.
We are now in May 1788. The King has announced that he will abolish the Parlements. Some of their members are under arrest. Receipts are 503 million, expenditure is 629 million. Out in the street, one of the local pigs pursues a small child, and jumps on it under Gabrielle’s window. The incident makes her feel queasy. Since she gave birth, she does not wish to view life as a challenge.
So they moved on quarter day, to a first-floor apartment on the corner of the rue des Cordeliers and the Cour du Commerce. Her first thought was, we cannot afford this. They needed new furniture to fill it; it was the house of an established man. ‘Georges-Jacques has expensive tastes,’ her mother said.
‘I suppose the practice is doing well.’
‘This well? My dear, I’ve always enjoined obedience in you. But not imbecility.’
Gabrielle
