‘Well – what have you ever done, between jobs?’
‘I used to sleep with a marquis.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘I don’t know,’ the girl said. ‘I get the impression that marquises aren’t so free with their money any more. And me, I’m not so free with my favours. Still – move on is the best thing. I think I’ll try Genoa, I’ve got contacts there.’
He liked her voice, her foreign accent; wanted to keep her talking. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Near Liège. I’ve – well – travelled a bit.’ She put her cheek on her hand. ‘My name is Anne Théroigne.’ She closed her eyes. ‘God, I’m so tired,’ she said. She moved thin shoulders inside the shawl, trying to ease the world off her back.
AT THE RUE CONDÉ, Claude was at home. ‘I’m surprised to see you,’ he said. He didn’t look it. ‘You’ve had your answer,’ he said. ‘Positively no. Never.’
‘Immortal, are you?’ Camille said. He felt just about ready for a fight.
‘I could almost believe you’re threatening me,’ Claude said.
‘Listen to me,’ Camille said. ‘Five years from now there will be none of this. There will be no Treasury officials, no aristocrats, people will be able to marry who they want, there will be no monarchy, no Parlements, and you won’t be able to tell me what I can’t do.’
He had never in his life spoken to anyone like this. It was quite releasing, he thought. I might become a thug for a career.
Annette, a room away, sat frozen in her chair. It was only once in six months that Claude came home early. It followed that Camille could not have prepared for him; this was all out of his head. He wants to marry my daughter, she thought, because someone is telling him he can’t. And she had for years nourished this rare and ferocious ego in her own drawing room, feeding it like some peculiar house-plant on mocha coffee and small confidences.
‘Lucile,’ she said, ‘sit in your chair, don’t dare leave this room. I will not condone your flouting your father’s authority.’
‘You mistake that for authority?’ Lucile said. Frightened, she walked out of the room. Camille was white with anger, his eyes opening like dark, slow stains. She stood in his path. ‘You must know,’ she said, to anyone it concerned, ‘I mean to have another life from the one they’ve worked out for me. Camille, I’m terrified of being ordinary. I’m terrified of being bored.’
His fingertips brushed the back of her hand. They were cold as ice. He turned on his heel. A door slammed. She had nothing left of him but the small chilled islands of skin. She heard her mother crying noisily out of sight, gasping and gagging. ‘Never,’ her father said, ‘never in twenty years has there been a word said out of place in this house, there have been none of these upsets, my daughters have never heard voices raised in anger.’
Adèle came out. ‘So now we are living in the real world,’ she said.
Claude wrung his hands. They had never seen anyone do it before.
THE D’ ANTONS’ son was a robust baby, with a brown skin, a full head of dark hair, and his father’s eyes, surprisingly light blue. The Charpentiers hung over the crib, pointing out resemblances and saying who he would be. Gabrielle was pleased with herself. She wanted to feed the baby herself, not send him off to a wet-nurse. ‘Ten years ago,’ her mother said, ‘that would have been quite unthinkable for a woman in your position. An advocate’s wife.’ She shook her head, disliking modern manners. Gabrielle said, perhaps some changes are for the better? But apart from this one, she could not think of any.
We are now in May 1788. The King has announced that he will abolish the Parlements. Some of their members are under arrest. Receipts are 503 million, expenditure is 629 million. Out in the street, one of the local pigs pursues a small child, and jumps on it under Gabrielle’s window. The incident makes her feel queasy. Since she gave birth, she does not wish to view life as a challenge.
So they moved on quarter day, to a first-floor apartment on the corner of the rue des Cordeliers and the Cour du Commerce. Her first thought was, we cannot afford this. They needed new furniture to fill it; it was the house of an established man. ‘Georges-Jacques has expensive tastes,’ her mother said.
‘I suppose the practice is doing well.’
‘This well? My dear, I’ve always enjoined obedience in you. But not imbecility.’
Gabrielle said to her husband, ‘Are we in debt?’
He said, ‘Let me worry about that, will you?’
Next day, at the front door of the new house, d’Anton stopped to admit before him a woman holding by the hand a little girl of nine or ten. They introduced themselves. She was Mme Gély, her husband Antoine was an official at the Châtelet court, M. d’Anton might know him? He did. And the baby, your first? And this is Louise – yes, I’ve just the one – and pray Louise, do not scowl, do you want your face to set like that? ‘Please tell Mme d’Anton that if she wishes any help, she has only to ask. Next week, when you are settled, do come to supper.’
The child Louise trailed after her as she walked upstairs. She gave d’Anton a backward glance.
He found Gabrielle sitting on a packing case, fitting together the halves of a dish. ‘This is all we’ve broken,’ she said. She jumped up and kissed him. ‘Our new cook is cooking. And I’ve engaged a maid this morning, her name’s Catherine Motin, she’s young and quite cheap.’
‘I’ve just met our upstairs neighbour. Very mincing and genteel. Got a little girl, about so high. Gave me a very suspicious look.’
Gabrielle reached up and joined her hands at the nape of his neck. ‘You’re not reassuring to look at, you know. Is the case over?’
‘Yes. And I won.’
‘You always win.’
‘Not always.’
‘I can pretend that you do.’
‘If you like.’
‘So you don’t mind if I adore you?’
‘It’s a question, I’m told, of whether you can bear the dead weight of a woman’s expectations. I’m told that you shouldn’t put yourself into the position with a woman where you have to be right all the time.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Camille, of course.’
The baby was crying. She pulled away. This day, this little conversation would come back to him, years on: the new-born wails, her breasts leaking milk, the sweet air of inconsequentiality the whole day wore. And the smell of polish and paint and the new carpet: a sheaf of bills on the bureau: summer in the new trees outside the window.
Price inflation 1785–1789:
| Wheat | 66% |
| Rye | 71% |
| Meat | 67% |
| Firewood | 91% |
STANISLAS FRÉRON was an old schoolfriend of Camille’s, a journalist. He lived around the corner and edited a literary periodical. He made waspish jokes and thought too much about his clothes, but Gabrielle found him tolerable because he was the godson of royalty.
‘I suppose you call this your salon, Mme d’Anton.’ He dropped into