Three-Book Edition: A Place of Greater Safety; Beyond Black; The Giant O’Brien. Hilary Mantel
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perhaps neither. Are you a republican, Danton?’
‘Robespierre says that it is not a government’s descriptive label that matters, but its nature, the way it operates, whether it is government by the people. Cromwell’s republic, for instance, was not a popular government. I agree with him. It seems to me of little importance whether we call it a monarchy or a republic.’
‘You say its nature matters, but you do not say which nature you would prefer.’
‘My reticence is considered.’
‘I’m sure it is. You can hide a great deal behind slogans. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, indeed.’
‘I subscribe to that.’
‘I hear you invented it. But freedom comprehends – what?’
‘Do I have to define it for you? You should simply know.’
‘That is sentimentality,’ Mirabeau said.
‘I know. Sentimentality has its place in politics, as in the bedroom.’
The Comte looked up. ‘We’ll discuss bedrooms later. Let’s, shall we, descend to practicalities? The Commune is to be reshuffled, there will be elections. The office ranking below mayor will be that of administrator. There will be sixteen administrators. You wish to be one of them, you say. Why, Danton?’
‘I wish to serve the city.’
‘No doubt. I myself am assured of a place. Amongst your colleagues you may expect Sieyès and Talleyrand. I take it from the expression on your face that you think it a company of tergiversators in which you will be quite at home. But if I am to support you, I must have an assurance as to your moderate conduct.’
‘You have it.’
‘Your moderation. You understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fully?’
‘Yes.’
‘Danton, I know you. You are like myself. Why else have they started calling you the poor man’s Mirabeau, do you suppose? You haven’t an ounce of moderation in your body.’
‘I think our resemblances must be superficial.’
‘Oh, you think you are a moderate?’
‘I don’t know. I could be. Most things are possible.’
‘You may wish to conciliate, but it is against your nature. You don’t work with people, you work over them.’
Danton nodded. He conceded the point. ‘I drive them as I wish,’ he said. ‘That could be towards moderation, or it could be towards the extremes.’
‘Yes, but the difficulty is, moderation looks like weakness, doesn’t it? Oh yes, I know, Danton, I have been here before you, crashing down this particular trail. And speaking of extremism, I do not care for the attacks on me made by your Cordeliers journalists.’
‘The press is free. I don’t dictate the output of the writers of my district.’
‘Not even the one who lives next door to you? I rather thought you did.’
‘Camille has to be running ahead of public opinion all the time.’
‘I can remember the days,’ Mirabeau said, ‘when we didn’t have public opinion. No one had ever heard of such a thing.’ He rubbed his chin, deep in thought. ‘Very well, Danton, consider yourself elected. I shall hold you to your promise of moderation, and I shall expect your support. Come now – tell me the gossip. How is the marriage?’
LUCILE looked at the carpet. It was a good carpet, and on balance she was glad she had spent the money on it. She did not particularly wish to admire the pattern now, but she could not trust the expression on her face.
‘Caro,’ she said, ‘I really can’t think why you are telling me all this.’
Caroline Rémy put her feet up on the blue chaise-longue. She was a handsome young woman, an actress belonging to the Théâtre Montansier company. She had two arrangements, one with Fabre d’Églantine and one with Hérault de Séchelles.
‘To protect you,’ she said, ‘from being told all this by unsympathetic people. Who would delight in embarrassing you, and making fun of your naïveté.’ Caroline put her head on one side, and wrapped a curl around her finger. ‘Let me see – how old are you now, Lucile?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Dear, dear,’ Caroline said. ‘Twenty!’ She couldn’t be much older herself, Lucile thought. But she had, not surprisingly, a rather well-used look about her. ‘I’m afraid, my dear, that you know nothing of the world.’
‘No. People keep telling me that, lately. I suppose they must be right.’ (A guilty capitulation. Camille, last week, trying to educate her: ‘Lolotte, nothing gains truth by mere force of repetition.’ But how to be polite, faced with such universal insistence?)
‘I’m surprised your mother didn’t see fit to warn you,’ Caro said. ‘I’m sure she knows everything there is to know about Camille. But if I’d had the courage – and believe me I reproach myself – to come to you before Christmas, and tell you, just for instance, about Maître Perrin, what would your reaction have been?’
Lucile looked up. ‘Caro, I’d have been riveted,’
It was not the answer Caro had expected. ‘You are a strange girl,’ she said. Her expression said clearly, strangeness doesn’t pay. ‘You see, you have to be prepared for what lies ahead of you.’
‘I try to imagine,’ Lucile said. She wished for the door to smash open, and one of Camille’s assistants to come flying in, and start firing off questions and rummaging for a piece of paper that had been mislaid. But the house was quiet for once: only Caro’s well-trained voice, with its tragedienne’s quaver, its suggestion of huskiness.
‘Infidelity you can endure,’ she said. ‘In the circles in which we move, these things are understood.’ She made a gesture, elegant fingers spread, to indicate the laudable correctness, both aesthetic and social, of a little well-judged adultery. ‘One finds a modus vivendi. I have no fear of your not being able to amuse yourself. Other women one can cope with, provided they’re not too close to home – ’
‘Just stop there. What does that mean?’
Caro became a little round-eyed. ‘Camille is an attractive man,’ she said. ‘I know whereof I speak.’
‘I don’t see what it has to do with anything,’ Lucile muttered, ‘if you’ve been to bed with him. I could do without that bit of information.’
‘Please regard me as your friend,’ Caro suggested. She bit her lip. At least she had found out that Lucile was not expecting a child. Whatever the reason for the hurry about the marriage, it was not that. It must be something even more interesting, if she could only make it out. She patted her curls back into place and slid from the chaise-longue. ‘Must go. Rehearsal.’
I don’t think you need any rehearsal, Lucile said under her breath. I think you’re quite perfect.
WHEN CARO had gone, Lucile leaned back in her chair, and tried to take deep breaths, and tried to be calm. The housekeeper, Jeanette, came in, and looked her over. ‘Try a small omelette,’ she advised.
‘Leave me alone,’ Lucile said. ‘I don’t know why you think that food solves everything.’
‘I could step around and fetch your mother.’
‘I should just think,’ Lucile said, ‘that I can do without my mother at my age.’
She agreed to a glass of iced water. It made her hand ache, froze her deep inside. Camille came in at a quarter-past five, and ran around snatching up pen and ink. ‘I have to be at the Jacobins,’ he said.