have him; they must have the
His headache had come back; too much hair-tossing, perhaps. The one constant, at these parties, was that he didn’t have to say anything. Other people did the talking, around him. About him.
Friday evening, late, the Comtesse de Beauharnais’s house: full of young poets to flatter her, and interesting rich Creoles. The airy rooms shimmered: silver, palest blue. Fanny de Beauhamais took his arm: a proprietorial gesture, so different from when no one wanted to own him.
“Arthur Dillon,” she whispered. “You’ve not met? Son of the eleventh Viscount Dillon? Sits in the Assembly for Martinique?” A touch, a whisper, a rustle of silk: “General Dillon? Here is something to pique your curiosity.”
Dillon turned. He was forty years old, a man of singular and refined good looks; almost a caricature aristocrat, with his thin beak of a nose and his small red mouth. “The Lanterne Attorney,” Fanny whispered. “Don’t tell everybody. Not all at once.”
Dillon looked him over. “Damned if you’re what I expected.” Fanny glided away, a little cloud of perfume billowing in her wake. Dillon’s gaze had become fixed, fascinated. “The times change, and we with them,” he remarked in Latin. He slid a hand onto Camille’s shoulder, took him into custody. “Come and meet my wife.”
Laure Dillon occupied a
“My dear,” Dillon said, “here’s the Lanterne Attorney.”
Laure stirred a little crossly: “Who?”
“The one who started the riots before the Bastille fell. The one who has people strung up and their heads cut off and so forth.”
“Oh.” Laure looked up. The silver hoops of her earrings shivered in the light. Her beautiful eyes wandered over him. “Sweet,” she said.
Arthur laughed a little. “Not much on politics, my wife.”
Laure unglued from her soft lips the warm piece of wax. She sighed; absentmindedly she fondled the ribbon at the neck of her dress. “Come to dinner,” she said.
As Dillon steered him back across the room, Camille caught sight of himself: his wan, dark, sharp face. The clocks tinkled eleven. “Almost time for supper,” Dillon said. He turned, and saw on the Lanterne Attorney’s face a look of the most heartrending bewilderment. “Don’t look like that,” he said earnestly. “It’s
“I know. I can’t get used to it.”
Everywhere he went there was this covert scrutiny, the dropped voices, the glances over shoulders. Who? That? Really?
The general observed him, only minutes later, in the center of a crowd of women. It seemed that his identity was now known. There was color in their cheeks, their mouths were slightly ajar, their pulses fluttered at proximity merely. An unedifying spectacle, the general thought: but that’s women for you. Three months ago, they’d not have given the boy a second glance.
The general was a kind man. He had undertaken to worry and wonder about Camille, and from that night on— at intervals, over the next five years—he would remember to do so. When he thought about Camille he wanted— stupid as it might seem—to protect him.
Should King Louis have the power to veto the actions of the National Assembly?
“Madame Veto” was the Queen’s new name, on the streets.
If there were no veto, Mirabeau said obscurely, one might as well live at Constantinople. But since the people of Paris were solidly opposed to the Veto (by and large they thought it was a new tax) Mirabeau cobbled together for the Assembly a speech which was all things to all men, less the work of a statesman than of a country-fair contortionist. In the end, a compromise emerged: the King was left with the power not to block but to delay legislation. Nobody was happy.
Public confusion deepened. Paris, a street-corner orator: “Only last week the aristocrats were given these Suspensive Vetoes, and already they’re using them to buy up all the corn and send it out of the country. That’s why we’re short of bread.”
October: no one quite knew whether the King was contemplating resistance, or flight. In any event, there were new regiments at Versailles, and when the Flanders Regiment arrived, the King’s Bodyguard gave a banquet for them at the palace.
It was a conspicuous affair, lacking in tact: though the pamphleteers would have bawled Bacchanalia at a packed lunch in the grounds.
When the King appeared, with his wife and the little Dauphin, he was cheered to the echo by inebriated military voices. The child was lifted onto the tables, and walked down them, laughing. Glasses were raised to the confusion of rebels. The tricolor cockade was thrown to the floor and ground under the gentlemen’s heels.
That is Saturday, October 3: Versailles banqueting while Paris starves.
Five o’clock that evening, President Danton was roaring at his District Assembly, his doubled fist pounding the table. The Cordeliers citizens will placard the city, he said. They will revenge this insult to the patriots. They will save Paris from the royal threat. The battalion will call out its brothers-in-arms in every district, they will be the first on the road. They will hale the King to Paris, and have him under their eye. If all else fails it is clear that President Danton will march there himself, and drag Louis back singlehanded. I have finished with the King, said the King’s Councillor.
Stanislas Maillard, an officer of the Chatelet court, preached to the market women. He referred, needlessly, to their hungry children. A procession formed. Maillard was a long, gaunt figure, like Death in a picture book. On his right was a tinker woman, a tramp, known to the down-and-outs as the Queen of Hungary. On his left was a brain- damaged escapee from an asylum, clutching in his hand a bottle of the cheapest spirits. The liquor ran from his nerveless mouth down his chin, and in his flint-colored eyes there was no expression at all. Sunday.
Monday morning: “I suppose you think you are going somewhere?” Danton asked his clerks.
They had thought of a day at Versailles, actually.
