“I’ll tell Camille what you say.”
“Please don’t bother. I’ve no wish to carry on a debate with him, at first- or second-hand.”
“He’ll be devastated to know that your opinion of him has sunk even lower.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” she said harshly.
He raised an eyebrow: as he always did, when he had provoked her to an outburst. Day after day he watched her, reaping her moods and garnering her expressions.
Secrecy then. Yet there’s a need for honesty, and François-Léonard admitted it. “We are both married, and I see that it’s impossible … for you, anyway … to do anything to dishonor those vows … .”
But if feeds so right, she cried. My instinct tells me it can’t be wrong.
“Instinct?” He looked up. “Manon, this is suspect. You know, we have no absolute right to be happy … or rather, we need to think carefully about what the nature of happiness might be … . We have no right to please ourselves, at the expense of others.” Still those steady fingers rested upon his shoulder; but her face was unconvinced, her face was … greedy. “Manon?” he said. “Have you read Cicero? His essay on Duty?”
Has she read Cicero? Does she know her Duty? “Oh, yes …” she moaned. “Oh, I’m well read. And I know that obligations must be weighed, that no one can be happy at the expense of other people. Don’t you think I’ve been through all this, in my head?”
“Yes.” He looked abashed. “I’ve underestimated you.”
“Do you know, if I have a fault—” she paused minutely, waiting for the polite rejoinder—“if I have a fault, it’s that I speak to the point, I can’t bear hypocrisy, I can’t bear this politeness that detracts from honesty—I must speak to Roland.”
“Speak to him? Of what?”
Fair question. Nothing has happened between them—in the sense that Danton and his friends think of something happening. (She pictured Lucile Desmoulins’s little breasts, crushed between Danton’s fingers.) Only his precipitate declaration, her precipitate answer: but since then, he had barely touched her, barely touched her hand.
“My dear”—she dropped her head—“this goes so far beyond the realms of the physical. As you say—in that sense, nothing is possible for us. And, of course, I must support Roland—this is a time of crisis, I am his wife, I cannot abandon him. And yet—I cannot allow him to live in doubt about the true nature of things. This is part of my character, you must understand it.”
He looked up. He frowned. “But Manon, you have nothing to say to your husband. Nothing has occurred. We have simply spoken of our feelings—”
“Yes, we have spoken of them! Roland has never spoken to me of his feelings—but I respect them, I know he has feelings, he must have, everybody has them. I must say to him: here is the truth. I have met the man I was meant to love; our situation is thus, and thus; I shall not mention his name; nothing has occurred; nothing shall occur; I shall remain a faithful wife to you. He will understand me; he will know my heart has gone elsewhere.”
Buzot cast his eyes down. “You are implacable, Manon. Has there ever been a woman like you?”
I doubt it, she thought. She said, “I cannot betray Roland. I cannot leave him. My body, you may think, was meant for pleasure. But pleasure is not of the first account.” Still, she thought of Buzot’s hands; rather robust hands for so elegant, so well kept a man. Her breasts are not like the Desmoulins woman’s; they are breasts that have fed a child, they are responsible breasts.
Buzot said, “Do you think it’s a good idea to tell him? Do you think—” (God help me)—“that there’s any point?”
He had an intimation that he had gone about this the wrong way. But then, he had no experience. He was a virgin, in these matters; and his wife, whom he had married for her money, was older, and plain.
“Yes, yes, yes!” Fabre said. “There’s certainly someone! How pleasant to find that people are no better than you are.”
“Not Louvet?”
“No. Barbaroux, perhaps?”
“Oh no. Reputation bad. Attractions obvious. Rather,” Camille sighed, “rather florid and showy for Madame.”
“I wonder how the Virtuous Roland will take it?”
“At her age,” Camille said with disgust. “And she so plain too.”
“Are you ill?” Manon asked her husband. It was hard to keep the sharpness out of her voice. Her husband had slumped in his chair, and as he dragged his eyes to her face his expression was certainly that of physical pain.
“I’m sorry.” Sorry for him, she meant. She did not feel any further need to apologize; she was simply setting out the situation for him, so that there should be no need for demeaning behavior, for pretenses, for anything that could be construed as deceit.
She waited for him to speak. When he did not, she said, “You understand why I won’t tell you his name.”
He nodded.
“Because it would produce impediments to our work. Obstacles. Even though we are reasonable people.” She waited. “I am not a woman who can bridle my emotions. My conduct, though, will be above reproach.”
At last he broke the silence.
“Manon, how is Eudora, our daughter?”
She was amazed, angry at the irrelevance. “You know she’s well. You know she’s well looked after.”
“Yes, but why do we never have her here?”
“Because the ministry is no place for a child.”
“Danton has his children at the Place des Piques.”
“His children are infants, they can be left to nursemaids. Eudora is a different matter—she would need my attention, and at present that is taken up elsewhere. You know she is not pretty, she has no accomplishments—what would I do with her?”
“She is only twelve, Manon.”
She looked down at him. She saw his sinewy hand, clenching and unclenching; then she saw that he had begun to cry, that tears were running silently down his cheeks. She thought, he would not want me to witness this. With a look of puzzled sadness she left the room, closing the door quietly, as she did when he was sick, when he was her patient and she his nurse.
He listened until the clip of her footsteps died away, and then at last permitted himself to make a sound, a sound that seemed to him to be natural, as natural as speech: it was a stifled animal bleat, a bleat of mourning, from a narrow chest. On and on it went; unlike speech, it went nowhere, it had no necessary end. It was for himself; it was for Eudora; it was for all the people who had ever got in her way.
Eléonore: She had thought, when all this is over, Max will marry me. She had hinted it to her mother. “Yes, I think so,” Mme. Duplay had said comfortably.
A few days later her father took her aside. With a thoughtful, embarrassed gesture, he smoothed his thinning hair over his scalp. “He’s a great patriot,” he said. It seemed to be worrying him. “I should think he’s very fond of you. He’s very reserved, isn’t he, in his private capacity? Not that one would wish him any different. A great patriot.”
“Yes.” She was irritated. Did her father imagine that her pride in him needed to be bolstered in this way?
“It’s a great honor that he lives here with us, and so of course we ought to do all we can … . The fact is, you’re already married, in my eyes.”
“Oh,” she said. “I see what you mean.”
“I’d rely on you … if there were anything you could do to make his life more comfortable—”
“Father, didn’t you hear me, I said, I see what you mean.”
Finally, she let her hair down, so that it tumbled over her square shoulders and down her back. She pushed it away from her small breasts and leaned into the mirror to scrutinize herself. Perhaps it is folly to imagine that with my plain face … Lucile Desmoulins had come yesterday, bringing the baby for them to see. They fussed around her and chattered, and she had passed the baby to Victoire and sat alone: one hand drooping over the arm of her chair, like a winter flower touched with ice. When Max had come in, she had tur
ned her head, smiled; and sudden pleasure lit his face. It ought to be called brotherly affection, what he felt for Lucile; but for me, she thought, if there were any justice it ought to be more than that.
She smoothed her hand down over her flat belly and hips. She began to take pleasure in the softness of her own skin; she felt what his hands would feel. But when she turned away from the mirror, she saw for a second the square, solid lines of her body, and, as she eased herself into the bed and put her head on his pillow, only a residue of disappointment remained. As she lay and waited, her whole body locked rigid in anticipation.
She heard him climbing the stairs; turned her face resolutely to the door. For one dreadful half-second she imagined that—Oh God, is it possible—the dog might burst in, hurl himself upon her, panting and grinning, whining and slurping, snatching up (as he was prone to do) jawfuls of her very clean and well-brushed hair.
But the door handle turned, and nothing and no one entered. He hesitated on the threshold of the room, and looked as if he might back out, and down the stairs again. Then, deciding, he stepped in. Eyes met; of course, they would. He had a sheaf of loose papers in his hands, and as he reached out to put them down, his eyes still on her face, some of them went fluttering to the floor.
“Shut the door,” she said. She hoped it would be all that she would need to say, perfect understanding then; but emerging from her mouth it sounded just a practical suggestion, as if she were incommoded by a draught.
“Eléonore, are you sure about this?”
An expression of impatience and self-mockery crossed his face; it did seem that she had made up her mind. He lifted her hands, kissed her fingertips. He wanted to say, very clearly, we can’t do this; as he bent to retrieve the scattered papers, blood rushed into his face, and he realized the total impossibility of asking her to get up and go.
When he turned back to her she was sitting up. “No one will complain,” she said. “They understand. We’re not children. They’re not going to make things difficult for us.”
Are they not, though, he thought. He sat down on the bed and stroked her breast, the nipple hardening into the palm of his hand. His face expressed concern for her.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Really.”
No one had ever kissed her before. He did it very gently, but still, she seemed surprised. He thought that he had better take his clothes off because in a minute she would start advising it, telling him that was all right too. He touched alien flesh, soft, strange; there was a girl he used to see when he came to Versailles at first, but she was not a good girl, not in any sense, and it had been easier to drift apart, and since then it had been easier not to do anything, celibacy is easy but half-celibacy is very hard, women don’t keep secrets and the papers are avid for gossip … . Eléonore did not seem to expect or want any delay. She pushed her body against his, but it was stiff with the anticipation of pain. She knows the mechanics, he thought, but no one has introduced her to the art. Does she know she might begin to bleed? He felt a sharp, nauseous pang.
“Eléonore, close your eyes,” he whispered to her. “You should try to relax, just a minute until you feel—” Better, he had almost said, as if it were a sickbed. He touched her hair, kissed her again. She didn’t touch him; she hadn’t thought of it. He pushed her legs apart a little. “I don’t want you to be frightened,” he said.
“It’s all right,” she said.
But it wasn’t. He couldn’t force his way into her dry and rigid body without using a brutality he couldn’t call up. After a minute or two he propped himself on his elbow and looked down at her. “Don’t try to rush,” he said. He slipped a hand under her buttocks. Eléonore, he would have liked to say, I’m not practiced at this, and I wouldn’t describe you as a natural. She arched her body against his. Someone’s told her to work hard for what she wants in life, to grit her teeth and never give up … poor Eléonore, poor women. Rather unexpectedly, and at a faintly peculiar angle, he penetrated her. She did not make a sound. He gathered her head against his shoulder so that he did not have to see her face and would not know if it hurt her. He eased himself around—not that there was much ease about it—into a more agreeable position. He thought again, it’s been too long, you do this often or not at all. And so, of course, it was over quickly. He buried in her neck a faint sound of release. He let her go, and her head dropped back against the pillow.
“Did I hurt you?”
“It’s all right.”
He rolled over on his side and closed his eyes. She would be thinking, so that’s it, is it, is that what the fuss is about? Of course she would think that. It was his own disappointment he couldn’t get over, a kind of bitter, strained feeling in his throat. There’s a lesson somewhere, he thought; when pleasures you deny yourself turn out not to be pleasures, you’re doubly destroyed, for not only do you lose an illusion, you also feel futile. It had been much better, of course, with the Versailles girl, but there was no going back to that situation, there was no conquering one’s spiritual distaste for the casual encounter. Should he say to Eléonore, I’m sorry it was so quick, I realize you didn’t enjoy it? But what was the point, since she didn’t have a standard of comparison, and would only say “it was all right” anyway.
“I’ll get up now,” she said.
He put an arm round her. “Stay.” He kissed her breasts.
“All right. If you want.”
He made tentative exploration. There was no blood, at least he didn’t think so. He thought, presumably she will actually know that there is more to it, that it gets better with practice, because she will understand that for some people it is such an important part of their lives.
Now at last she relaxed a little. She smiled. It was a smile of accomplishment. Who can guess what she’s thinking? “This bed’s not very big,” she said.
“No, but—” If it came to that, he would just have to tell her. He would have to say Eléonore, Comélia, much as I appreciate the free and generous offer of your body, I have no intention of spending my nights with you, even if your whole family helps us to move the furniture. He closed his eyes again. He tried to think what excuse he could make to Maurice when he left the house, how he would cope with Madame’s questions, no doubt tears. He thought then of the recrimination that would descend on Eléonore’s muddled and guiltless head, and the feminine spite. And besides, he didn’t want to go, to cold and unfrequented rooms in another district, and meet Maurice Duplay at the Jacobins, and nod to him, and refrain from asking after the family. And he knew, quite certainly, that this would happen again. When Eléonore decided that it was time she’d just trip upstairs and wait for him, and he wouldn’t be able to send her away, any more than he had the first time. He wondered who she’d confide in, because she’d need advice on how often to expect it; and the disastrous possibilities came tumbling in on his head, as he tried to delimit the circle of her female friends. It was fortunate that she hardly knew Mme. Danton.
He must have gone to sleep then, and when he woke up she had gone. It was 9 p.m. Tomorrow, he thought, she will go bouncing along the street, smiling at people and paying calls for no real reason.
In the days afterwards he became sick with guilt. The second time she was easier, less tense, but she never gave any sign of experiencing pleasure. It came to him that if she found herself pregnant they would have to be married very quickly. Perhaps, he thought, when the Convention meets, new people will come to the house, and perhaps someone will like her, and I can be generous and release her from any promise or tie.
But in his heart, he knew that this wouldn’t happen. No one would like her. The family wouldn’t let them like her. The people who’re married, he thought, can get divorced now. But the only thing that will release us is if one of us dies.
At the ministry, Camille sat at his desk, and irrelevant thoughts flitted through his head. He thought of the night he had spent in his cousin de Viefville’s apartment, before he had gone to see Mirabeau. Barnave had c
alled. Barnave had spoken to him as if he were someone worthy of consideration. He had liked Barnave, personally. He was in prison now, accused of conspiring with the Court; of this charge he was, of course, utterly guilty. Camille sighed. He drew little ships at sea in the margin of the encouraging letter he was drafting to the Jacobins of Marseille.
The members of the Convention were gathering now in Paris. Augustin Robespierre: Camille, you haven’t changed a bit. And Antoine Saint-Just … he would have to be patient about Saint-Just, stop that disastrous, illogical animosity flaring up … .
“I have the feeling he harbors loathsome thoughts in his head,” he told Danton.
And Danton, preoccupied with solidarity: “Do try, do try,” he said, in his tired barrister’s voice, “to keep the peace, you know, not be a constant disappointment to Maximilien? You do make work for him, tidying up your indiscretions.”
“Saint-Just will not have indiscretions, I suppose.”
“He doesn’t look as if he would.”
“That will endear him to everyone, I’m sure.”
“Endear,” Danton laughed. “The boy alarms me. That chilly, purposive smirk.”
“Perhaps he’s trying to look pleasant.”
“Hérault will be jealous. The women will be interested in someone else.”
“Hérault need not worry. Saint-Just isn’t interested in women.”
“You used to say that about Saint Maximilien, but now he has the delightful Comélia. Yes, isn’t it so?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do.”
So that was common gossip now, besides the supposed infidelity of Roland’s wife and the menage here at the Place des Piques. What things for people to occupy themselves with, he thought.
Perhaps Danton would leave office soon. For himself he would be pleased. Yet it seemed certain that Roland’s supporters would try to arrange for him to stay on at the Interior, though he had been elected to the Convention. Even after the scandal about the Crown Jewels, the dusty old bureaucrat was riding high. And if he stayed in office, why not Danton, so much more necessary to the nation?