wall, he will call the Estates.’
‘You applaud the Parlement’s victory?’
‘I don’t applaud at all,’ d’Anton said sharply. ‘I merely comment. Personally I believe that calling the Estates is the right thing for the King to do, but I am afraid that some of the nobles who are campaigning for it simply want to use the Estates to cut down the King’s power and increase their own.’
‘I believe you’re right,’ Hérault said.
‘You should know.’
‘Why should I know?’
‘You are said to be an habitué of the Queen’s circle.’
Hérault laughed again. ‘No need to play the surly democrat with me, d’Anton. I suspect we’re more in sympathy than you know. It’s true Her Majesty allows me the privilege of taking her money at her gracious card table. But the truth is, the Court is full of men of good will. There are more of them there than you will find in the Parlement.’
Makes speeches, d’Anton thought, at the drop of a hat. Well, who doesn’t? But so professionally charming. So professionally smooth.
‘They have good will towards their families,’ Camille cut in. ‘They like to see them awarded comfortable pensions. Is it 700,000 livres a year to the Polignac family? And aren’t you a Polignac? Tell me, why do you content yourself with one judicial position? Why don’t you just buy the entire legal system, and have done with it?’
Hérault de Séchelles was a connoisseur, a collector. He would travel the breadth of Europe for a carving, a clock, a first edition. He looked at Camille as if he had come a long way to see him, and found him a low-grade fake. He turned back to d’Anton. ‘What amazes me is this curious notion that is abroad among simple souls – that because the Parlement is opposing the King it somehow stands for the interests of the people. In fact, it is the King who is trying to impose an equitable taxation system – ’
‘That doesn’t matter to me,’ Camille said. ‘I just like to see these people falling out amongst themselves, because the more they do that the quicker everything will collapse and the quicker we shall have the republic. If I take sides meanwhile, it’s only to help the conflict along.’
‘How eccentric your views are,’ Hérault said. ‘Not to mention dangerous.’ For a moment he looked bemused, tired, vague. ‘Well, things won’t go on as they are,’ he said. ‘And I shall be glad, really.’
‘Are you bored?’ d’Anton asked. A very direct question, but as soon as it popped into his head it had popped out of his mouth – which was not like him.
‘I suppose that might be it,’ Hérault said ruefully. ‘Though one would like to be – you know, more lofty. I mean, one likes to think there should be changes in the interest of France, not just because one’s at a loose end.’
Odd, really – within a few minutes, the whole tenor of the conversation had changed. Hérault had become confiding, dropped his voice, shed his oratorical airs; he was talking to them as if he knew them well. Even Camille was looking at him with the appearance of sympathy.
‘Ah, the burden of your wealth and titles,’ Camille said. ‘Maître d’Anton and I find it brings tears to our eyes.’
‘I always knew you for men of sensibility.’ Hérault gathered himself. ‘Must get off to Versailles, expected for supper. Goodbye for now, d’Anton. You’ve married, haven’t you? My compliments to your wife.’
D’Anton stood and looked after him. A speculative expression crossed his face.
THEY HAD STARTED to spend time at the Café du Foy, in the Palais-Royal. It had a different, less decorous atmosphere from M. Charpentier’s place; there was a different set of people. And one thing about it – there was no chance of bumping into Claude.
When they arrived, a man was standing on a chair declaiming verses. He made some sweeping gestures with a paper, then clutched his chest in an agony of stage-sincerity. D’Anton glanced at him without interest, and turned away.
‘They’re checking you out,’ Camille whispered. ‘The Court. To see if you could be any use to them. They’ll offer you a little post, Georges-Jacques. They’ll turn you into a functionary. If you take their money you’ll end up like Claude.’
‘Claude has done all right,’ d’Anton said. ‘Until you came into his life.’
‘Doing all right isn’t enough though, is it?’
‘Isn’t it? I don’t know.’ He looked at the actor to avoid Camille’s eyes. ‘Ah, he’s finished. It’s funny, I could swear – ’
Instead of descending from his chair, the man looked hard and straight at them. ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said. He jumped down, wormed his way across the room, produced some cards from his pocket and thrust them at d’Anton. ‘Have some free tickets,’ he said. ‘How are you, Georges-Jacques?’ He laughed delightedly. ‘You can’t place me, can you? And by hell, you’ve grown!’
‘The prizewinner?’ d’Anton said.
‘The very same. Fabre d’Églantine, your humble servant. Well now, well now!’ He pounded d’Anton’s shoulder, with a stage-effect bunched fist. ‘You took my advice, didn’t you? You’re a lawyer. Either you’re doing quite well, or you’re living beyond your means, or you’re blackmailing your tailor. And you have a married look about you.’
D’Anton was amused. ‘Anything else?’
Fabre dug him in the belly. ‘You’re beginning to run to fat.’
‘Where’ve you been? What have you been up to?’
‘Around, you know. This new troupe I’m with – very successful season last year.’
‘Not here, though, was it? I’d have caught up with you, I’m always at the theatre.’
‘No. Not here. Nimes. All right then. Moderately successful. I’ve given up the landscape gardening. Mainly I’ve been writing plays and touring. And writing songs.’ He broke off and started to whistle something. People turned around and stared. ‘Everybody sings that song,’ he said. ‘I wrote it. Yes, sorry, I am an embarrassment at times. I wrote a lot of those songs that go around in your head, and much good it’s done me. Still, I made it to Paris. I like to come here, to this café I mean, and try out my first drafts. People do you the courtesy of listening, and they’ll give you an honest opinion – you’ve not asked for it, of course, but let that pass. The tickets are for Augusta. It’s at the Italiens. It’s a tragedy, in more ways than one. I think it will probably come off after this week. The critics are after my blood.’
‘I saw Men of Letters,’ Camille said. ‘That was yours, Fabre, wasn’t it?’
Fabre turned. He took out a lorgnette, and examined Camille. ‘The less said about Men of Letters the better. All that stony silence. And then, you know, the hissing.’
‘I suppose you must expect it, if you write a play about critics. But of course, Voltaire’s plays were often hissed. His first nights usually ended in some sort of riot.’
‘True,’
