I thought it would be neat if I got pregnant, it would hurry things up. But – there you are – can’t get him into bed. You’ve no idea what Camille’s like when he’s got one of his fits of rectitude. John Knox was merely a beginner.’
‘You wicked girl,’ I said. More for form’s sake, than anything. I like her; you can’t help it. Oh, I’m not a perfect fool, I know that Georges looks at her, but so do all the men. Camille lives just around the corner now. He’s actually got a really nice apartment, and a rather fierce-looking woman called Jeanette to do the housekeeping. I don’t know where he found her, but she’s a good cook, and quite happy to come round here and help when we have a lot of people to dine. Hérault de Séchelles comes quite often these days, and of course then I make a special effort. Very fine manners he has; it makes a change from Fabre’s theatrical friends. Various deputies and journalists come, and I have various opinions about them, which I do not usually express. Georges’s viewpoint is that if somebody is a patriot, it doesn’t matter about their personality too much. He says that, but I notice he doesn’t spend any time with Billaud-Varennes if he can help it. You remember Billaud, don’t you? He used to work for Georges, here and there. Since the Revolution he looks marginally cheered-up. It seems, in some way, to give him steady employment.
One evening in July, a man called Collot d’Herbois came to supper. What would you think – they must have Christian names, these people? Yes, but ‘Collot’ was what we were to call him. He was rather like Fabre, in that he was an actor and a playwright, and had been a theatre manager – and he was about the same age, too. At that time he had a play called The Patriotic Family at the Théâtre de Monsieur. It was the kind of play that had suddenly become very popular, and we spent all evening hedging around the fact that we hadn’t actually seen it. It was a great success at the box-office, but that didn’t make Collot agreeable company. He insisted on telling us the story of his life, and it appeared that nothing had ever gone right for him till now, and even this he was suspicious about. When he was young – he said – he used to be baffled at the way people were always cheating him and doing him down – but then he realized they were jealous of his gifts. He used to think he just had no luck, but then he realized that people were conspiring against him. (When he said this Fabre made signs to me that he was a lunatic.) Every topic we raised had some bitter association for Collot, and at the smallest thing his face would become congested with anger and he would make violent sweeping gestures, as if he were speaking at the Riding-School. I feared for my crockery.
Later I said to Georges, ‘I don’t like Collot. He’s sourer than your mother. And I’m sure the play is dreadful.’
‘A typical feminine remark,’ Georges said. ‘I don’t see what’s wrong with him, except he’s a bore. His opinions are – ’ He paused and smiled. ‘I was going to say they’re correct, but of course I mean they’re mine.’
Next day, Camille said: ‘This hideous Collot. Much the worst person in the world. Play I suppose is unbearable.’
Georges said meekly, ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
Towards the end of the year Georges addressed the Assembly. A few days later the Ministry fell. People said that Georges had brought it down. My mother said, you are married to a powerful man.
THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY in session: Lord Mornington, September 1790:
They have no regular form of debate on ordinary business; some speak from their seats, some from the floor, some from the table and some from their tribune or desk…the riot is so great that it is very difficult to collect what is being said. I am certain I have seen above a hundred in the act of addressing the Assembly together, all persisting to speak, and as many more replying in different parts of the House; then the President claps his hands on both ears and roars Order, as if he were calling a coach…he beats his table, his breast…wringing his hands is quite a common action, and I really believe he swears…the galleries approve and disapprove by groaning and clapping.
I went to court this morning at the Tuileries, and a very gloomy court it was…The King seemed well, but I thought his manner evidently humbled since I was introduced to him before; he now bows to everybody, which was not a Bourbon fashion before the Revolution.
LUCILE’S YEAR: I keep two sets of notebooks now. One’s for pure and elevated thoughts, and the other’s for what really goes on.
I used to live like God, in different Persons. The reason for this was, life was so dull. I used to pretend to be Maria Stuart, and to be quite honest I must say I still do, for old time’s sake. Its not easy to break yourself of these habits. Everybody else in my life would be assigned a role – usually as a lady-in-waiting, or something – and I would hate them when they wouldn’t play it properly. If I got tired of Maria S. I would play at being Julie from La Nouvelle Héloïse. These days I wonder what is my relationship to Maximilien Robespierre. I’m living inside his favourite novel.
You have to employ some fantasy to keep brute reality at bay. The year began with Camille being sued for libel by M. Sanson, the public executioner. Strange – you don’t think of executioners having recourse to law, in the normal way, you don’t think of them having any animosity to spare.
Fortunately, the law is slow, its processes are cumbersome, and when damages are awarded the Duke is ready to pick up the bill. No, it’s not the courts that worry me. Every morning I wake up and think to myself: is he still alive?
Camille is attacked on the street. He is denounced in the Assembly. He is challenged to duels – though the patriots have made a pact never to respond. There are lunatics going round the city, boasting that they’re waiting for a chance to put a knife in him. They write him letters, these lunatics – letters so demented and so revolting that he won’t read them himself. You can tell, he says, by a quick scan, what sort of letter it is. Sometimes you can tell by the handwriting on the outside of the packet. He has a box that he throws them into. Then other people have to look through them, in case any of the threats are very specific – I will kill you, at such a time and place.
My father’s odd. About twice a month he’ll forbid me ever to see Camille again. But every morning he’s making a grab for the papers – ‘Any news, any news?’ Does he want to hear that Camille’s been found across the river with his throat cut? I don’t think so. I don’t think my father would find any joy in his life if it weren’t for Camille. My mother teases him in the most cold-blooded way. ‘Admit it, Claude,’ she says. ‘He’s the son you’ve never had.’
Claude brings home young men for supper. He thinks I might like them. Civil servants. Dear God.
Sometimes they write me poems, lovely civil service sonnets. Adèle and I read them out with suitable sentimental expressions. We turn up our eyes, slap our hands on our ribcages, and sigh. Then we make them into paper darts and bombard each other. Our spirits, you see, are high. We roll through our days in a sort of unwholesome glee. It’s either this, or a permanent welter of sniffles and tears, forebodings and fears – and we prefer to be hilarious. We prefer to make blood-curdling jokes.
My mother, by contrast, is strained, sad; but fundamentally, I think she suffers less than I do. Probably it’s because she’s older, and she’s learned to ration these things. ‘Camille will survive,’ she says. ‘Why do you think he goes around in the company of such large men?’ There are guns, I say, knives. ‘Knives?’ she says. ‘Can you imagine someone trying to get a knife past M. Danton? Hacking through all that muscle and flesh?’ That’s to imagine, I say, that he would interpose himself. She says, ‘Isn’t Camille rather good at exacting human sacrifices? After all,’ she says, ‘look at me. Look at you.’
We expect, quite soon, to hear of Adèle’s engagement. Max came here, and quite gratuitously praised the Abbé Terray. Much that the abbé had done, he said, had not been generally understood. Claude has consequently ceased to mind that Max has only his deputy’s salary, and that he is supporting a younger brother and a sister out of it.
What will Adèle’s life be like? Robespierre gets letters too, but they’re not the same as the ones Camille gets. They come from all over the