going to say. “Once it was, yes. But we have to think very carefully now, sweetheart. We have to think carefully about what will happen to the country. And to us.”
“So that is what you have been doing. Thinking carefully.”
“Yes.”
“And you are going to see Robespierre now?”
“Not directly.” He lifted his chin. His mood was once again worldly, jocular; he was pulling away from her. “I need to be well informed before I see him. Robespierre, you know, hurls abuse at any fellow who doesn’t keep up with events.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Not much,” he said cheerfully. He kissed her. They were more on terms now, on terms of his choosing; though he felt—and it hurt him—that she was frightened of him. “Aren’t you even a little bit glad to be back?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Back in our own street. Georges, I couldn’t live with your mother. We’ll have to have our own house.”
“Yes, we’ll do that.”
“Will you start seeing about it? Because we don’t want to be in Paris for much longer, do we?”
He didn’t answer. “I’ll not be long,” he said.
In the minute it took him to walk around the corner, he managed to greet half a dozen people, slap a few backs, hurry on before anyone could stop him to talk. By nightfall it would be all over the city: he’s back. Just as he was about to go into the Desmoulinses’ building, he became aware of something new—some obtrusive detail, nagging at the corner of his eye. He stepped back, looked up. Cut into the stone above his head were the words RUE MARAT.
For a moment he had the urge to turn back around the corner, climb the stairs, shout to the servants not to bother unpacking, they’d be returning to Arcis in the morning. He looked up to the lighted windows above his head. If I go up there, he thought, I’ll never be free again. If I go up there I commit myself to Max, to joining with him to finish Hebert, and perhaps to governing with him. I commit myself to fishing Fabre out of trouble—though God alone knows how that’s to be managed. I put myself once more under the threat of assassination; I recommence the blood feuds, the denunciations.
His face hardened. You can’t stand in the street calling into question the last five years of your life, just because they’ve changed the street name; you can’t let it alter the future. No, he thought—and he saw it clearly, for the first time—it’s an illusion, about quitting, about going back to Arcis to farm. I’ve been lying to Louise: once in, never out.
“Thank God,” Lucile said. “I was thinking of coming to get you.”
Her lips brushed his cheek. He’d been preparing to interrogate her closely about Camille and Robespierre, but instead he said, “How beautiful you are. I believe I’d forgotten.”
“In five weeks?”
“I’d never really forget.” He put his arms around her. “That was very sweet of you, to be so eager for my presence. You should have come to Arcis, I would have liked it.”
“Louise wouldn’t, or your mother.”
“It would have given them something in common.”
“I see. As bad as that?”
“A disaster. Louise is too young, too citified and quite the wrong shape. And how are you?”
“Oh Lord—mixed up.” She tried to pull away from him, but he held on to her, tightening his arms around her waist. How strong she was, full of fight; he believed she was afraid of nothing.
“Not pregnant again, Lolotte?”
She shook her head. “Thank God,” she added.
“Do you want me to give you another son?”
She raised her eyebrows. “You have a nice wife of your own to take care of, I think.”
“I can accommodate more than one woman in my life.”
“I thought you’d given me up.”
“Absolutely not. Point of honor.”
“But you had, before you left.”
I’ve got my strength back now, he thought. “It’s no good trying to reform, is it? You can’t reform of loving somebody.”
“You don’t love me. You just want to have me, and talk about it afterwards.”
“Better than not having you and talking about it afterwards, like everybody else.”
“Yes.” She leaned her forehead against his chest. “I’ve been silly, haven’t I?”
“Very silly. Your situation’s irretrievable. Our wives will never believe any good of you now. Be honest for once, and go to bed with me.”
“Is that what you came for?”
“Not originally, but—”
“I’m glad about that. I have no intention of complying, and besides, a little while ago Camille came in and flung himself down on our bed and is doing some savage brooding.”
