Babel : Or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution (9780063021440)

‘Hello, there.’ A red-haired boy in a purple waistcoat swooped upon them. It was Vincy Woolcombe – the least awful of Pendennis’s friends, Robin recalled. Robin opened his mouth to greet him, but Woolcombe’s eyes slid over him completely; he was solely focused on Victoire. ‘You’re in our college, aren’t you?’

Victoire glanced around for a moment before realizing Woolcombe was indeed addressing her. ‘Yes, I—’

‘You’re Victoire?’ he asked. ‘Victoire Desgraves?’

‘Yes,’ she said, standing up a bit straighter. ‘How did you know my name?’

‘Well, there are only two of you in your year,’ said Woolcombe. ‘Woman translators. You must be brilliant to be at Babel. Of course we know your names.’

Victoire’s mouth was slightly open, but she said nothing; she seemed unable to determine whether Woolcombe was about to make fun of her or not.

‘J’ai entendu dire que tu venais de Paris.’ Woolcombe dipped his head in a slight bow. ‘Les parisiennes sont les plus belles.’

Victoire smiled, surprised. ‘Ton français est assez bon.’

Robin watched this exchange, impressed. Perhaps Woolcombe was not so terrible after all – perhaps he was only a prat in association with Pendennis. He, too, wondered briefly if Woolcombe was having fun at Victoire’s expense, but there were no leering friends in sight; no one was glancing surreptitiously over their shoulders and pretending not to laugh.

‘Summers in Marseilles,’ said Woolcombe. ‘My mother is of French extraction; she insisted I learn. Would you say it’s passable?’

‘You exaggerate the vowels a bit,’ Victoire said earnestly, ‘but otherwise, not bad.’

Woolcombe, to his credit, did not seem offended at this correction. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Would you like to dance?’

Victoire lifted her hand, hesitated, then glanced at Robin and Ramy as if asking their thoughts.

‘Go,’ Ramy said. ‘Enjoy.’

She took Woolcombe’s hand, and he spun her away.

That left Robin alone with Ramy. Their shifts were ended; the bells had rung for eleven several minutes ago. They both pulled on their dress coats – identical black garments they’d purchased at the last moment from Ede & Ravenscroft – but continued lingering in safety by the back wall. Robin had made a perfunctory attempt to enter the fray, but quickly retreated in horror – everyone he was vaguely familiar with stood in tight conversational clusters and either ignored him completely as he approached, which made him feel oafish and awkward, or asked him about working at Babel, since that was apparently all they knew about him. Except whenever this happened, he was assaulted with a dozen questions on every side, all having to do with China and the Orient and silver-working. Once he’d escaped back to the cool quiet by the wall, he was so frightened and exhausted that he couldn’t bear doing it again.

Ramy, ever loyal, stayed at his side. They watched the proceedings in silence for a bit. Robin snatched a glass of claret from a passing waiter and downed it faster than he should have, just to dull his fear of the noise and the crowd.

At last, Ramy asked, ‘Well, are you going to ask anyone to dance?’

‘I don’t know how,’ said Robin. He peered out at the throng, but all the girls in their bright balloon sleeves looked one and the same to him.

‘To dance? Or to ask?’

‘Well – both. But certainly the latter. It seems you need to know them socially before it’s appropriate.’

‘Oh, you’re handsome enough,’ said Ramy. ‘And you’re a Babbler. I’m sure one of them would say yes.’

Robin’s mind was spinning with claret, or else he wouldn’t have managed what he said next. ‘Why won’t you dance with Letty?’

‘I’m not looking to start a row.’

‘No, really.’

‘Please, Birdie.’ Ramy sighed. ‘You know how it is.’

‘She wants you,’ Robin said. He’d only just realized this, and now that he said it out loud, it seemed so obvious that he felt stupid for not seeing it earlier. ‘Very badly. So why—’

‘Don’t you know why?’

Their eyes met. Robin felt a prickle at the back of his neck. The space between them felt very charged, like the moment between lightning and thunder, and Robin had no idea what was going on or what would happen next, only that it all felt very strange and terrifying, like teetering over the edge of a windy, roaring cliff.

Abruptly Ramy stood. ‘There’s trouble over there.’

Across the quad, Letty and Victoire stood backs against the wall, surrounded on all sides by a pack of leering boys. Pendennis and Woolcombe were among them. Victoire was hugging her arms across her chest, Letty saying something very quickly that they couldn’t make out.

‘Better have a look,’ said Ramy.

‘Right.’ Robin followed him through the crowd.

‘It’s not funny,’ Letty was snarling. Her cheeks were blotchy with rage. She held both her fists up like a boxer might; they trembled as she spoke. ‘We’re not showgirls, you can’t just—’