who conveyed it by dumb show to the waiting world. All became clear; they would not descend. The address must be read to Their Majesties as they sit snug in the coach.
Father Poignard’s head was whirling. He should have had carpets, he should have had canopies, he should have had some kind of temporary pavilion erected, perhaps bedecked with green boughs in the fashionable rustic style, perhaps with the royal arms on display, or the monarchs’ entwined monograms made out of flowers. His expression grew wild, repentant, remote. Luckily, Father Herivaux remembered to give the nod to the scholarship boy.
The boy began, his voice gathering strength after the first few nervous phrases. Father Herivaux relaxed; he had written it, coached the boy. And he was satisfied, it sounded well.
The Queen was seen to shiver. ‘Ah!’ went the world. ‘She shivered!’ A half-second later, she stifled a yawn. The King turned, attentive. And what was this? The coachman was gathering the reins! The whole ponderous entourage stirred and creaked forward. They were going – the welcome not acknowledged, the address not half-read.
The scholarship boy did not seem to notice what was happening. He just went on orating. His face was set and pale, he was looking straight ahead. Surely he must know that by now they are driving down the street?
The air was loud with unvoiced sentiment. All term we’ve been planning this…The crush moved, aimlessly, on the spot. The rain was coming down harder now. It seemed rude to break ranks and dash for cover, yet no ruder than what the King and Queen had done, driving off like that, leaving Thing talking in the middle of the street…
Father Poignard said, ‘It’s nothing personal. It’s nothing we did, surely? Her Majesty was tired…’
‘Might as well talk to her in Japanese, I suppose,’ said the student at his elbow.
Father Poignard said, ‘Camille, for once you are right.’
The scholarship boy was now concluding his speech. Without a smile, he bid a fond and loyal goodbye to the monarchs who were no longer in sight, and hoped that the school would have the honour, at some future time…
A consoling hand dropped on his shoulder. ‘Never mind, de Robespierre, it could have happened to anybody.’
Then, at last, the scholarship boy smiled.
THAT WAS PARIS, July 1775. In Troyes, Georges-Jacques Danton was about half-way through his life. His relatives did not know this, of course. He was doing well at school, though you could not describe him as settled. His future was the subject of family discussion.
SO: IN TROYES one day, near the cathedral, a man was drawing portraits. He was trying to sketch the passers-by, throwing occasional glances at the sky and humming to himself. It was a catchy, popular air.
No one wanted to be sketched; they pushed past and bustled on. He did not seem put out – it seemed to be his proper occupation, on a fine and pleasant afternoon. He was a stranger – rather dandified, with a Parisian air. Georges-Jacques Danton stood in front of him. In fact, he hovered conspicuously. He wanted to look at the man’s work and to get into conversation. He talked to everyone, especially to strangers. He liked to know all about people’s lives.
‘Are you at leisure to be portrayed?’ The man did not look up; he was putting a fresh sheet of paper on his board.
The boy hesitated.
The artist said, ‘You’re a student, you’ve no money, I know. But you do have that face – sweet Jesus, haven’t you had a busy time? Never seen a set of scars quite like it. Just stay still while I do you in charcoal a couple of times, then you can have one of them.’
Georges-Jacques stood still to be drawn. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye. ‘Don’t talk,’ the artist said. ‘Just do me that terrifying frown – yes, just so – and I’ll talk to you. My name is Fabre, Fabre d’Églantine. Funny name, you say. Why d’Églantine? you ask. Well, since you ask – in the literary competition of 1771, I was awarded a wreath of eglantine by the Academy of Toulouse. A signal, coveted, memorable honour – don’t you think? Yes, quite right, I’d rather have had a small gold bar, but what can you do? My friends pressed me to add the suffix ‘d’Églantine’ to my own homely appellation, in commemoration of the event. Turn your head a little. No, the other way. So – you say – if this fellow is feted for his literary efforts, what, is he doing making sketches in the street?’
‘I suppose you must be versatile,’ Georges-Jacques said.
‘Some of your local dignitaries invited me to read my work,’ Fabre said. ‘Didn’t work out, did it? I quarrelled with my patrons. No doubt you’ve heard of artists doing something of that sort.’
Georges-Jacques observed him, as best he could without turning his head. Fabre was a man in his mid-twenties, not tall, with unpowdered dark hair cut short. His coat was well-brushed but shiny at the cuffs; his linen was worn. Everything he said was both serious and not serious. Various experimental expressions chased themselves across his face.
Fabre chose another pencil. ‘Little to the left,’ he said. ‘Now, you say versatile – I am in fact a playwright, director, portraitist – as you see – and landscape painter; a composer and musician, poet and choreographer. I am an essayist on all subjects of public interest, and speak several languages. I should like to try my hand at landscape gardening, but no one will commission me. I have to say it – the world doesn’t seem to be ready for me. Until last week I was a travelling actor, but I have mislaid my troupe.’
He had finished. He threw his pencil down, screwed up his eyes and looked at his drawings, holding them both out at arms’ length. ‘There you are,’ he said, deciding. ‘That’s the better one, you keep it.’
Danton’s unlovely face stared back at him: the long scar, the bashed-in nose, the thick hair springing back from his forehead.
‘When you’re famous,’ he said, ‘this could be worth money.’ He looked up. ‘What happened to the other actors? Were you going to put on a play?’
He would have looked forward to it. Life was quiet; life was dull.
Quite abruptly, Fabre rose from his stool and made an obscene gesture in the direction of Bar-sur-Seine. ‘Two of our most applauded thespians mouldering in some village dungeon on a drunk-and-disorderly charge. Our leading lady impregnated months ago by some dismal rural wight, and now fit only for the most vulgar of low comedy roles. We have disbanded. Temporarily.’ He sat down again. ‘Now you – ’ his eyes lit up with interest – ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to run away from home and become an actor?’
‘I don’t think so. My relatives are expecting me to become a priest.’
‘Oh, you want to leave that alone,’ Fabre said. ‘Do you know how they pick bishops? On their pedigree. Have you a pedigree? Look at you. You’re a farm boy. What’s the point of entering a profession unless you can get to the top?’
‘Could I get to the top if I became a travelling actor?’
He asked civilly, as if he were prepared to consider anything.
Fabre laughed. ‘You could play the villains. You’d be well received. You’ve got a good voice there, potentially.’ He patted his chest. ‘Let it come from here.’ He pounded his fist below his diaphragm. ‘Breathe from here. Think of your breath as a river. Let it just
