Three-Book Edition: A Place of Greater Safety; Beyond Black; The Giant O’Brien. Hilary Mantel
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sacked. And now the King says he will send the Assembly to the provinces.’
Robespierre was writing a letter to Augustin and Charlotte. He looked up. ‘The Estates-General is what he still calls it.’
‘Yes. So I came to see if you were packing your bags.’
‘Far from it. I’m just settling in.’
Camille wandered about the room. ‘You’re very calm.’
‘I’m learning patience through listening to the Assembly’s daily ration of drivel.’
‘Oh, you don’t think much of your colleagues. Mirabeau – you hate him.’
‘Don’t overstate my case for me.’ Robespierre put his pen down. ‘Camille, come here, let me look at you.’
‘No, why?’ Camille said nervously. ‘Max, tell me what I should do. My opinions will go soft. The republic – the Comte laughs at it. He makes me write, he tells me what to write, and he hardly lets me out of his sight. I sit beside him each night at dinner. The food is good, so is the wine, so is the conversation.’ He threw his hands out. ‘He’s corrupting me.’
‘Don’t be such a prig,’ Robespierre said unexpectedly. ‘He can get you on in the world, and that’s what you need at the moment. You should be there, not here. I can’t give you what he can.’
Robespierre knows – he almost always knows – exactly what will happen. Camille is sharp and clever, but he gives no evidence of any ideas about self-preservation. He has seen Mirabeau with him in public, one arm draped around his shoulders, as if he were some tart he’d picked up at the Palais-Royal. All this is distasteful; and the Comte’s larger motives, his wider ambitions, are as clear as if Dr Guillotin had him on a dissecting table. For the moment, Camille is enjoying himself. The Comte is bringing on his talents. He enjoys the flattery and fuss; then he comes for absolution. Their relationship has fallen back into its old pattern, as if the last decade were the flick of an eyelid. He knows all about the disillusionment that Camille will suffer one day, but there’s no point in trying to tell him: let him live through it. It’s like disappointments in love. Everyone must have them. Or so he is told.
‘Did I tell you about Anaïs, this girl I’m supposed to be engaged to? Augustin tells me I suddenly have rivals.’
‘What, since you left?’
‘So it seems. Hardly repining, is she?’
‘Do you feel hurt?’
He considered. ‘Oh, well, you know, I have always been vastly full of amour propre, haven’t I? No…’ He smiled. ‘She’s a nice girl, Anaïs, but she’s not over-bright. The truth is, it was all set up by other people anyway.’
‘Why did you go along with it?’
‘For the sake of a quiet life.’
Camille wandered across the room. He opened the window a little wider, and leaned out. ‘What’s going to happen?’ he asked. ‘Revolution is inevitable.’
‘Oh yes. But God works through men.’
‘And so?’
‘Somebody must break the deadlock between the Assembly and the King.’
‘But in the real world, of real actions?’
‘And it must be Mirabeau, I suppose. All right, nobody trusts him, but if he gave the signal – ’
‘Deadlock. Signal.’ Camille slammed the window shut. He crossed the room. Robespierre removed the ink from the path of his ire. ‘Is a signal something you give by waving your arms?’ He fell to his knees. Robespierre took his arms and tried to pull him to his feet. ‘Good, this is real,’ Camille said. ‘I am kneeling on the floor, you are trying to get me on my feet. Not metaphorically, but actually. Look,’ he said, hurling himself out of his friend’s grasp, ‘now I have fallen straight over on my face. This is action,’ Camille said to the carpet. ‘Now, can you distinguish what has just happened from what happens when somebody says “the country is on its knees”?’
‘Of course I can. Please get up.’
Camille stood up and brushed himself down a little.
‘You terrify me,’ Robespierre said. He turned away and sat down at the table where he had been writing the letter. He took off his spectacles, rested his elbows on the table and covered his closed eyes with his fingertips. ‘Metaphors are good,’ he said. ‘I like metaphors. Metaphors don’t kill people.’
‘They’re killing me. If I hear another mention of rising tides or crumbling edifices I shall throw myself out of the window. I can’t listen to this talk any more. I saw Laclos the other day. I was so disgusted, finally, I thought I shall have to do something by myself.’
Robespierre picked up his pen and added a phrase to his letter. ‘I am afraid of civil disorder,’ he said.
‘Afraid of it? I hope for it. Mirabeau – he has his own interests – but if we had a leader whose name is absolutely clean – ’
‘I don’t know if there’s such a man in the Assembly.’
‘There’s you,’ Camille said.
‘Oh yes?’ He applied himself to the next sentence. ‘They call Mirabeau “The Torch of Provence”. And do you know what they call me? “The Candle of Arras”. ’
‘But in time, Max – ’
‘Yes, in time. They think I should hang around viscounts and cultivate rhetorical flourishes. No. In time, perhaps, they might respect me. But I don’t want them ever to approve of me because if they approve of me I’m finished. I want no kickbacks, no promises, no caucus and no blood on my hands. I’m not their man of destiny, I’m afraid.’
‘But are you the man of destiny, inside your own head?’
Robespierre looked down at his letter again. He contemplated a postscript. He reached for his pen. ‘No more than you are.’
SUNDAY, 12 JULY: five a.m. D’Anton said, ‘Camille, there are no answers to these questions.’
‘No?’
‘No. But look. Dawn has broken. It’s another day. You’ve made it.’
Camille’s questions: suppose I do get Lucile, how shall I go on without Annette? Why have I never achieved anything, not one damn thing? Why won’t they publish my pamphlet? Why does my father hate me?
‘All right,’ d’Anton said. ‘Short answers are best. Why should you go on without Annette? Get into both their beds, you’re quite capable of it, I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time in the history of the world.’
Camille looked at him wonderingly. ‘Nothing shocks you these days, does it?’
‘May I continue? You’ve never achieved anything because you’re always bloody horizontal. I mean, you’re supposed to be at some place, right, and you’re not, and people say, God, he’s so absentminded – but I know the truth – you started the day with very good intentions, you might even have been on the way to where you’re supposed to be going, and then you just run into somebody, and what’s the next thing? You’re in bed with them.’
‘And that’s the day gone,’ Camille said. ‘Yes, you’re right, you’re right.’
‘So what sort of a foundation for any career – oh, never mind. What was I saying? They won’t publish your pamphlet till the situation gives way a bit. As for your father – he doesn’t hate you, he probably cares too much, as I do and a very large number of other people. And Christ, you wear me out.’
D’Anton had been in court all day on Friday, and had spent Saturday working solidly. His face was creased with exhaustion. ‘Do me a favour.’ He got up and walked stiffly to the window. ‘If you’re going to commit