A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

“Are you bored?” d’Anton asked. A very direct question, but as soon as it popped into his head it had popped out of his mouth—which was not like him.

“I suppose that might be it,” Herault said ruefully. “Though one would like to be—you know, more lofty. I mean, one likes to think there should be changes in the interest of France, not just because one’s at a loose end.”

Odd, really—within a few minutes, the whole tenor of the conversation had changed. Herault had become confiding, dropped his voice, shed his oratorical airs; he was talking to them as if he knew them well. Even Camille was looking at him with the appearance of sympathy.

“Ah, the burden of your wealth and titles,” Camille said. “Maitre d’Anton and I find it brings tears to our eyes.”

“I always knew you for men of sensibility.” Herault gathered himself. “Must get off to Versailles, expected for supper. Good-bye for now, d’Anton. You’ve married, haven’t you? My compliments to your wife.”

D’Anton stood and looked after him. A speculative expression crossed his face.

They had started to spend time at the Cafe du Foy, in the Palais-Royal. It had a different, less decorous atmosphere from M. Charpentier’s place; there was a different set of people. And—one thing about it—there was no chance of bumping into Claude.

When they arrived, a man was standing on a chair declaiming verses. He made some sweeping gestures with a paper, then clutched his chest in an agony of stage-sincerity. D’Anton glanced at him without interest, and turned away.

“They’re checking you out,” Camille whispered. “The Court. To see if you could be any use to them. They’ll offer you a little post, Georges-Jacques. They’ll turn you into a functionary. If you take their money you’ll end up like Claude.”

“Claude has done all right,” d’Anton said. “Until you came into his life.”

“Doing all right isn’t enough though, is it?”

“Isn’t it? I don’t know.” He looked at the actor to avoid Camille’s eyes. “Ah, he’s finished. It’s funny, I could swear—”

Instead of descending from his chair, the man looked hard and straight at them. “I’ll be damned,” he said. He jumped down, wormed his way across the room, produced some cards from his pocket and thrust them at d’Anton. “Have some free tickets,” he said. “How are you, Georges-Jacques?” He laughed delightedly. “You can’t place me, can you? And by hell, you’ve grown!”

“The prizewinner?” d’Anton said.

“The very same. Fabre d’Eglantine, your humble servant. Well now, well now!” He pounded d’Anton’s shoulder, with a stage-effect bunched fist. “You took my advice, didn’t you? You’re a lawyer. Either you’re doing quite well, or you’re living beyond your means, or you’re blackmailing your tailor. And you have a married look about you.”

D’Anton was amused. “Anything else?”

Fabre dug him in the belly. “You’re beginning to run to fat.”

“Where’ve you been? What have you been up to?”

“Around, you know. This new troupe I’m with—very successful season last year.”

“Not here, though, was it? I’d have caught up with you, I’m always at the theater.”

“No. Not here. Nimes. All right then. Moderately successful. I’ve given up the landscape gardening. Mainly I’ve been writing plays and touring. And writing songs.” He broke off and started to whistle something. People turned around and stared. “Everybody sings that song,” he said. “I wrote it. Yes, sorry, I am an embarrassment at times. I wrote a lot of those songs that go around in your head, and much good it’s done me. Still, I made it to Paris. I like to come here, to this cafe I mean, and try out my first drafts. People do you the courtesy of listening, and they’ll give you an honest opinion—you’ve not asked for it, of course, but let that pass. The tickets are for Augusta. It’s at the Italiens. It’s a tragedy, in more ways than one. I think it will probably come off after this week. The critics are after my blood.”

“I saw Men of Letters,” Camille said. “That was yours, Fabre, wasn’t it?”

Fabre turned. He took out a lorgnette, and examined Camille. “The less said about Men of Letters the better. All that stony silence. And then, you know, the hissing.”

“I suppose you must expect it, if you write a play about critics. But of course, Voltaire’s plays were often hissed. His first nights usually ended in some sort of riot.”

“True,” Fabre said. “But then Voltaire wasn’t always worried about where his next meal was coming from.”

“I know your work,” Camille insisted. “You’re a satirist. If you want to get on—well, try toadying to the Court a bit more.”

Fabre lowered his lorgnette. He was immensely, visibly gratified and flattered—just by that one sentence, “I know your work.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Sell out? I don’t think so. I do like an easy life, I admit. I try to turn a fast penny. But there are limits.”

D‘Anton had found them a table. “What is it?” Fabre said, seating himself. “Ten years? More? One says, ‘Oh, we’ll meet again,’ not quite meaning it.”

“All the right people are drifting together,” Camille said. “You can pick them out, just as if they had crosses on their foreheads. For example, I saw Brissot last week.” D’Anton did not ask who was Brissot. Camille had a multitude of shady acquaintances. “Then, of all people, Herault just now. I always hated Herault, but I have this feeling about him now, quite a different feeling. Against my better judgement, but there it is.”

“Herault is a Parlementary judge,” d’Anton told Fabre. “He comes from an immensely rich and ancient family. He’s not more than thirty, his looks are impeccable, he’s well traveled, he’s pursued by all the ladies at Court —”

“How sick,” Fabre muttered.