it make money?’ Claude asked.
‘Oh, not at all,’ Camille said happily. ‘I don’t even expect to cover costs. The idea is to keep the cover price as low as possible, so that nearly everybody will be able to afford it.’
‘How are you going to pay your printer, then?’
Camille looked mysterious. ‘There are sources,’ he said. ‘The idea really is to let people pay you to write what you were going to write anyway.’
‘You frighten me,’ Claude said. ‘You appear to have no moral sense whatever.’
‘The end result will be good. I won’t have to spend more than a few columns paying compliments to my backers. The rest of the paper I can use to give some publicity to Deputy Robespierre.’
Claude looked around fearfully. There was Deputy Robespierre, in conversation with his daughter Adèle. Their conversation seemed confidential – intimate almost. But then – he had to admit it – if you could separate Deputy Robespierre’s speeches at the Riding-School from the deputy’s own person, there was nothing at all alarming about him. Quite the reverse really. He is a neat, quiet young man; he seems equable, mild, responsible. Adèle is always bringing his name into the conversation; she must, obviously, have feelings towards him. He has no money, but then, you can’t have everything. You have to be glad simply to have a son-in-law who isn’t physically violent.
Adèle had found her way to Robespierre by easy conversational stages. What were they talking about? Lucile. ‘It’s fearful,’ she was saying. ‘Today – well, today was different, actually we had a good laugh.’ I won’t tell him what about, she decided. ‘But normally the atmosphere’s quite frightening. Lucile’s so strong-willed, she argues all the time. And she’s really made her mind up on him.’
‘I thought that, as he’d been asked here today, your father was softening a little.’
‘So did I. But now look at his face.’ They glanced across the room at Claude, then turned back and nodded to each other gloomily. ‘Still,’ Adèle said, ‘they’ll get their way in the end. They’re the kind of people who do. What worries me is, what will the marriage be like?’
‘The thing is,’ Robespierre said, ‘that everyone seems to regard Camille as a problem. But he isn’t a problem to me. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.’
‘Aren’t you nice to say so?’ And yes, isn’t he, she thought. Who else would venture so artless a statement, in these complicated days? ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Look over there. Camille and my mother are talking about us.’
So they were; heads together, just like in the old days. ‘Matchmaking is the province of elderly spinsters,’ Annette was saying.
‘Don’t you know one you could call in? I like things done correctly.’
‘But he’ll take her away. To Artois.’
‘So? One may travel there. Do you think there’s a steep cliff around Paris, and at Chaillot you drop off into hell? Besides, I don’t think he’ll ever go back home.’
‘But what about when the constitution’s made, and the Assembly dissolves?’
‘I don’t think it will work like that, you see.’
Lucile watched. Oh, mother, she thought, can’t you get any closer? Why don’t you just grapple him to the carpet, and have done with it? The earlier bonhomie had evaporated, as far as she was concerned. She didn’t want to be in this room, with all these chattering people. She looked around for the quietest possible corner. Fréron followed her.
She sat; managed a strained smile. He stretched a proprietorial arm along the back of her chair; lounging, making small-talk, his eyes on the room and not on her. But from time to time his eyes flickered downwards. Finally, softly, insinuatingly, he said, ‘Still a virgin, Lucile?’
Lucile blushed deeply. She bent her head. Not so far from the proper little miss, then? ‘Most emphatically,’ she said.
‘This is not the Camille I know.’
‘He’s saving me till I’m married.’
‘That’s all very well for him, I suppose. He’s got – outlets, hasn’t he?’
‘I don’t want to know this,’ she said.
‘Probably better not. But you’re a grown-up girl now. Don’t you find the delights of your maiden state begin to pall?’
‘What do you suggest I do about it, Rabbit? What opportunities do you think I have?’
‘Oh, I know you find ways to see him. I know you slip out now and again. I thought, at the Danton’s place perhaps. He and Gabrielle are not excessively moral.’
Lucile gave him a sideways glance, as devoid of expression as she could make it. She would not have taken part in this conversation – except that it was a painful relief to talk about her feelings to anyone, even a persecutor. Why must he slander Gabrielle? Rabbit will say anything, she decided. Even he realized he had gone too far – she could see it in his face. Just imagine, she thought – ‘Gabrielle, can we come round tomorrow and borrow your bed?’ Gabrielle would die sooner.
The thought of the Dantons’ bed gives her, she admits, a very strange feeling. An indescribable feeling, really. The thought crosses her mind that, when that day comes, Camille won’t hurt her but Danton will – and her heart bounds, she blushes again, more furiously, because she doesn’t know where the idea came from, she didn’t ask for it, she didn’t want to think that thought at all.
‘Has something upset you?’ Fréron says.
She snaps: ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’ Still, she can’t erase the picture from her mind: that belligerent energy, those huge hard hands, that weight. A woman must thank God, she says to herself, that she has a limited imagination.
THE NEWSPAPER went through various changes of name. It began as the Courier du Brabant – they were having a revolution over the border, too, and Camille thought it worth a mention. It became the Révolutions de France et du Brabant, ended up simply as the Révolutions de France. Of course, Marat was the same, always changing his title, for various shady reasons. He had been the Paris Publicist, was now the People’s Friend. A title, they thought at the Révolutions, of risible naïveté; it sounded like a cure for the clap.
Everyone is starting newspapers, including people who can’t write and who, says Camille, can’t even think. The Révolutions stands out; it makes a splash; it also imposes a routine. If the staff is small, temporary and a bit disorganized, this hardly matters; at a push, Camille can write a whole issue himself. What’s thirty-two pages (in octavo) to a man with so much to say for himself?
Monday and Tuesday they were in the office early, working on the week’s edition. By Wednesday the greater part was ready for the printer. On Wednesday, also, the writs came in from the previous Saturday’s libels, though it had been known for the victims to drag their lawyers back from the country on a Sunday morning and get writs served by Tuesday. Challenges to duels came in sporadically, throughout the week.
Thursday was press day. They made the last-minute corrections, then a menial would sprint around to the printer, M. Laffrey, whose premises were on the Quai
