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Authors: Hilary Mantel

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She turned, amazed and gratified. The cry was taken up. “It’s only a few Cordeliers,” Camille said, apologetically. “But soon it will be the whole city.”
A few minutes later, the ceremony was over and the party could begin. Georges was down among the crowd, hugging her. “I was thinking,” Camille said. “It’s time you took out that apostrophe from your name. It doesn’t suit the times.”
“You may be right,” her husband said. “I’ll do it gradually—no point making an announcement.”
“No, do it suddenly,” Camille said. “So that everyone knows where you stand.”
“Bully,” Georges-Jacques said fondly. He was acquiring it too: this appetite for confrontation. “Do you mind?” he asked her.
“I want you to do whatever you think best,” she said. “I mean, whatever you think right.”
“Suppose they did not coincide?” Camille asked her. “I mean, what he thought best and what he thought right?”
“But they would,” she said, flustered. “Because he is a good man.”
“That is profound. He will suspect you of thinking while he is not in the house.”
Camille had spent the previous day at Versailles, and in the evening had gone with Robespierre to a meeting of the Breton Club. It was the forum now for the liberal deputies, those inclined to the popular cause and suspicious of the Court. Some of the nobles attended; the frenzied Fourth of August had been calculated quite carefully there. Men who were not deputies were welcomed, if their patriotism was well known.
And whose patriotism was better known than his? Robespierre urged him to speak. But he was nervous, had difficulty making himself heard. The stutter was bad. The audience was not patient with him. He was
just a mob orator, an anarchist, as far as they could see. All in all it was a miserable, deflating occasion. Robespierre sat looking at his shoe buckles. When Camille came down from the rostrum to sit beside him, he didn’t look up; just flicked his green eyes sideways, and smiled his patient, meditative smile. No wonder he had no encouragement to offer. Whenever he stood up in the Assembly, unruly members of the nobility would pretend to blow candles out, with a great huffing and puffing; or a few of them would get together and orchestrate their imitation of a rabid lamb. No point him saying, “You were fine, Camille.” No point in comforting lies.
After the meeting was closed, Mirabeau took the rostrum, and performed for his well-wishers and sycophants an imitation of Mayor Bailly trying to decide whether it was Monday or Tuesday: of Mayor Bailly viewing the moons of Jupiter to find the answer, and finally admitting (with an obscene flourish) that his telescope was too small. Camille was not much entertained by this; he felt almost tearful. Finishing to applause, the Comte strode down from the rostrum, slapped a few backs and wrung a few hands. Robespierre touched Camille’s elbow: “Let’s get off, shall we?” he suggested.
Too late. The Comte spied Camille. He caught him up in a ribcracking hug. “You were grand,” he said. “Ignore these provincials. Leave them to their poxy little standards. None of them could have done what you did. None of them. The fact is, you terrify them.”
Robespierre had faded to the back of the meeting room, trying to get out of the way. Camille looked so cheered up, so delighted at the prospect of terrifying people. Why couldn’t he have said what Mirabeau had said? It was all perfectly true. And he wanted to make things right for Camille, he wanted to look after him. Nearly twenty years ago he’d promised to look after him, and he saw nothing to suggest he’d been relieved of the duty. But there it was—he didn’t have the gift of saying the right thing. Camille’s needs and wishes were a closed book, largely: a volume written in a language he’d never learned. “Come to supper,” he heard the Comte say. “And let’s tow the lamb along, why don’t we? Give him some red meat to fall on.”
 
 
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here were fourteen at table. Tender beef bled onto the plates. Turbot’s slashed flesh breathed the scent of bay leaves and thyme. Blue-black shells of aubergines, seared on top, yielded creamy flesh to the probing knife.
The Comte was living very well these days. It was hard to tell if he was just running up more debts or if he could suddenly afford it; if the
latter, one wondered how. He had a secret correspondence with a variety of sources. His public utterances had an air both sonorous and cryptic, and he had bought a diamond on credit for his mistress, the publisher’s wife. And how pleasant he was, that evening, to young Robespierre. Why? Politeness costs nothing, he thought. But over these last weeks he had been watching the deputy, noting the frequent dryness of his tone, noting his (apparent) indifference to other people’s opinion of him, noting the flicker of ideas through the lawyer’s brain that is no doubt, he thought, sufficient unto the day.
All that evening he talked to the Candle of Arras, in a low confidential tone. When you get down to it, he thought, there’s not much difference between politics and sex; it’s all about power. He didn’t suppose he was the first person in the world to make this observation. It’s a question of seduction, and how fast and cheap you can effect it: if Camille, he thought, approximates to one of those little milliners who can’t make ends meet—in other words, an absolute pushover—then Robespierre is a Carmelite, mind set on becoming Mother Superior. You can’t corrupt her; you can wave your cock under her nose, and she’s neither shocked nor interested: why should she be, when she hasn’t the remotest idea what it’s for?
They talked about the King, and whether he should have a veto on the legislation passed by the Assembly. Robespierre thought no. Mirabeau thought yes—or thought he could think yes, if the price were right. They talked about how these things were managed in England; Robespierre corrected his facts in a hurried, half-amused way. He accepted the correction, softened him up; when he was rewarded by a precise triangular smile, he felt a most extraordinary flood of relief.
Eleven o’clock: the rabid lamb excused himself, slipped out of the room. It’s something to know he’s mortal, that he has to piss like other men. Mirabeau felt strange, unwontedly sober, unwontedly cold. He looked across the table at one of his Genevans. “That young man will go far,” he said. “He believes everything he says.”
Brulard de Sillery, Comte de Genlis, stood up, yawned, stretched. “Thanks, Mirabeau. Time to get down to the serious drinking now. Camille, you coming back with us?”
The invitation seemed to be general. It excluded two people: the Candle of Arras (who was at that moment absent) and the Torch of Provence. The Genevans, self-excluded, stood up and bowed and said their good nights; they began to fold their napkins and pick up their hats, to adjust their cravats, to twitch at their stockings. Suddenly Mirabeau detested them. He detested their gray silk frock coats and their
exactitude and their groveling attention to all his demands, he wanted to squash their hats over their eyes and roar out into the night, one comradely arm around his milliner and the other around a bestselling novelist. And this was odd, really; if there was anyone he couldn’t stand, it was Laclos, and if there was anyone he would have hated to get drunk with, it was Camille. These wild feelings could only be, he thought, the product of a well-mannered and abstemious evening spent cultivating Maximilien Robespierre.
By the time Robespierre got back, the room would have emptied. They’d be left to exchange a dry little English handshake. Take care of yourself, Candle. Mind how you go, Torch.
 
 
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hey had to get the cards out, of course; de Sillery would never go to bed at all if they didn’t. After he had indulged his losing streak, he sat back in his chair and started laughing. “How annoyed Mr. Miles and the Elliots would be, if they knew what I did with the King of England’s money.”
“I imagine they have a pretty good idea what you do with it.” Laclos shuffled the pack. “They don’t suppose you devote it to charitable work.”
“Who is Mr. Miles?” Camille asked.
Laclos and de Sillery exchanged a glance. “I think you should tell him,” Laclos said. “Camille should not live like a careless king, in gross ignorance of where the money comes from.”
“It’s very complicated.” Reluctantly, de Sillery laid his cards facedown on the table. “You know Mrs. Elliot, the charming Grace? No doubt you’ve seen her flitting around the town gathering the political gossip. She does this because she works for the English government. Her various liaisons, you see, have put her in such an interesting position. She was the Prince of Wales’s mistress before Philippe brought her to France. Now, of course, Agnès de Buffon is mistress—my wife Félicité arranges these things—but Grace and the Duke are still on the best of terms. Now,” he paused, and rubbed his forehead tiredly, “Mrs. Elliot has two brothers-in-law, Gilbert and Hugh. Hugh lives in Paris, Gilbert comes over every few weeks. And there is another Englishman with whom they associate, a Mr. Miles. They are all agents for the British Foreign Office. They are here to observe events, make reports and convey funds to us.”
“Well done, Charles-Alexis,” Laclos said. “Admirably lucid. More claret?”
Camille said, “Why?”
“Because the English are deeply interested in our Revolution,” de Sillery said. “Yes, go on Laclos, push the bottle over. You may think they want us to enjoy the blessings of a Parliament and a constitution like theirs, but it is hardly that; they are interested in anything that undermines Louis’s position. As is Berlin. As is Vienna. It might be an excellent thing for the English if we dispensed with King Louis and replaced him by King Philippe.”
Deputy Pétion looked up slowly. His large handsome face was creased with scruple. “Did you bring us here to burden us with this information?”
“No,” Camille said. “He is telling us because he has had too much to drink.”
“’Tisn’t a burden,” Charles-Alexis said. “It’s pretty well generally known. Ask Brissot.”
“I have a great deal of respect for Brissot,” Deputy Pétion insisted.
“Have you so?” Laclos murmured.
“He doesn’t seem to me to be the type of man who would engage in this sort of deviousness.”
“Dear Brissot,” Laclos said. “So unworldly is he that he thinks money appears in his pocket by spontaneous generation. Oh, he knows—but he doesn’t admit he knows. He takes care never to make inquiries. If you want to give him a fright, Camille, just walk up to him and say in his ear, ‘William Augustus Miles.’”
“If I may make a point,” Pétion interposed, “Brissot has not the air of a man receiving money. I only ever see him in the one coat, and that is almost out at the elbows.”
“Oh, we don’t pay him much,” Laclos said. “He wouldn’t know what to do with it. Unlike present company. Who have a taste for the finer things in life. You still don’t believe it, Pétion? Tell him, Camille.”
“It’s probably true,” Camille said. “He used to take money from the police. Have casual chats with his friends and report on their political opinions.”
“Now you shock me.” But no: Pétion’s tone was controlled.
“How else was he to make a living?” Laclos asked.
Charles-Alexis laughed. “All these writers and people, they have enough on each other to live by blackmail and get rich. Not so, Camille? They only desist out of fear of being blackmailed back.”
“But you are drawing me into something …” For a moment Pétion looked sober. He rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. “If I could only think straight about this.”
“It doesn’t permit straight thinking,” Camille said. “Try some other kind.”
Pétion said, “It will be so difficult to keep any kind of … integrity.”
Laclos poured him another drink. Camille said, “I want to start a newspaper.”
“And whom did you envisage as your backer?” Laclos said smoothly. He liked to hear people admit they needed the Duke’s money.
“The Duke’s lucky I’ll take his money,” Camille said, “when there are so many other sources. We may need the Duke, but how much more does the Duke need us?”
“Collectively, he may need you,” Laclos said in the same tone. “Individually he does not need you at all. Individually you may all jump off the Pont-Neuf and drown your sorry selves. Individually, you can be replaced.”
“Oh, you think so?”
“Yes, Camille, I do think so. You have a prodigiously inflated idea of your own place in the scheme of things.”
Charles-Alexis leaned forward, put a hand on Laclos’s arm. “Careful, old thing. Change of subject?” Laclos swallowed mutinously. He sat in silence, brightening only a little as de Sillery told stories of his wife. Félicité, he said, had kept stacks of notebooks under the marital bed. Sometimes she groped for them as you lay on top of her, laboring in pursuit of ecstasy. Did the Duke find this, he wondered, as off-putting as he always had?
“Your wife’s a tiresome woman,” Laclos said. “And Mirabeau says he’s had her.”
“Very likely, very likely,” de Sillery said. “He’s had everybody else. Still, she doesn’t do much these days. She’s happier organizing it for other people. When I think, my God, when I think back on my life …” He fell into a short reverie. “Could I ever have imagined I’d end up married to the best-read procuress in Europe?”

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