Desmoulins

By Katherine Pym

Camille Desmoulins, a pamphleteer and journalist, and a man devoted to his wife, Lucile, harbors a malevolent secret. His quill carries poisoned ink. He writes with misdirected passion that leads to the destruction of lives who come in contact with his writings. Will he use his pen to kill?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093375

Katherine Pym

Katherine Pym and her husband divide their time between Seattle, WA and Austin, TX. She loves history, especially Early Modern England, where most of her stories originate, and one other, a biographical novel of Camille Desmoulins during the French Revolution. His real life reads like a tragic romance.

Book preview

Prologue

France, 1784

In the midst of a dinner party, a young man of twenty-two angrily thrust aside his napkin, and jumped to his feet. He pointed an accusing finger at an older woman. No! That is vile and stupid. How can you say such a thing?

The purr of idle chatter trickled to an ebb as the guests stared at him.

The young man pushed aside his dish, then mounted the table in complete disregard of half-filled glasses and plates of food at his feet. Men and women around the table gaped in disbelief when he raised his arms in a motion for silence.

Noting a couple near him still talking, he kicked a plate of beef to make them stop and take notice. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, they turned to him.

Hampered by the continuing staccato of clearing his throat, Lucie Simplice Camille Benoist Desmoulins began: A Republican government is the only one suited for free men. Without it, he is a slave, forced to bend under the yoke of royalty...

Part 1

The Gallic Lark

One

Paris, May 1789

Camille Desmoulins sat in a dingy café, and frowned. In front of him sat a tankard of mediocre, watered down wine he hesitated to drink. It would probably claw his belly to the trots, but he was starving. Bending closer, he gazed at it with a jaundiced eye. He’d had very little to eat all day, and ran on the last vestiges of nervous energy.

He decided to wait for the barmaid to bring the bread, and looked out the window to the narrow streets. The day waned, and the city lay in heavy shadow. Soon, it would be dark, the end of a momentous day, the beginning of the States General. He wondered how nature could be so blasé about it. God should rejoice and make the day longer, brighter.

He studied the wine. Tonight, it looked all right, and he took a sip. It wound down to his empty belly and sat there. Camille let it settle. No pain spiked through his innards, so he took another sip.

With a dull frown, he sighed.

Educated as a lawyer and almost thirty, his career of law copying hardly paid enough salary to survive. Except for his love for Lucile Duplessis, he despised everything about his life. He lived in a wretched rooming house, ate vile, tasteless food, and his clothes were shabby. Thick, lank hair pressed heavily against his head with layers of powder. The heels to his shoes were rundown with a buckle missing from one, and there were ink stains on his shirt. He could only afford bad wine and coarse bread. He couldn’t even spare a sou for a cut of cheese.

The barmaid bore down on him with a loaded tray. Walking fast, she reached up and pulled off of a chunk of bread. She did not stop or look at him. In a rush, she slapped it down on the table next to his tankard.

Camille sniffed. Good bread was hard to get, the stuff in front of him was probably filled with crawly insects. He broke it in half, and waited for bits of it to move.

He scowled as he watched. Vermin had gotten into it.

The barmaid walked by with the emptied tray, and he grabbed her wrist. Do you have anything that is fresh, or at least, not infested?

She pulled away. No. You have what you have.

This bit of injustice just added to the already foul day.

He’d been to Versailles to watch the opening procession of the States General. Only allowed on the periphery, he gazed with burning eyes at those fortunate enough to have been elected to this historic event. His father could have been a delegate, but he refused the nomination due to illness.

Bah! He wasn’t that ill. He only wanted to complete the book he’d been compiling for near quarter of a century.

Camille could not understand the old man’s lack of zeal to make France a better country. Had he no ideals? Was there no patriotism in his heart?

And here Camille was—in Paris—ready to work for his province. His father could have recommended him to be the delegate from Picardy, but he did not. Camille’s soul filled with bitter envy.

The procession at Versailles did not stop while he grappled with a stream of dark thoughts. Standing there on the edge, he considered it endless as everyone walked by very solemn. If he were a delegate, he would have walked very solemn, too. Suddenly, Camille snapped upright when he spotted an old school friend.

How could it be? De Robespierre was a delegate.

Beginning under similar circumstances, de Robespierre seemed to have flourished where Camille had not. The simple truth of it sent him down a blazing path of resentment.

He picked up the bread and crumbled it over the tankard, letting it fall into the wine. As it soaked and softened, he reflected times must change. Not just for his sake, but for the people of France. Things couldn’t get much worse.

The weather had proven difficult the last eighteen months with crops failing throughout the country. There was a real risk of famine, yet the aristos hoarded grain at their country estates, waiting for the prices to go up. Already, the cost was too high for most people. Women with families were forced to raid bakeries. They grabbed anything they could, including flour that was almost always tainted. They fed their children with half-rotten, foul smelling grain filled with weevils and dirt.

Camille gazed at the bread in his wine. Almost ready. He scraped breadcrumbs from the table into his hand, then let them fall into the tankard.

Wine was cheap with plenty to go around. Babies suckled it for added nourishment when the milk failed. Men drank it to forget the squalor and harsh times in which they lived, but even when half drunk, they could not ignore the poor conditions in which they lived.

Bitter hostility was replacing apathy. The prospect of it excited Camille, which would open the door to the possibility of a Republic. As far as he was concerned, royalty could be damned.

A man walked up to his table, holding two glasses of wine. Elaborately dressed in bright green brocade, frothy lace sprouted from his wrists and the front of his coat. Half-drunk from the bad wine, the peacock hurt Camille’s eyes. Well, if it’s not Louis Stanislaus Fréron gracing a poor fellow in a rank tavern. What are you doing, here? You’ll soil your pretty clothes.

I knew you’d be here, drowning your sorrows in this filth of a place. How can you call what you’re drinking, wine?

Fréron handed him a glass, and taking it, Camille drank from it. Much better. He waved his hand. Ah then, sit, sit mon ami. I am trying to be in good spirits tonight. There is a small glimmer the States General will change things without violence. Were you at the procession, today?

No, I was not.

Camille wanted to thunder to the rafters how momentous this new States General was, but he only waved his glass. Why not? You must comprehend it’s the first time in more than a century the three estates have gathered to solve our country’s internal problems. He drank.

Fréron sighed. Do not become overheated, Camille. Nothing will come of it.

Abruptly, Camille mourned. "Oui, mon ami, I comprehend. You are saying the clerics and aristos may sit in the same hall together, but not the clerics, aristos, and the third estate, eh? Our common folk who break their backs for the other two estates are nothing, and should not be counted, n’est-ce pas?" He gazed bleary-eyed at Fréron.

Fréron sipped his wine. Mark my words, only bloodshed will awaken the monarchy from their death like sleep. It isn’t too far away, either.

Camille sagged. I saw de Robespierre today. He is a delegate.

Fréron shrugged. He’s a humorless prig. His arrogance turns men away from him. Do not be envious. As I said, he and the delegation will come to nothing.

A little wobbly, Camille gazed into the cup with his bread. It looked very soft, now, like a moving mush, and he scowled. The damn stuff played havoc with his innards until it was hard to justify the eating of it, but he must. He was half starved.

With a grimace, he scooped it in his mouth with his fingers, and swallowed it down. It was fetid.

He regarded Fréron, who watched with disgust. Camille cried, What?

What are you eating? It looks terrible. Must you eat it with your hands? Doesn’t this place have a spoon?

Camille wiped his chin with his sleeve. What do you think? He laughed. Oui, it is incredible de Robespierre should be a delegate to the States General. I wonder how he did it. Who do you suppose he convinced?

Fréron waved for more wine. Someone very much like himself I should think. He is too stiff and puritanical for my taste. It’s not how a man representing his province should be. He paused for a moment, then added, There’s something about him that makes me very cautious whenever I run into him.

The barmaid refilled their glasses from a pitcher of wine.

Camille nodded, a stupid grin on his face. He was feeling the effects of the wine Fréron gave him. Oui, oui. He is fastidious. Turns men away. Too clean, eh, my friend?

Fréron turned the glass in his hand. Only once have I seen him relax his usually stiff hide. It was when he had marriage designs on Adèle Duplessis. You remember, the sister to your pretty Lucile?

Suddenly close to tears, Camille raised his eyes to his friend. Oui, I remember. I love Lucile, my Louploup, but old Duplessis won’t let me marry her.

Fréron snorted. Of course not. Look at you, poor and ragged. Terrible. Nearly as bad as a beggar in the street. Until you come into better circumstances, he’ll never let you near her.

I know, mon ami, and my own father thinks I’m a wastrel. He drank deeply. Fathers, bah! Eyes blurred, he tried to gaze around the common room. Not many are about tonight, Fréron. I am bored. Where shall we go?

Fréron grinned. To the Palais-Royal. It will be good there, I think.

They stood to leave the café.

The Palais-Royal was not far, and when they reached its gates, they found it very crowded, full as an egg, and popping out its shell. People sat on the walls, dangled from the railings and balustrades, and leaned out of trees.

Camille lost Fréron just inside the gates. With a shrug, he pushed his way through the crush of shoulders to the clubs and cafés, housing the most ardent speakers and politicians. Countless pamphlets and virulent pages of propaganda were thrust into his hands as he struggled through the crowd.

The States General appealed to the masses. Hope ran high for momentous changes.

A voice rang out, Madame Deficit, the Queen, will be forced to spend less.

Another guffawed. Oui, our spineless King will no longer play with his hobbies of locks and clocks and redecorating.

Camille exclaimed, He will see our country’s in dire straits, and be forced to make some decisions.

Many shouted, Hear, hear, and Camille’s heart burst with good tidings.

As a stutterer, tonight, he was not doing too badly. He spoke clearly, and it cheered him. He called, Our treasurer, Necker, cannot do it alone. He needs help.

Great hurrahs filled his ears as he continued through the crowds. Cartoons and ugly caricatures of the royalty’s excesses were pressed at him. Camille’s pockets were as full with slander sheets as Palais-Royal was full of people shouting reform.

In a café, someone thrust a tankard of wine into his hand, and Camille grinned. Filled with nervous excitement, and contrary to his earlier cynicism, the good feeling of hope pressed against him. Camille raised his cup.

In the grip of passion, the annoying staccato of clearing his throat was absent when he shouted, To the States General. May it rectify all the terrible wrongs.

The small room erupted into deafening applause. Camille basked in the instant glory and drank his wine.

Hours later, Camille headed out of the Palais-Royal. It was late, near dawn.

Headed for his lodgings, he staggered through dank, city lanes teaming with people. Exhausted and drunk, Camille was an easy prey for footpaths, but it did not concern him. He was too down heeled for any enterprising thief to take notice.

It was extremely dark, though. The city was always forbiddingly dark. The streetlamps were spread too far apart. What heavy tapers were set in them each night were either stolen to light people’s homes, or they guttered out a few short hours after being lit.

Camille lurched against a fleshy obstacle and grunted with surprise. He growled, Mon Dieu, get out of my way.

People.

They were everywhere, and he snorted in disgust. One could not walk a step without running into another human being. Their prattle during the day as they begged for food or raided markets and bakeries was deafening, while at night, they sang in their cups bought with money from ill gotten means.

Paris seemed to hold a vast population of France these days. The poverty stricken had descended upon the Capital, thinking the streets were cobbled with manna from heaven. It was thought where there was no hope in the provinces, there was hope in Paris. Cynicism again to the fore, Camille knew these people were mistaken.

It was far worse in Paris.

Two

The next day dawned too soon. Riding on top of a crowded diligence to Versailles, Camille felt none too well. He awakened with swollen eyes and a headache, which the constant roll of the heavy coach failed to alleviate.

He did not mind, though, for he also awakened with an idea. He would write a pamphlet, not for the masses, but for the educated. It would contain news of interest, gossip and satirical wit. His mind was a muddle with ideas he must put into some semblance of order, and could not wait to begin.

While at Versailles to witness the important events of the day, he would also seek out Mirabeau and ask him if he could be part of his newspaper. Camille heard a position there would yield him hundreds of crowns a week.

Enthusiasm for better prospects swelled within his breast. Things could only get better, then his father would think more highly of him. He thought of Lucile’s father, old Duplessis. With those better prospects, perhaps, when Camille asked, he might not reject a marriage suit with Lucile.

A whole month passed, yet Camille heard nothing from Mirabeau regarding his request to join the newspaper, but all was not lost. He completed his pamphlet and was very pleased with life in general. His black hair rinsed of powder, Camille still looked ragged as he jauntily wound his way through the streets to his publisher with the loose pages tucked under his arm.

The bell above the door brought Momoro from his press, and he smiled at Camille in greeting. What’s this?

My pamphlet, responded Camille with a broad smile.

What do you title it? Momoro asked.

"La France Libre."

"A Free France? Momoro remarked with alarm. Free of what? Free from whom? Do you walk down forbidden paths, Camille? Let me read it."

Camille paced before the windows while Momoro read. The sun shone warmly on the street, and in its bustle, Camille thought of the crowded Roman Forum on the day of games.

Dieu, to have lived then, he thought with building zeal. To walk the streets with Cato, and to discuss for hours with Cicero. Camille idly wondered if he could legally change his name to Lucillus Camillus...

Bah, Momoro cried in disgust. "You want me arrested, is that not so, Camille? This is a blast against the Church and royalty. You’ve spared no one but the Third Estate. I would be a fool to publish this."

But that’s not fair! Camille shouted. Do you know how much work I’ve put into this? It is my right to have it published.

Perhaps, said Momoro, But not by me, or any other respectable printer. Your work is too libelous.

Damn you, Momoro, Camille rasped as he grabbed his pages from the printer’s hand. You get rich from the rabble’s propaganda sheets, you and all your ilk, yet when a decent piece comes your way, you tremble in fear. It is because I would put my name beneath the title that makes you refuse, is it not? You are not a man, he sneered. But a vile parrot of the times. You stand for nothing unless it suits the safety of your skin.

That is not true, Momoro angrily denied.

Oui, it is, Camille exclaimed with disgust. "If I had the money for a printing press, I’d print the piece myself and for anyone else who is refused by the likes of you. Good bye, Momoro."

The door slammed behind him which served only to inflame his anger. Camille strode at a feverish pace through the streets toward his lodgings, wishing for someone to block his path so he could knock him down. He had so much to say with no one to listen.

He needed the income to support his needs and to gain approval from Duplessis for the marriage with Lucile, and he had found the means in writing. He did not want to anonymously flood Paris with his pamphlet. It would only be thrown on a heap at the end of the day with the others. No, Camille wanted his name beneath the title.

He was overwhelmed by the feeling of impotence.

Camille chose at that instant to visit with Lucile, his Louploup, his Lolotte, his reason for living.

When he met with her, the first thing out of his mouth was on the bitter injustices of life. Oh, what will I do? he cried and laid his head against her breast. "The whole world is against me, and I have been refused by Mirabeau to join his journal.

All this in the space of a day. It seems I am treading backwards instead of forward.

You must rest, Lucile consoled. You have been working too hard. Come to the country this Sunday. Papa is taking us to Bourg-la-Reine where we’ll be for a week. The country will soothe you and calm your ruffled spirit. She laughed softly. The wine of the district is good, as well, n’est-ce pas?

Camille’s eyes filled with tears. You are so good for me, my Loulou. If only we could forever flee from here and all our problems, and love one another, as we should. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. Of course, I will come to you on Sunday.

LUCILE STOOD AT THE garden gate and watched Camille walk toward her on the country lane. Dust showed thickly on his shoes, and his coat was slung carelessly over a shoulder. He had loosened his cravat in the heat, and his thick, black hair glistened in the sun.

She smiled. Mon Dieu, she loved him. The intensity of it frightened her. Until she could control its force, the full extent of the love she bore him would remain concealed in her heart. Camille knew, but he was hardly aware of how much. He often chided her on her seemingly lack of regard.

Nor could Lucile tell her maman who was very close to her. There were simply no words adequate enough to express her feelings.

As Camille drew close, she stood at the gate, laughing. She was so very glad to see him. Bonjour, Camille. Please come in.

He grinned like a school boy, making her heart beat hard in her breast. She wanted to be held in a tight embrace, but her papa probably stood near a window, watching. Listening.

About to say something manly and absurd, he looked beyond her. Lucile followed his glance to see Adèle come out of the house. Acknowledging her sister, Lucile turned back to Camille. Many said he was ugly, but to her, he was handsome.

Camille bussed her cheeks, and surreptitiously touched her fingers with his. Bonjour, ma chere Lolotte. I hope you and your family are well.

Adèle approached them, her youth glowing in the afternoon sun. Oui, Camille, she interrupted. We are all marvelously healthy and robust. But you did not come to brighten the hearth of the Duplessis family, n’est-ce pas? She greeted Camille by bussing his cheeks. Your real concern is for Lucile, no?

She laughed at Camille’s momentary pause, and Lucile’s flush of embarrassment. Adèle put an arm around her and said, I do not begrudge you for the love you share. It is that I am envious.

Camille grinned. But you may have it, for I see de Robespierre occasionally when I go to Versailles. Would you care for me to put in a good word? He is a delegate now, and under proper circumstances.

Adèle gasped in mock horror. Mon Dieu, please don’t. I feel ill just thinking about it.

In the house, her maman met them with smiles and laughter. Come in. Come in. and Lucile watched as her mother pushed Camille into a fine, stuffed chair opposite her papa.

Her father ignored Camille. It was unsettling. It punctuated the ticking clock on the mantelpiece. Lucile was at a loss how to change the tension while Camille smiled stiffly, and tapped his fingers against his knee.

She turned to gaze at Monsieur, who seemed ancient compared to maman. For the thousandth time, she wondered why they married, what they saw in each other. Her mother had a giving, wonderful soul, while he was contentious and mean-spirited. Even now, his eyes were glazed with dislike as he drank from a large glass of port.

Adèle and Madame gossiped loudly, trying to relieve the tension that oppressed the air. It filled Lucile with despair, for no matter what she did her father was never pleased. Her mother loved her beyond reason, her father hating her with equal passion. It made Lucile so sorrowful, she wondered if she were the true daughter of Duplessis.

Madam clapped her hands. It’s time for dinner. We’ll picnic in the glade near the big chestnut tree.

I will not, Duplessis said. I will have my dinner as a grown man should in this house, in the dining room.

Her mother sighed. As you wish, Monsieur, but we will not be eating with you.

Lucile wilted with relief. It was always better without her papa.

They picnicked in a glade near the house, singing songs, and telling jokes. While they leaned against wicker rests, Camille waved a chicken drumstick in rhythm to his Ode to the States General.

It is not good, Adèle flatly announced.

Adèle! Lucile exclaimed, laughing at the same time.

The rhyme is poor, and the subject boring, her sister persisted with chin raised in stubborn defiance. I would wish for a more romantic flavor, eh, Lucile?

Camille smiled stiffly. You are a treasure, Adèle, although any prospective suitor should be warned of your acerbate tongue.

Adèle crossed her arms in front of her. That is not the least bit humorous, Monsieur.

Lucile sat back, waiting for the next blow from Camille. Once challenged, he would not back down.

Tossing the drumstick, he crossed his arms to mimic Adèle. Mon Dieu, the poor man will have to possess a rapier wit to contend with you. I can see de Robespierre will never do.

He would be confounded within moments. Lucile laughed.

Our Adèle is less shy than during those years when de Robespierre visited, Madame Duplessis said with a hint of disapproval, and she started to gather up the food. Come, Adèle, it’s getting late. Let’s collect the remnants of this fête and return to the house while Lucile shows Camille the lake. It is lovely this year, no? and she winked at Lucile.

Oui, maman. Lucile smiled, feeling her cheeks go hot. She turned to Camille and asked, Would you like to see the lake, Monsieur?

Mais oui, he said with a lusty grin. Lakes at this time of year are truly magnificent.

Her maman and Adèle groaned.

Lucile squeezed his hand. Come away, then, before your remarks become absurd.

Absurd? Camille cried in feigned disbelief. Absurd? I’ll teach you the true meaning of the word. Come here, wench.

She scampered away from the picnic fête, poised to fly.

Come to me, I say. Bounding to his feet, he beat his chest. I am the master, here, and you must obey.

Lucile laughed and jumped farther away.

Adèle scoffed as she collected the wine glasses. I hardly think that will bring her to you, Monsieur. My sister is a stubborn chit as all will agree.

Camille loosened his cravat, and cried, Now, you’ll get it, Loulou.

Lucile squealed in delight and fled as Camille sprinted behind her through the tall grass. Running under the trees that surrounded the glen, she burst into a sunny haven of wild flowers that swayed in the breeze.

The field was wide and her breath was nearly spent when she saw shimmering water under a pale sun. Running through marshy ground that edged the lake, she lost a slipper but did not stop. Laughing breathlessly, Lucile turned to see Camille close at her heels with a wicked grin spread across his face. She screamed and made the final effort to higher ground where the great chestnut stood.

Laughing, Camille caught her at the tree. I allowed you to win, my little turtle.

Lucile closed her eyes and leaned against the bark, trying to regain her breath while Camille’s hands ran up and down her body. They stopped at her breasts. Opening her eyes, she saw him stare fixedly at them, his breathing quickening. He cupped them in his hands and kissed the flesh above her décolletage. Frissons of heat rushed to her loins.

Camille gasped. Mon Dieu, you are beautiful.

She choked back tears. His loving her was so wonderful. It did not matter he was twenty-eight and she only eighteen. She loved him with all her heart.

She whispered, Kiss me and hold me as if you would never let me go.

Thunder rumbled from across the lake, but neither Camille nor Lucile heard it. Rain pattered gently on the water and moved toward them, but the thick, leafy shelter of the chestnut protected them.

More thunder rumbled. Lucile saw the rain beyond Camille’s shoulder, but he cupped a hand to her breast and pressed his lips to her neck until the blood sang in her veins, and she lost sight of the rain. She dismissed the warning breeze and black, looming clouds that rolled toward them.

Suddenly, the chestnut tree was not enough to protect them from the storm. With rapid intensity, gusts of wind swept into their shelter and disturbed their embrace. They were soaked in minutes as sheets of rain slashed them and thunder exploded overhead, drowning out all attempts to speak.

They ran for the house, and Madame Duplessis embraced her. Mon Dieu, I was so worried, and you are so wet. These storms are dangerous. Remember last July when rocks of ice fell and the crops were destroyed? Mon Dieu, Adèle and I barely escaped just now ourselves. The first drops began as we entered the garden. I will tell Marie to bring drying cloths.

No! Monsieur Duplessis thundered, slamming his cane against the floor. I forbid it. If you become ill, you deserve it, and he pointed an accusing finger at Lucile, his face mottled with anger. You will sleep in your clothes. The dinner you ate this afternoon at my expense will be your last this day. You will not be rewarded for playing the harlot in this house.

Everyone stood stunned, then Madame Duplessis glared at her husband. Now, Laridon, she warned. You will not be cruel.

I am not cruel. I am just.

Madame sent Camille and Lucile from the room with a sweeping gesture then abruptly turned on her husband, Now you listen to me, Duplessis, she demanded as the door closed.

A servant handed Camille and Lucile each a linen towel, then left the room as loud and angry voices were heard from the adjoining room. Lucile stood there, dripping water onto the floor. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. She did not understand her father’s angry intensity.

Camille gently guided her from the house to the front stoop where they dried their arms and faces in silence.

I apologize for my father, Lucile said as she absently folded the linen towel into a square fabric. Filled with pain and doubt, she regarded Camille. I do not understand.

Do not think of it, ma chere Lolotte. I do not understand, either, but it will not deter me from seeing you. I will come more often and protect you from your father, even if my sins are a buffer against his abuse to you.

She buried her face in his shirt. I do not know what I have done.

Camille tenderly kissed her. You have done nothing. It is an illness within him that treats you so. You must not blame yourself. Adieu, ma petite amie. I will see you soon. Do not forget me in the meantime.

Her eyes filled with tears. She hated to see him leave. Bon soir. I hope you don’t get too wet on your way back to Paris.

Camille spread his hand to feel the rain, and grinned. It has eased, and soon will stop. Look. He pointed northward. The sky is blue over Paris.

Three

July, 1789

Paris was aflame, Versailles at an impasse.

The States General was a great disappointment, and Camille realized Fréron had been right. It proved impossible for clerics, aristos, and common men to work together. As a result, Paris was a cauldron ready to boil, the Third Estate about to blow its top.

Watching events cascade toward revolt, Camille divided his time between the Palais-Royal in Paris, and Versailles. Filled with nervous energy, he dashed off letter after letter to his father who still lived in Guise. Unable to sleep, and so animated over the quick evolving events, he did not wait for a return letter before dispatching another.

His father never complained of being overwhelmed by his nonstop correspondence, so Camille continued day after day as if he were writing newsletters to Picardy. Indeed, it was making his father information-rich before the townsfolk of the village.

He wrote: Mon cher Père. So much is happening. I am hard-pressed to contain my excitement, and am proud to be a part of it. The ever increasing events will hopefully catapult France into the comedy of Change, and I truly desire this Change will shake France to its foundations.

If only Mirabeau had selected him to join his journal. Then, he would be paid for the detailed truths he wrote to his father, and more than a small, French village would benefit from it.

One afternoon, Camille stood in the crowd at Versailles as King Louis XVI ventured out to greet his people. He looked happy, waving and smiling.

The people watched him in stony silence.

The King’s movements became erratic. Clearly searching for a friendly face, his fat head swiveled around on his fat shoulders. Imperceptible at first, a slow groan rose from the people until loud hissing and booing dropped onto the monarch. It sent him in a fast retreat to the safety of his palace chambers.

Traveling back to Paris, Camille laughed when he thought of it. The King looked like a terrified rabbit running back to his warren.

The King’s cousin, duc d’Orleans, was an entirely different tale. Whenever he rode through the grounds of Palais-Royal, his living quarters when in Paris, the crowds parted as the seas did for Moses. While greeting anyone who reached out his hand to him, the people gave the duke thunderous applause.

The duc d’Orleans fashioned himself a friend of the common folk, and Camille could not help but admire him for such a maverick action. But his actions were not popular with the aristos, which brought him to belittle his own kind. Even the queen. His slander and verbal attacks against her were amazingly vicious.

Camille walked to the Palais-Royal hoping to see the duke, but was disappointed. The grounds