Finally the royal carriage drew up. People now stood on their toes and craned their necks, and the younger ones complained that it wasn’t fair that they couldn’t see a thing after waiting all this time. Father Poignard, the principal, approached and bowed. He began to say a few words he had prepared, in the direction of the royal conveyance.
The scholarship boy’s mouth felt dry. His hand shook a little. But because of the Latin, no one would detect his provincial accent.
The Queen bobbed out her lovely head and bobbed it in again. The King waved, and muttered something to a man in livery, who conveyed it by a sneer down a line of officials, who conveyed it by dumb show to the waiting world. All became clear; they would not descend. The address must be read to Their Majesties as they sit snug in the coach.
Father Poignard’s head was whirling. He should have had carpets, he should have had canopies, he should have had some kind of temporary pavilion erected, perhaps bedecked with green boughs in the fashionable rustic style, perhaps with the royal arms on display, or the monarchs’ entwined monograms made out of flowers. His expression grew wild, repentant, remote. Luckily, Father Herivaux remembered to give the nod to the scholarship boy.
The boy began, his voice gathering strength after the first few nervous phrases. Father Herivaux relaxed; he had written it, coached the boy. And he was satisfied, it sounded well.
The Queen was seen to shiver. “Ah!” went the world. “She shivered!” A half-second later, she stifled a yawn. The King turned, attentive. And what was this? The coachman was gathering the reins! The whole ponderous entourage stirred and creaked forward. They were going—the welcome not acknowledged, the address not half-read.
The scholarship boy did not seem to notice what was happening. He just went on orating. His face was set and pale, he was looking straight ahead. Surely he must know that by now they are driving down the street?
The air was loud with unvoiced sentiment. All term we’ve been planning this … . The crush moved, aimlessly, on the spot. The rain was coming down harder now. It seemed rude to break ranks and dash for cover, yet no ruder than what the King and Queen had done, driving off like that, leaving Thing talking in the middle of the street … .
Father Poignard said, “It’s nothing personal. It’s nothing we did, surely? Her Majesty was tired … .”
“Might as well talk to her in Japanese, I suppose,” said the student at his elbow.
Father Poignard said, “Camille, for once you are right.”
The scholarship boy was now concluding his speech. Without a smile, he bid a fond and loyal good-bye to the monarchs who were no longer in sight, and hoped that the school would have the honor, at some future time …
A consoling hand dropped on his shoulder. “Never mind, de Robespierre, it could have happened to anybody.”
Then, at last, the scholarship boy smiled.
That was Paris, July 1775. In Troyes, Georges-Jacques Danton was about halfway through his life. His relatives did not know this, of course. He was doing well at school, though you could not describe him as settled. His future was the subject of family discussion.
So: in Troyes one day, near the cathedral, a man was drawing portraits. He was trying to sketch the passersby, throwing occasional glances at the sky and humming to himself. It was a catchy, popular air.
No one wanted to be sketched; they pushed past and bustled on. He did not seem put out—it seemed to be his proper occupation, on a fine and pleasant afternoon. He was a stranger—rather dandified, with a Parisian air. Georges-Jacques Danton stood in front of him. In fact, he hovered conspicuously. He wanted to look at the man’s work and to get into conversation. He talked to everyone, especially to strangers. He liked to know all about people’s lives.
“Are you at leisure to be portrayed?” The man did not look up; he was putting a fresh sheet of paper on his board.
The boy hesitated.
The artist said, “You’re a student, you’ve no money, I know. But you do have that face—sweet Jesus, haven’t you had a busy time? Never seen a set of scars quite like it. Just stay still while I do you in charcoal a couple of times, then you can have one of them.”
Georges-Jacques stood still to be drawn. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t talk,” the artist said. “Just do me that terrifying frown—yes, just so—and I’ll talk to you. My name is Fabre, Fabre d’Eglantine. Funny name, you say. Why d’Eglantine? you ask. Well, since you ask—in the literary competiton of 1771, I was awarded a wreath of eglantine by the Academy of Toulouse. A signal, coveted, memorable honor—don’t you think? Yes, quite right, I’d rather have had a small gold bar, but what can you do? My friends pressed me to add the suffix ‘d’Eglantine’ to my own homely appellation, in commemoration of the event. Turn your head a little. No, the other way. So—you say—if this fellow is feted for his literary efforts, what is he doing making sketches in the street?”
“I suppose you must be versatile,” Georges-Jacques said.
“Some of your local dignitaries invited me to read my work,” Fabre said. “Didn’t work out, did it? I quarreled with my patrons. No doubt you’ve heard of artists doing something of that sort.”
Fabre chose another pencil. “Little to the left,” he said. “Now, you say versatile—I am in fact a playwright, director, portraitist—as you see—and landscape painter; a composer and musician, poet and choreographer. I am an essayist on all subjects of public interest, and speak several languages. I should like to try my hand at landscape gardening, but no one will commission me. I have to say it—the world doesn’t seem to be ready for me. Until last week I was a traveling actor, but I have mislaid my troupe.”
He had finished. He threw his pencil down, screwed up his eyes and looked at his drawings, holding them both out at arm’s length. “There you are,” he said, deciding. “That’s the better one, you keep it.”
Danton’s unlovely face stared back at him: the long scar, the bashed-in nose, the thick hair springing back from
