“He’ll never marry me. He says, as soon as the present crisis is over. But it never will be over, will it Lucile, will it?”
A few weeks ago in the street Lucile and her mother had seen Anne Theroigne. It had taken them both a moment to recognize her. Theroigne was no longer pretty. She was thin; her face had fallen in as if she had lost some teeth. She passed them; something flickered in her eyes, but she didn’t speak. Lucile thought her pathetic—a victim of the times. “No one could think her attractive now,” Annette said. She smiled. Her recent birthdays had passed, as she put it, without incident. Most men still looked at her with interest.
Once again, she was seeing Camille in the afternoons. He often stayed away from the Convention now. Many of the Montagnards were away on mission; many of the right-wing deputies, those who had voted against the King’s death, had abandoned their public duties and fled Paris. More than seventy deputies had signed a protest about the expulsion of Brissot, Vergniaud and the rest; they were in prison now, and only Robespierre’s good offices kept them out of the hands of the Tribunal. Francois Robert was in disgrace, and Philippe Egalite awaited trial; Collot d’Herbois was in Lyon, punishing rebels. Danton was enjoying the country air. Saint-Just and Babette’s husband, Philippe Lebas, were with the armies; the burden of the Committee’s work often kept Robespierre at the Tuileries. Camille and Fabre grew tired of counting the empty places. There was no one they much liked, and no one they much wanted to shout down. And Marat was dead.
Theroigne turned up at the rue des Cordeliers a few days after the supper party. Her clothes hung on her; she looked unwashed and somehow desperate. “I want to see Camille,” she said. She had developed a way of turning her head away from you as she spoke, as if she were engaged in a private monologue into which you mustn’t intrude. Camille heard her voice; he had been sitting doing nothing, staring into space. “Well my dear,” he said, “you have deteriorated. If this is all you can do by way of feminine charm, I think I prefer the way you were before.”
“Your manners are still exquisite,” Theroigne said, looking at the wall. “What’s that? That engraving? That woman’s going to have her head cut off.”
“That is Maria Stuart, my wife’s favorite historical personage.”
“How strange,” she said tonelessly.
“Sit down,” Lucile said. “Do you want something? A warm drink?” She was overwhelmed by pity; someone ought to feed her, brush her hair, tell Camille not to speak to her like that. “Would you rather I left you?” she said.
“No, that’s all right. You can stay if you want. Or go. I don’t mind.”
As she moved slowly into a better light, Lucile saw the scars on her face. Months ago, she knew, she had been beaten in the street by a gang of women. How she has suffered, Lucile thought; God preserve me. Her throat tightened.
“What I want won’t take long,” Theroigne said. “You know, don’t you, what I think?”
“I don’t know that you do,” Camille said.
“You know where my sympathies lie. Brissot’s people go on trial this week. I’m one of them, Brissot’s people.” There was no passion in her voice. “I believe in what they stand for and what they’ve tried to do. I don’t like your politics and I don’t like Robespierre’s.”
“Is that it? Is that what you came for?”
“I want you to go, right away, to the Section committee and denounce me. I’ll come with you. I won’t deny anything you say about me. I’ll repeat exactly what I just said.”
Lucile: “Anne, what’s the matter with you?”
“She wants to die,” Camille said. He smiled.
“Yes,” she said, in the same listless whisper. “I do.”
Lucile crossed the room to her. Theroigne pushed her hands away, and Camille gave her a sharp, fierce look. She dropped back, looking from one to the other.
“It’s easy,” Camille said. “You go out on the street and shout ‘Long live the King.’ They’ll arrest you right away.”
Anne raised a bony hand and touched her eyebrow. A white mark showed where the flesh had been split open. “I made a speech,” she said. “This happened. They hit me with a whip. They kicked me in the stomach and trod on me. I thought I was finished then. But it was a wretched way to die.”
“Try the river,” Camille said.
“Denounce me. Let’s go to the Section now. You’d be pleased to do it. You want your revenge.”
“Yes,” he said, “I do want revenge, but why should you have the benefit of a civilized end? I may detest Brissot’s people, but they shouldn’t have their names linked to scum like you. No, Theroigne, you can die in the street—like Louis Suleau did. You can take your death where you find it, and from whoever hands it out. I hope you wait a long time.”
Her expression didn’t change. Humbly, her eyes sliding across the carpet, she said, “I beg of you.”
“Go away,” Camille said.
She inclined her head. Her face averted, her gait beaten and slow, Theroigne moved towards the door. Lucile cried out for her to come back. “She means to take her life.” Stupidly, she was pointing after her, as if to make herself clear.
“No, she doesn’t,” Camille said.
“Oh, you are wicked,” Lucile whispered. “If there’s a hell, you’ll burn in it.” The door closed. She rushed across the room. She wanted to injure him, to hurt him in reparation for the ghost-like creature who had crept out into the rain. His expression distant, he held her wrists, thwarting her. Her whole body shook, and a rush of tears scalded her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you couldn’t do what she said, it’s absurd, but surely there’s some way to help her and make her want to live? Everybody must want to live.”
“That’s not true. Every day people are taken up off the streets. They wait for a patrol to come along, and then they shout out for the Dauphin, or for Robespierre to be guillotined. There are a multitude of deaths waiting. She only has to choose one.”
