I believe that you are only ten years old,’ Father said.
The child looked up at him and nodded.
‘And that altogether you are very advanced for your years?’
‘Yes,’ said the child. ‘That’s right.’
Father Herivaux bit his lip. He scurried on. Maximilien removed the spectacles he was obliged to wear, and rubbed the corners of his eyes. ‘Try “Yes, Father,”’ he suggested. ‘They expect it. Don’t nod at them, they tend to resent it. Also, when he asked you if you were clever, you should have been more modest about it. You know – “I try my best, Father.” That sort of thing.’
‘Groveller, are you, Thing?’ the little boy said.
‘Look, it’s just an idea. I’m only giving you the benefit of my experience.’ He put his glasses back on. The child’s large dark eyes swam into his. For a moment he thought of the dove, trapped in its cage. He had the feel of the feathers on his hands, soft and dead: the little bones without pulse. He brushed his hand down his coat.
The child had a stutter. It made him uneasy. In fact there was something about the whole situation that upset him. He felt that the modus vivendi he had achieved was under threat; that life would become more complicated, and that his affairs had taken a turn for the worse.
WHEN HE RETURNED to Arras for the summer holiday, Charlotte said, ‘You don’t grow much, do you?’
Same thing she said, year after year.
His teachers held him in esteem. No flair, they said; but he always tells the truth.
He was not quite sure what his fellow pupils thought of him. If you asked him what sort of a person he thought he was, he would tell you he was able, sensitive, patient and deficient in charm. But as for how this estimate might have differed from that of the people around him – well, how can you be sure that the thoughts in your head have ever been thought by anyone else?
He did not have many letters from home. Charlotte sent quite often a neat childish record of small concerns. He kept her letters for a day or two, read them twice; then, not knowing what to do with them, threw them away.
Camille Desmoulins had letters twice a week, huge letters; they became a public entertainment. He explained that he had first been sent away to school when he was seven years old, and as a consequence knew his family better on paper than he did in real life. The episodes were like chapters of a novel, and as he read them aloud for the general recreation, his friends began to think of his family as ‘characters’. Sometimes the whole group would be seized by pointless hilarity at some phrase such as ‘Your mother hopes you have been to confession’, and would repeat it to each other for days with tears of merriment in their eyes. Camille explained that his father was writing an Encyclopaedia of Law. He thought that the only purpose of the project was to excuse his father from conversing with his mother in the evenings. He ventured the suggestion that his father shut himself away with the Encyclopaedia, and then read what Father Proyart, the deputy principal, called ‘bad books’.
Camille replied to these letters in page after page of his formless handwriting. He was keeping the correspondence so that it could be published later.
‘Try to learn this truth, Maximilien,’ Father Herivaux said: ‘most people are lazy, and will take you at your own valuation. Make sure the valuation you put on yourself is high.’
For Camille this had never been a problem. He had the knack of getting himself into the company of the older, well-connected pupils, of making himself in some way fashionable. He was taken up by Stanislas Fréron, who was five years older, who was named after his godfather, the King of Poland. Fréron’s family was rich and learned, his uncle a noted foe of Voltaire. At six years old he had been taken to Versailles, where he had recited a poem for Mesdames Adelaide, Sophie and Victoire, the old King’s daughters; they had made a fuss of him and given him sweets. Fréron said to Camille, ‘When you are older I will take you about in society, and make your career.’
Was Camille grateful? Hardly at all. He poured scorn on Fréron’s ideas. He started to call him ‘Rabbit’. Fréron was incubating sensitivity. He would stand in front of a mirror to scrutinize his face, to see if his teeth stuck out or if he looked timid.
Then there was Louis Suleau, an ironical sort of boy, who smiled when the young aristocrats denigrated the status quo. It is an education, he said, to watch people mine the ground under their own feet. There will be a war in our lifetime, he told Camille, and you and I will be on different sides. So let us be fond of each other, while we may.
Camille said to Father Herivaux, ‘I will not go to confession any more. If you force me to go, I will pretend to be someone else. I will make up someone else’s sins and confess them.’
‘Be reasonable,’ Father Herivaux said. ‘When you’re sixteen, then you can throw over your faith. That’s the right age for doing it.’
But by the time he was sixteen Camille had a new set of derelictions. Maximilien de Robespierre endured small daily agonies of apprehension. ‘How do you get out?’ he asked.
‘It isn’t the Bastille, you know. Sometimes you can talk your way out. Or climb over the wall. Shall I show you where? No, you would rather not know.’
Inside the walls there is a reasoning intellectual community. Outside, beasts file past the iron gates. It is as if human beings have been caged, while outside wild animals range about and perform human occupations. The city stinks of wealth and corruption; beggars sit in roadside filth, the executioner carries out public tortures, there are beatings and robberies in broad daylight. What Camille finds outside the walls excites and appals him. It is a benighted city, he said, forgotten by God; a place of insidious spiritual depravity, with an Old Testament future. The society to which Fréron proposed to introduce him is some huge poisonous organism limping to its death; people like you, he said to Maximilien, are the only fit people to run a country.
Camille also said, ‘Wait until Father Proyart is appointed principal. Then we shall all be stamped into the ground.’ His eyes were alight at the prospect.
This was an idea peculiar to Camille, Maximilien thought: that the worse things get, the better they get. No one else seems to think this way.
BUT, AS IT HAPPENED, Father Proyart was passed over. The new principal was Father Poignard d’Enthienloye, a relaxed, liberal, talented man. He was alarmed at the spirit that had got about among his charges.
‘Father Proyart says you have a “set”,’ he told Maximilien. ‘He says you are all anarchists and puritans.’
‘Father Proyart doesn’t like me,’ Maximilien said. ‘And I think he overstates the case.’
‘Of course he overstates it. Must we plod? I have to read my office in half an hour.’
‘Are we puritans? He ought to be glad.’
‘If you talked about women all the time he would know what to do, but he says that all you talk about is politics.’
‘Yes,’ Maximilien said. He was willing to give reasonable consideration to the problems of his elders. ‘He is afraid that the high walls don’t keep American ideas out. He’s right, of course.’
‘Each generation has its passions. A schoolmaster sees them.
