Camille held the pistol steady, fighting temptation. And lost.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your father was no saint.’
‘He was better than you. He never tortured helpless girls. He would be proud of me for standing up to you.’
‘No. He was far more petty than that. That gun, you know it’s one of a pair?’
Camille glanced at the long barrel and pearl inlay on the handle. She hadn’t known that.
‘Your father and Will were insufferable about it.’ Will was James’s father. ‘He’d bought the duelling pistols while they were on their grand tour, and when Will moved back to England, they took one each. Some sort of gesture of their friendship. Ironic, really, given how things ended up. And stupid.’
‘So? They were friends. Loyal friends. Maybe that’s why they weren’t so keen on you, they knew what you were.’
‘Do you know what it was like watching them from the outside? Neither of them truly cared about the Revolution. They were concerned with their appearance as romantic Revolutionaries, not the bitter reality of bureaucracy and control. They wanted to stay up all night talking about wonderful utopias, while men and women and children starved in the streets. You might not like Robespierre’s methods, but he gets things done.’
‘Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night,’ she said, with less venom than she’d hoped.
Molyneux rolled his eyes to the heavens. ‘Oh, do let up, Camille. You really think your father went to the guillotine because his idea of revolution was too pure for our corrupt state? That we executed him because he was in our way? Grow up.’
‘Why, then? Why did you let them kill your best friend?’
‘Because they found out what he did to your mother.’
The world stilled around Camille. Sound was muffled, the screaming below faded into nothing.
‘What did you say?’
‘All this crusading can’t save your parents, Camille. It won’t go back and stop you from being the naive child you were. My god, you don’t even know the truth about your mother.’
‘What are you talking about?’
The tricolore sash spread across Molyneux’s broad torso was riding up under his armpit. She remembered finding him once as a child, falling asleep in the library, his wig tipping off, his waistcoat rolled under his armpits as he slid lower in his chair. Despite everything, he still looked like ridiculous old Uncle Georges.
‘Your mother’s trial was a sham. Your father set her up. She was having an affair, you see, with Will, and he couldn’t stand the humiliation. When Will and I realised what he planned… The right word to the wrong person could land her in front of the Tribunal charged as an enemy of the Revolution. Your father could be a vindictive man. He knew the consequence could be her death. We begged him to take a different course.’ Molyneux took off his pince-nez and cleaned them with the edge of his sash. ‘Sad that he should go the same way. I warned him he was perverting the purpose of the Tribunal. It is for the people’s justice, not persecution and revenge.’
Camille couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, as horror took over. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Molyneux was trying to hurt her, surely, to distract her.
Why, though? What possible purpose could it have?
All she could think about was her mother standing alone in front of the Tribunal in the night shift she’d been arrested in, defiant and brave until the end.
‘Your friend Ada’s father was the one who broke the news to the Revolutionary Tribunal,’ he continued. ‘He always hated your relationship with his daughter. I wish I had seen it coming before it was too late. I failed both your parents, I will admit that. Once the Tribunal heard what your father had done, he had no chance. Your father had lied to them, given false information about her. Sentenced to death a true, loyal daughter of the Revolution. The Tribunal couldn’t let such an act stand. He was unfit for office, misused his position, betrayed us all. The evidence was unquestionable. He had to go.’
It was too much at once. She couldn’t hold it all in her mind: her mother’s affair, her father’s revenge, Ada’s father’s betrayal. Everything she believed, all the faith she’d put in her parents, every time she’d looked to their memory to work out the right thing to do.
‘Shut up – stop – you’re lying.’
‘No, Camille. For once, I want you to understand the truth.’ Molyneux looked so tired. As if he was trying to hold the world together in his own hands. ‘Our parents are never who we think they are. They can’t be, we see them in such a distorted, impossible light. But we don’t have to be ruled by them for ever. There’s one thing your father said that wasn’t bluff and posturing. He said there was no such thing as fate. No destiny. That we must make our own choices. That much, I think he got right.’
‘So what now? Do you arrest me too? Execute me as a traitor? Hurt Ada like you threatened to?’
‘I am sorry we threatened you. That was a mistake. One of many I have made with you. I should have told you the truth about your parents before now. Stupidly, I thought I was sparing you from the pain. I had hoped with time you would come back to us. That you would remember where you came from.’
‘I would never, ever side with you,’ she spat.
Even in her anger, some affection lingered. Made it hard to hate him. Because it was so like him to have made up some lie to protect her from the gritty realities of life. She was just a little girl to him.
