Three-Book Edition: A Place of Greater Safety; Beyond Black; The Giant O’Brien

And the shock, the terrible, heart-stopping shock: yet why should it have been a shock, when it was – give or take the details – just what she and Adèle had been hoping to see?

Her mother went out infrequently, and always in the carriage. Perhaps she was afraid she might run into Camille by accident. There was a tautness in her face, as if she had become older.

MAY CAME, the long light evenings and the short nights; more than once Claude worked right through them, trying to lay a veneer of novelty on the proposals of the new Comptroller-General. Parlement was not to be bamboozled; it was that land tax again. When the Parlement of Paris proved obdurate, the usual royal remedy was to exile it to the provinces. This year the King sent it to Troyes, each member ordered there by an individual lettre de cachet. Exciting for Troyes, Georges-Jacques d’Anton said.

On 14 June he married Gabrielle at the church of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. She was twenty-four years old; waiting patiently for her father and her fiancé to settle things up, she had spent her afternoons experimenting in the kitchen, and had eaten her creations; she had taken to chocolate and cream, and absently spooning sugar into her father’s good strong coffee. She giggled as her mother tugged her into her wedding dress, thinking of when her new husband would peel her out of it. She was moving on a stage in life. As she came out into the sunshine, hanging on to Georges’s arm harder than convention dictated, she thought, I am perfectly safe now, my life is before me and I know what it will be, and I would not change it, not even to be the Queen. She turned a little pink at the warm sentimentality of her own thoughts; those sweets have jellified my brain, she thought, smiling into the sun at her wedding guests, feeling the warmth of her body inside her tight dress. Especially, she would not like to be the Queen; she had seen her in procession in the streets, her face set with stupidity and helpless contempt, her hard-edged diamonds flashing around her like naked blades.

The apartment they had rented proved to be too near to Les Halles. ‘Oh, but I like it,’ she said. ‘The only thing that bothers me are those wild-looking pigs that run up and down the street.’ She grinned at him. ‘They’re nothing to you, I suppose.’

‘Very small pigs. Inconsiderable. But no, you’re right, we should have seen the disadvantages.’

‘But it’s lovely. It makes me happy; except for the pigs, and the mud, and the language that the market ladies use. We can always move when we’ve got more money – and with your new position as King’s Councillor, that won’t be very long.’

Of course, she had no idea about the debts. He’d thought he would tell her, once life settled down. But it didn’t settle, because she was pregnant – from the wedding night, it seemed – and she was quite silly, mindless, euphoric, dashing between the café and their own house, full of plans and prospects. Now he knew her better he knew that she was just as he’d thought, just as he’d wished: innocent, conventional, with a pious streak. It would have seemed hideous, criminal to allow anything to overshadow her happiness. The time when he might have told her came, passed, receded. The pregnancy suited her; her hair thickened, her skin glowed, she was lush, opulent, almost exotic, and frequently out of breath. A great sea of optimism buoyed them up, carried them along into midsummer.

‘MAÎTRE D’ANTON, may I detain you for a moment?’ They were just outside the Law Courts. D’Anton turned. Hérault de Séchelles, a judge, a man of his own age: a man seriously aristocratic, seriously rich. Well, Georges-Jacques thought: we are going up in the world.

‘I wanted to offer you my congratulations, on your reception into the King’s Bench. Very good speech you made.’ D’Anton inclined his head. ‘You’ve been in court this morning?’

D’Anton proffered a portfolio. ‘The case of the Marquis de Chayla. Proof of the Marquis’s right to bear that title.’

‘You seem to have proved it already, in your own mind,’ Camille muttered.

‘Oh, hallo,’ Hérault said. ‘I didn’t see you there, Maître Desmoulins.’

‘Of course you saw me. You just wish you hadn’t.’

‘Come, come,’ Hérault said. He laughed. He had perfectly even white teeth. What the hell do you want? d’Anton thought. But Hérault seemed quite composed and civil, just ready for some topical chat. ‘What do you think will happen,’ he asked, ‘now that the Parlement has been exiled?’

Why ask me? d’Anton thought. He considered his response, then said: ‘The King must have money. The Parlement has now said that only the Estates can grant him a subsidy, and I take it that having said this they mean to stick to it. So when he recalls them in the autumn, they will say the same thing again – and then at last, with his back to the 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?’