“I wonder how the Virtuous Roland will take it?”
“At her age,” Camille said with disgust. “And she so plain too.”
“Are you ill?” Manon asked her husband. It was hard to keep the sharpness out of her voice. Her husband had slumped in his chair, and as he dragged his eyes to her face his expression was certainly that of physical pain.
“I’m sorry.” Sorry for him, she meant. She did not feel any further need to apologize; she was simply setting out the situation for him, so that there should be no need for demeaning behavior, for pretenses, for anything that could be construed as deceit.
She waited for him to speak. When he did not, she said, “You understand why I won’t tell you his name.”
He nodded.
“Because it would produce impediments to our work. Obstacles. Even though we are reasonable people.” She waited. “I am not a woman who can bridle my emotions. My conduct, though, will be above reproach.”
At last he broke the silence.
“Manon, how is Eudora, our daughter?”
She was amazed, angry at the irrelevance. “You know she’s well. You know she’s well looked after.”
“Yes, but why do we never have her here?”
“Because the ministry is no place for a child.”
“Danton has his children at the Place des Piques.”
“His children are infants, they can be left to nursemaids. Eudora is a different matter—she would need my attention, and at present that is taken up elsewhere. You know she is not pretty, she has no accomplishments— what would I do with her?”
“She is only twelve, Manon.”
She looked down at him. She saw his sinewy hand, clenching and unclenching; then she saw that he had begun to cry, that tears were running silently down his cheeks. She thought, he would not want me to witness this. With a look of puzzled sadness she left the room, closing the door quietly, as she did when he was sick, when he was her patient and she his nurse.
He listened until the clip of her footsteps died away, and then at last permitted himself to make a sound, a sound that seemed to him to be natural, as natural as speech: it was a stifled animal bleat, a bleat of mourning, from a narrow chest. On and on it went; unlike speech, it went nowhere, it had no necessary end. It was for himself; it was for Eudora; it was for all the people who had ever got in her way.
Eleonore: She had thought, when all this is over, Max will marry me. She had hinted it to her mother. “Yes, I think so,” Mme. Duplay had said comfortably.
A few days later her father took her aside. With a thoughtful, embarrassed gesture, he smoothed his thinning hair over his scalp. “He’s a great patriot,” he said. It seemed to be worrying him. “I should think he’s very fond of you. He’s very reserved, isn’t he, in his private capacity? Not that one would wish him any different. A great patriot.”
“Yes.” She was irritated. Did her father imagine that her pride in him needed to be bolstered in this way?
“It’s a great honor that he lives here with us, and so of course we ought to do all we can … . The fact is, you’re already married, in my eyes.”
“Oh,” she said. “I see what you mean.”
“I’d rely on you … if there were anything you could do to make his life more comfortable—”
“Father, didn’t you hear me, I said, I see what you mean.”
Finally, she let her hair down, so that it tumbled over her square shoulders and down her back. She pushed it away from her small breasts and leaned into the mirror to scrutinize herself. Perhaps it is folly to imagine that with my plain face … Lucile Desmoulins had come yesterday, bringing the baby for them to see. They fussed around her and chattered, and she had passed the baby to Victoire and sat alone: one hand drooping over the arm of her chair, like a winter flower touched with ice. When Max had come in, she had turned her head, smiled; and sudden pleasure lit his face. It ought to be called brotherly affection, what he felt for Lucile; but for me, she thought, if there were any justice it ought to be more than that.
She smoothed her hand down over her flat belly and hips. She began to take pleasure in the softness of her own skin; she felt what his hands would feel. But when she turned away from the mirror, she saw for a second the square, solid lines of her body, and, as she eased herself into the bed and put her head on his pillow, only a residue of disappointment remained. As she lay and waited, her whole body locked rigid in anticipation.
She heard him climbing the stairs; turned her face resolutely to the door. For one dreadful half-second she imagined that—Oh God, is it possible—the dog might burst in, hurl himself upon her, panting and grinning, whining and slurping, snatching up (as he was prone to do) jawfuls of her very clean and well-brushed hair.
But the door handle turned, and nothing and no one entered. He hesitated on the threshold of the room, and looked as if he might back out, and down the stairs again. Then, deciding, he stepped in. Eyes met; of course, they would. He had a sheaf of loose papers in his hands, and as he reached out to put them down, his eyes still on her face, some of them went fluttering to the floor.
“Shut the door,” she said. She hoped it would be all that she would need to say, perfect understanding then; but emerging from her mouth it sounded just a practical suggestion, as if she were incommoded by a draught.
“Eleonore, are you sure about this?”
An expression of impatience and self-mockery crossed his face; it did seem that she had made up her mind. He lifted her hands, kissed her fingertips. He wanted to say, very clearly, we can’t do this; as he bent to retrieve the scattered papers, blood rushed into his face, and he realized the total impossibility of asking her to get up and go.
When he turned back to her she was sitting up. “No one will complain,” she said. “They understand. We’re not children. They’re not going to make things difficult for us.”
