“That’s right, keep yourself in the clear,” Louise Robert muttered.
“So you’ve not seen Camille?”
“He’s in Guise.”
“No, he’s back. I saw him yesterday in the company of the ineffably verminous Jean-Paul Marat—oh, you don’t know the doctor? Not such a loss—the man has a criminal record in half the countries in Europe.”
“Don’t hold that against a man,” d’Anton said.
“But he has, you know, a long history of imposing on people. He was physician to the Comte d’Artois’s household troops, and it’s said he was the lover of a marquise.”
“Naturally, you don’t believe that.”
“Look, I can’t help my birth,” Herault said, with a flash of irritation. “I try to atone for it—perhaps you think I should imitate Mlle. de Keralio and open a shop? Or your butcher might take me on to scrub the floors?” He broke off. “Oh, really, one shouldn’t be talking like this, losing one’s temper. It must be the air in this district. Be careful, Marat will be wanting to move in.”
“But why is this gentleman verminous? You mean it as a figure of speech?”
“I mean it literally. This man abandoned his life, walked out, chooses to live as some sort of tramp.” Herault shuddered; the story had a horrible grip on his imagination.
“What does he do?”
“He appears to have dedicated himself to the overthrowing of everything.”
“Ah, the overthrowing of everything. Lucrative business, that. Business to put your son into.”
“What I am telling you is perfectly true—but look now, I’m getting diverted. I came to ask you to do something about Camille, as a matter of urgency—”
“Oh, Camille,” Legendre said. He added a phrase he had seldom used since his merchant navy days.
“Well, quite,” Herault said. “But one doesn’t want to see him taken up by the police. The Palais-Royal is full of people standing on chairs making inflammatory speeches. I don’t know if he is there now, but he was there yesterday, and the day before—”
“Camille is making a
This seemed unlikely: and yet, possible. A picture came into d‘Anton’s mind. It was some weeks ago, late at night. Fabre had been drinking. They had all been drinking. Fabre said, we are going to be public men. He said, d’Anton, you know what I told you about your voice when we first met, when you were a boy? I told you, you’ve got to be able to speak for hours, you’ve got to fetch up your voice from here, from here—well, you’re good, but you’re not that good yet. Courtrooms are one thing, but we’re growing out of courtrooms.
Fabre stood up. He placed his fingertips on d‘Anton’s temples. “Put your fingers here,” he said. “Feel the resonance. Put them here, and here.” He jabbed at d’Anton’s face: below the cheekbones, at the side of his jaw. “I’ll teach you like an actor,” he said. “This city is our stage.”
Camille said: “Book of Ezekiel. ‘
Fabre turned. “This stutter,” he said. “
Camille put his hands over his eyes. “Leave me alone,” he said.
“Even you.” Fabre’s face was incandescent. “Even you, I am going to teach.”
He leapt forward, wrenched Camille upright in his chair. He took him by the shoulders and shook him. “You’re going to talk properly,” Fabre said. “Even if it kills one of us.”
Camille put his hands protectively over his head. Fabre continued to perpetrate violence; d’Anton was too tired to intervene.
Now, in bright sunlight, on an April morning, he wondered if this scene could really have occurred. Nevertheless, he began to walk.
The gardens of the Palais-Royal were full to overflowing. It seemed to be hotter here than anywhere else, as if it were high summer. The shops in the arcades were all open, doing brisk business, and people were arguing, laughing, parading; the stockbrokers from the bourse had wrenched their cravats off and were drinking lemonade, and the patrons of the cafes had spilled into the gardens and were fanning themselves with their hats. Young girls had come out to take the air and show off their summer dresses and compare themselves with the prostitutes, who saw chances of midday trade and were out in force. Stray dogs ran about grinning; broadsheet sellers bawled. There was an air of holiday: dangerous holiday, holiday with an edge.
Camille stood on a chair, the light breeze fanning out his hair. He was holding a piece of paper, and was reading from what appeared to be a police file. When he had finished he held the piece of paper at arm’s length between finger and thumb and released it to let it flutter to the ground. The crowd hooted with laughter. Two men exchanged glances and melted away from the back of the crowd. “Informers,” Freron said. Then Camille spoke of the Queen with cordial contempt, and the crowd hissed and groaned; he spoke of delivering the King from evil advisers, and praised M. Necker, and the crowd clapped its hands. He spoke of Good Duke Philippe and his concern for the people, and the crowd threw its hat into the air and cheered.
“They’ll arrest him,” Herault said.
“What, in the face of this crowd?” Fabre said.
“They’ll pick him up afterwards.”
D’Anton looked very grave. The crowd was increasing. Camille’s voice reached out to them without a trace of hesitation. By accident or design he had developed a marked Parisian accent. People were drifting over from across the gardens. From the upper window of a jeweler’s shop, the Duke’s man Laclos gazed down dispassionately, sipping from time to time from a glass of water and jotting down notes for his files. Hot, getting hotter: Laclos alone was cool. Camille flicked his fingers across his forehead, brushing the sweat away. He launched into grain speculators. Laclos wrote, “The best this week.”
