Peter, the second son, was an amiable but rather weak youth of about five-and-twenty. There were two daughters, Rose and Nanette, who were away from home upon this particular evening, as was also Louis (who was still in receipt of a money allowance from his father); and Donat, the youngest boy, who was living at Nîmes.
Mark Anthony, the eldest son of the family, was the only unsatisfactory person in it. Only twenty-eight years old, he was one of those gloomy and discontented characters who, the world being “a looking-glass which gives back to every man the reflection of his own face,” saw all life en noir.
His character had been further soured by the discovery that the profession he had set his heart on was not open to a Protestant; and that he could not be admitted to the Bar without producing a certificate from his curé declaring him a Catholic.
Mark Anthony endeavoured to gain this certificate by simply suppressing his Protestantism. But he failed. Change his religion he would not. If there was a bigot among the Calas, he was the one. He alone of the family had bitterly opposed the conversion of Louis.
Another situation he desired he had to give up through his father’s lack of capital. He grew more and more morose. He hung about the cafés and the billiard saloons, bitter and idle. In a theatrical company he had joined he would declaim, it is said, Hamlet’s monologue on death, and other pieces dealing with suicide, with an “inspired warmth.”
The establishment at the Rue des Filatiers was completed by Jeannette Viguière, the bonne à tout faire, an ardent Roman Catholic and the faithful friend and servant of the family for thirty years.
On the evening of this October 13, 1761, a friend of the Calas, Gaubert Lavaysse, a youth about twenty, came in unexpectedly just as the Calas were going to sit down to supper.
Hospitable Madame bade Mark Anthony, who was sitting in the shop, “plunged in thought,” go and buy some Roquefort cheese to add to their simple meal. He did as he was asked. He joined the party at supper in the parlour, next to the kitchen. They talked on indifferent topics. It was remembered afterwards that the conversation, among other things, fell upon some antiquities to be seen at the City Hall, and that Mark Anthony spoke of them too. At the dessert, about eight o’clock, he got up, as was his custom, from the table and went into the adjoining kitchen.
“Are you cold, M. l’Aîné?” said Jeannette, thinking he had come to warm himself.
“On the contrary—burning hot,” he answered. And he went out.