A Place of Greater Safety (73 page)

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Authors: Hilary Mantel

BOOK: A Place of Greater Safety
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“Of course,” Duplay said at length, “she’s your sister. I shouldn’t criticize.”
“You can if you want,” Augustin said. “I suppose I ought to try to
explain Charlotte to you. Max never will. He’s too good. He’s always trying to avoid thinking ill of people.”
“Is that so?” Duplay was mildly surprised, put it down to a proper fraternal blindness. Citizen Robespierre was open, just, equitable—but charity—no, that was not his strong point.
“I don’t remember our mother at all,” Augustin said. “Max does, but he never seemed to want to talk about her.”
“Your mother’s dead? I had no notion that your mother was dead.”
Augustin was taken aback. “He never told you about our family?” He shook his head. “How odd.”
“We presumed, you know, a quarrel. A serious quarrel. We didn’t want to pry.”
“She died when I was a baby. Our father went away. We don’t know if he’s dead or alive. I wonder, now—if he’s alive, would he have heard of Max?”
“I think so, if he’s anywhere in the civilized world. If he can read.”
“Oh yes, he can read.” Augustin was literal-minded. “I wonder what he thinks, then? Our grandfather brought us up, the girls went to our aunts. Until we got away to Paris. Charlotte, of course, she couldn’t get away. Then Henriette died—oh yes, we had another sister, and she and Max, when they saw each other, they got on very well, and I think Charlotte was probably jealous, a bit. She was only a child when she started to keep house for us. It aged her, I suppose. But she’s not thirty yet. She could still get married.”
Duplay drew on his pipe. “Why doesn’t she give it a go?”
“She had a disappointment over someone. You know him, in fact—he lodges down the road—Deputy Fouché. Can you call him to mind? He has no eyelashes and a sort of green face.”
“Was it a big disappointment?”
“I don’t think she liked him much actually, but she did take the view that she’d been … Well, you know how it is, some people are born with sour temperaments and they use the misfortunes in their lives as an excuse for them. I’ve been engaged three times, you know? When it came down to it, they couldn’t face the thought of Charlotte for a sister-in-law. She’s made us her life’s work. She doesn’t want any other women around. Nobody’s allowed to do anything for us, except her.”
“Mm. Do you think that’s why your brother hasn’t married yet?”
“I don’t know. He’s had plenty of chances. Women like him. But then again … perhaps he’s not the sort of person who marries.”
“Don’t talk about it round the town,” Duplay suggested. “About his not being the sort of person who marries.”
“Perhaps he’s afraid that most families end up like ours. Not superficially … I mean in some deeper way. There ought to be a law against families like ours.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t speculate about what he thinks. If he wanted us to know, he’d tell us. Plenty of children lose their parents. We hope you will regard us as your family now.”
“I agree, plenty of children lose their parents—but the difficulty with my father is that we don’t know whether we’ve lost him or not. It’s very odd, the thought that he’s probably living somewhere, perhaps even here in Paris, reading about Max in the papers. Suppose he turns up one day? He might. He could come to the Convention, sit in the gallery, watch over us … . If I passed him on the street I wouldn’t know him. When I was a boy I used to hope he’d come back … and at the same time I was a bit afraid of what it would be like if he did. Grandfather talked about him a lot, when he was in a bad mood. ‘Expect your father’s drunk himself to death,’ that sort of thing. And people were always watching us, looking for signs. People in Arras now, the ones who don’t like the way Max’s career has gone, they say, ‘The father was a drunk and a womanizer, and the mother was no better than she should be.’ They use, you know, worse terms than that.”
“Augustin, you must put all this behind you. You’re in Paris now, you have a chance at a fresh start. I hope your brother will marry my eldest girl. She’ll give him children.” Augustin silently demurred. “And for now, he has good friends.”
“Do you think so? I haven’t been here long, of course, but I get the impression that mainly he has associates. Yes, he has a great mass of admirers—but he’s not supported by a group of friends, like Danton.”
“Well, of course, there is a difference in style. He has the Desmoulins. Camille’s baby is his godchild, you know.”
“If it is Camille’s. There, you see … I feel sorry for my brother. Nothing he has is ever quite what it seems.”
 
 
“I
have a sense of duty,” Charlotte said. “It’s not a common thing, I find.”
“I know, Charlotte.” Her elder brother always spoke to her gently, if he possibly could. “What am I not doing that you think I should be doing?”
“You shouldn’t be living here.”
“Why not?” He knew one good guilty reason why not; probably, he thought, so did she.
“You are an important man. You are a great man. You should behave as if you know that. Appearances count. They do. Danton has it right. He puts on a show. People love it. I haven’t been here long, but I’ve noticed that much. Danton—”
“Charlotte, Danton spends too much money. And nobody quite knows where he gets it from.” There was a hint in his voice, that she should change the subject.
“Danton has some style about him,” she insisted. “They say he doesn’t scruple to sit in the King’s chair at the Tuileries, when the cabinet meets.”
“And fills it to the inch, no doubt,” Robespierre said drily. “And if there were such a thing as the King’s table, Danton would put his feet up on it. Some people, Charlotte, are more equipped by nature for that sort of thing. And it makes enemies too.”
“How long have you worried about making enemies? I can’t remember the day when you gave a damn. Do you imagine people think any better of you for living in a garret?”
“I don’t know why you have to make it sound so much worse than it is. I’m perfectly comfortable. There’s nothing I want that I haven’t got here.”
“You would be much better off if I were taking care of you.”
“Charlotte, my dear, you’ve always taken care of us—couldn’t you just for a while take a rest?”
“In another woman’s house?”
“All houses belong to somebody, and most of them have women in them.”
“We could have privacy. A nice convenient apartment of our own.” It would solve some problems, he thought. Her face darkened as she watched him, expecting contradiction. He opened his mouth to agree. “And there’s another thing,” she said.
He stopped short. “And what is that?”
“These girls. Maximilien, I’ve seen Augustin ruining himself with women.
So she knew. Did she? “How is he ruined?”
“Well, he would have been, if it weren’t for me. And that wretched old woman has no other aim in life but to get those girls into your bed. Whether she’s succeeded I leave to your conscience. That little horror Elisabeth looks at men as if—I can’t describe it. If any harm ever came to her, it wouldn’t be the man I’d blame.”
“Charlotte, what are you talking about? Babette’s just a child. I’ve never heard anyone say a word against her.”
“Well, you have now. What about it then? Shall I look for an apartment for us?”
“No. We’ll stay as we are. I can’t bear to live with you. You’re just as bad as you ever were.” And just as mad, he thought.
 
 
N
ovember 5: people have queued all night for a place in the public galleries. If they expect to see on Robespierre’s face a sense of personal crisis, they will be disappointed. How familiar now, these streets and these slanders. Arras seems twenty years ago; even in the Estates-General, wasn’t he there singled out for attack? It is his nature, he thinks.
He is careful to deny responsibility for September, but he does not, you notice, condemn the killings. He also refrains from killing words, sparing Roland and Buzot, as if they were beneath his notice. August 10 was illegal, he says; so too was the taking of the Bastille. What account can we take of that, in revolution? It is the nature of revolutions to break laws. We are not justices of the peace; we are legislators to a new world.
“Mm,” Camille says, up on the Mountain. “This is not an ethical position. It is an excuse.”
He is speaking quietly, almost to himself; he is surprised by the violence with which his colleagues turn round on him. “He is in politics, practical politics,” Danton says. “What the fuck does he want with an ethical position?”
“I don’t like this idea of ordinary crimes and political crimes. Our opponents can use it to murder us, just as we can use it to murder them. I don’t see what good the idea does. We ought to admit that all crimes are the same.”
“No,” Saint-Just said.
“And you talk, Lanterne Attorney.”
“But when I was the Lanterne Attorney, I said, right, let’s have some violence, it’s our turn. I never excused myself by saying I was a legislator to the world.”
“He is not making excuses,” Saint-Just said. “Necessity does not have to be excused or justified.”
Camille turned on him. “Where did you read that, you half-wit? Your politics are like those improving fables they give to children, each one with a little moral tag on the end. What does it mean? You don’t know. Why do you say it? You have to say something.”
He watched a flush of rage wash over Saint-Just’s pale skin. “Whose side are you on?” Fabre hissed into his ear.
Stop now, he told himself. You are antagonizing everybody. “Whose side? That’s what we say about the Brissotins, that their judgement is destroyed by factional interest. Isn’t it?”
“My God, you are a liability,” Saint-Just snapped. Camille got to his feet, more frightened by the words coming out of his own mouth than of theirs, thinking that in minutes he could be among the black branches and indifferent faces in the Tuileries gardens. It was Orléans who put out a hand and detained him, a slight social smile on his face. “Must you go now?” the Duke said, as if a party were breaking up early. “Don’t go. You can’t do a walkout in the middle of Robespierre’s speech.”
His actions at variance with his manner, the Duke reached out and pulled Camille to the bench beside him. “Sit still,” he said. “If you go now, people will read things into it.”
“Saint-Just hates me,” Camille said.
“He certainly isn’t a very friendly young man, but you shouldn’t feel singled out. I myself am on his list, I feel.”
“His list?”
“He would have one, wouldn’t you think? Looks the type.”
“Laclos had lists,” Camille said. “Oh God, I sometimes wish it were ’89 again. I miss Laclos.”
“So do I. So do I.”
Hérault de Séchelles was in the president’s chair. He glanced up at his Montagnard colleagues and flicked an eyebrow, a request for later explanation. They seemed to be holding some private parliamentary session up there; and now Camille was having some sort of tussle with Égalité. Robespierre had reached his peroration. He had left his opponents with nothing to say and nowhere to go. Camille was going to miss the end of the speech, he would not be there for the applause. The Duke seemed to have released him. He was on his way to the door. Hérault remembered Camille running out of a courtroom, years ago, long, long before they had been introduced: his chin lifted, his expression a compound of contempt and glee. Winter 1792, still running; his expression now a compound of contempt and fear.
 
A
nnette wasn’t at home; he attempted retreat, but Claude heard his voice, came out. “Camille? You look upset. No, don’t try escaping, I have to talk to you.”
He looked upset himself—a discreet, semi-official agitation. There were a couple of Girondist newspapers draped around the room. “Really,” Claude said. “The tone of public life these days! The lowness of it! Need Danton say such things? Young Deputy Philippeaux asks the Convention
to request Danton to stay on in the ministry—reasonable. Danton refuses—reasonable. Then he has to add that if the Convention wants Roland to stay in office it had better ask his wife first. That was a sharp, personal thing to say, in front of so many people, and naturally they make personal attacks in their turn. Now they are talking about Lucile and Danton.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“Why do you allow it to be said? Is it true?”
“I thought you were immune to the newspapers, after the business of Annette and the Abbé Terray.”
“That was the most preposterous fabrication—this is something that people believe. Can you possibly like what it implies about you?”
“What is that?”
“Simply that Danton can do what he likes, that you can’t stand up to him.”
“I can’t,” Camille muttered.
“They mention other men besides Danton. I don’t want this said of Lucile. You should make her see …”
“She likes to live up to a certain reputation, without ever quite deserving it.”

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