her.”
“Your mother’s dead? I had no notion that your mother was dead.”
Augustin was taken aback. “He never told you about our family?” He shook his head. “How odd.”
“We presumed, you know, a quarrel. A serious quarrel. We didn’t want to pry.”
“She died when I was a baby. Our father went away. We don’t know if he’s dead or alive. I wonder, now—if he’s alive, would he have heard of Max?”
“I think so, if he’s anywhere in the civilized world. If he can read.”
“Oh yes, he can read.” Augustin was literal-minded. “I wonder what he thinks, then? Our grandfather brought us up, the girls went to our aunts. Until we got away to Paris. Charlotte, of course, she couldn’t get away. Then Henriette died—oh yes, we had another sister, and she and Max, when they saw each other, they got on very well, and I think Charlotte was probably jealous, a bit. She was only a child when she started to keep house for us. It aged her, I suppose. But she’s not thirty yet. She could still get married.”
Duplay drew on his pipe. “Why doesn’t she give it a go?”
“She had a disappointment over someone. You know him, in fact—he lodges down the road—Deputy Fouche. Can you call him to mind? He has no eyelashes and a sort of green face.”
“Was it a big disappointment?”
“I don’t think she liked him much actually, but she did take the view that she’d been … Well, you know how it is, some people are born with sour temperaments and they use the misfortunes in their lives as an excuse for them. I’ve been engaged three times, you know? When it came down to it, they couldn’t face the thought of Charlotte for a sister-in-law. She’s made us her life’s work. She doesn’t want any other women around. Nobody’s allowed to do anything for us, except her.”
“Mm. Do you think that’s why your brother hasn’t married yet?”
“I don’t know. He’s had plenty of chances. Women like him. But then again … perhaps he’s not the sort of person who marries.”
“Don’t talk about it round the town,” Duplay suggested. “About his not being the sort of person who marries.”
“Perhaps he’s afraid that most families end up like ours. Not superficially … I mean in some deeper way. There ought to be a law against families like ours.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t speculate about what he thinks. If he wanted us to know, he’d tell us. Plenty of children lose their parents. We hope you will regard us as your family now.”
“I agree, plenty of children lose their parents—but the difficulty with my father is that we don’t know whether we’ve lost him or not. It’s very odd, the thought that he’s probably living somewhere, perhaps even here in Paris, reading about Max in the papers. Suppose he turns up one day? He might. He could come to the Convention, sit in the gallery, watch over us … . If I passed him on the street I wouldn’t know him. When I was a boy I used to hope he’d come back … and at the same time I was a bit afraid of what it would be like if he did. Grandfather talked about him a lot, when he was in a bad mood. ‘Expect your father’s drunk himself to death,’ that sort of thing. And people were always watching us, looking for signs. People in Arras now, the ones who don’t like the way Max’s career has gone, they say, ‘The father was a drunk and a womanizer, and the mother was no better than she should be.’ They use, you know, worse terms than that.”
“Augustin, you must put all this behind you. You’re in Paris now, you have a chance at a fresh start. I hope your brother will marry my eldest girl. She’ll give him children.” Augustin silently demurred. “And for now, he has good friends.”
“Do you think so? I haven’t been here long, of course, but I get the impression that mainly he has associates. Yes, he has a great mass of admirers—but he’s not supported by a group of friends, like Danton.”
“Well, of course, there is a difference in style. He has the Desmoulins. Camille’s baby is his godchild, you know.”
“If it is Camille’s. There, you see … I feel sorry for my brother. Nothing he has is ever quite what it seems.”
“I have a sense of duty,” Charlotte said. “It’s not a common thing, I find.”
“I know, Charlotte.” Her elder brother always spoke to her gently, if he possibly could. “What am I not doing that you think I should be doing?”
“You shouldn’t be living here.”
“Why not?” He knew one good guilty reason why not; probably, he thought, so did she.
“You are an important man. You are a great man. You should behave as if you know that. Appearances count. They do. Danton has it right. He puts on a show. People love it. I haven’t been here long, but I’ve noticed that much. Danton—”
“Charlotte, Danton spends too much money. And nobody quite knows where he gets it from.” There was a hint in his voice, that she should change the subject.
“Danton has some style about him,” she insisted. “They say he doesn’t scruple to sit in the King’s chair at the Tuileries, when the cabinet meets.”
“And fills it to the inch, no doubt,” Robespierre said drily. “And if there were such a thing as the King’s table, Danton would put his feet up on it. Some people, Charlotte, are more equipped by nature for that sort of thing. And it makes enemies too.”
“How long have you worried about making enemies? I can’t remember the day when you gave a damn. Do you imagine people think any better of you for living in a garret?”
“I don’t know why you have to make it sound so much worse than it is. I’m perfectly comfortable. There’s nothing I want that I haven’t got here.”
“You would be much better off if I were taking care of you.”
