City of Darkness, City of Light

by Marge Piercy

  “You’re a wise man,” Marat said to him, “but you lack the belly for the hard tasks we must carry out. A man of action needs a taste for blood. Your politics are as good as they get, but your rage is insufficient. You need to strop your anger to an edge that can cut flesh.”

  Max was a little sickened by the conversation, although he tried not to show his squeamishness.

  “When a man lacks everything, he has a right to what another has too much of,” Marat was saying. “Instead of starving, he has an inborn right to cut a rich man’s throat and eat him whole.”

  “You love the people, but you don’t respect them,” Max said. “You talk of them as vengeful beasts or as children. You’ve been arguing for a dictatorship. If the people are ruled by a dictator, they have no more freedom than they do ruled by a king or priests.”

  “It depends entirely on who the dictator is. I think you and I could do a pretty good job for the sans-culottes. Don’t you think you perceive far more clearly what needs to be done than the man in the street?”

  “I think freedom is more important than being absolutely right.” Max could sense how prissy he must look to Marat, his clothes immaculate, his hair precisely curled and powdered, his green-tinted glasses perched on his head. It had got back to him that someone had said he looked like a tailor of the ancien régime. Then this was a meeting of the pirate and the tailor.

  They were not alone in the room. Charlotte and Eléanore were the silent spectators, along with Simonne Évrard. Marat had not bothered with a legal ceremony, but everybody considered Simonne his wife. How did Marat dare take a wife? Marat and he would be killed in the Revolution; they would both be martyred. One of Max’s chief fears if he married or had children was that they would be put to death because of him. Yet Marat had not hesitated to take Simonne. He would have liked to discuss that choice with Marat, but doubted if Marat would appreciate the inquiry. Further he was not about to bring up the matter in front of his own women. Charlotte was already jealous of Eléanore and told him every two days Eléanore was trying to trap him into marriage: as if he wouldn’t have married her quite willingly, married her whole family, if he dared. He could not imagine how Marat, who had lived as a hunted felon, had risked taking Simonne for his own. Simonne was Max’s idea of a good woman. Probably he liked her rather better than he liked Marat.

  When he approached his concern obliquely, Marat burst out, “Martyrdom? I want to win! I want their heads to fall. I’d trade mine for that pleasure. You fuss too much about virtue—especially your own. We’re fighting to win, not to set a good example to the angels.”

  The meeting ended with the two men as they had been: they shared a common politics and a commitment to work for the good of ordinary people. They shared a mistrust of the conservatives. They believed the enemies within France far more dangerous than the enemies without. Neither of them expected to survive the work they had given themselves to. Neither could be bought or swayed or moved from what they considered correct. Neither sought power or wealth or personal benefits. But they differed in their ways of talking and acting and living. They would respect each other with reservations, and they would continue to make common cause most of the time. But each would never cease to believe that the other should be more like himself.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Nicolas

  (Late Fall 1791)

  NICOLAS was not surprised that Lafayette was defeated by Pétion in the ’91 election, although he knew Lafayette was. He had not publicly supported either candidate, but he had voted for Pétion. The people of Paris hated Lafayette, and even those few who had been given the franchise would not forgive shooting unarmed citizens, including children, on the Champ de Mars.

  At the elections for the Legislative Assembly, Nicolas was voted in. When he took his seat, he was quickly chosen as secretary, which involved more speech-making than he liked. Sophie always told him to talk more to the point and then sit down. He went on too long. He feared not being thorough. He explained and explained, unable to stop trying to educate.

  Since the Declaration of Pilnitz, most of his friends had been talking war. The Declaration was a direct threat to France from Prussia and Austria, demanding that France restore the King fully to his powers, dissolve the Assembly and give German princes their old feudal rights over the people and lands of Alsace. No invasion had yet followed. He had no enthusiasm for war. He believed no nation was justified in attacking another to conquer land or resources. However, if a war had to be fought to preserve the Revolution, he would support it.

  The Social Circle’s press cranked out a great deal of propaganda on the subject. He wrote copiously. He had never understood making a fuss about style, any more than he greatly cared what he wore, as long as he did not look ridiculous or too out of date. He left his clothes to Sophie, who had an innate sense of aesthetics. He was always writing and it was always wanted yesterday or the day before. It was one in a queue of articles or pamphlets crying to be gotten out to people.

  One reason Nicolas believed they would have war was that he had been watching the court. The Austrian emperor had died and been replaced by one of Marie-Antoinette’s brothers. Marie expected much from her brother and might get it. Nicolas suspected that the King and Queen dreamed of restoring their power with a little help from the Austrians, the Prussians and probably the Spanish. France would be fighting a two-front war, on the seas too if the British got involved. The French generals were more the King’s men than the country’s. This France much sung-about now was something that he and a bunch of others had invented two and a half years ago. Out of a feudal mess of little states almost mutually incomprehensible in language and customs, they were building a nation, in haste and desperation and high hope.

  His daughter Eliza had been taught she was French. Not an aristocrat—for aristocrats frequently had no real country. They might hold titles and lands in feudal right in various domains and kingdoms. The willingness of the aristocracy to leave France rather than submit to a change of government revealed that their real country was their class. But not his.

  Sophie went along partway. “As a philosopher, you have an international identity. Voltaire served several kingdoms. Diderot owed loyalty to Catherine of Russia. Of what country am I as a woman a citizen? Even the America you admire so much will not allow me the full rights I was born to demand.”

  “I want Eliza to feel herself a citizen of France. Perhaps by the time she’s of age, she’ll have the rights we want for her.”

  They both looked at their daughter, playing with a black kitten and a red, blue and white ball. Even the kitten wore a tricolor on its neck. Eliza sat down hard on her behind and grinned at them. “I want another ball. A bigger ball,” she said. “I want a ball as big as Inky.”

  “Then Inky won’t be able to play with it,” Sophie said. She was a fine mother, patient but uncondescending.

  “Inky gets bigger every day,” Eliza argued quite reasonably. “So do I. I want a bigger ball.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Nicolas said. How pretty she was and how bright. The latter was far more important, but he could not resist enjoying her resemblance to his wife. Unfortunately she had his nose. Perhaps she would grow into it.

  On the whole, he liked fatherhood, although he was aware he sometimes resented sharing Sophie with anyone, including his child. Of course there was a nursemaid. Sophie learned not to flinch and run whenever Eliza cried. Sophie had not given over to motherhood, but continued her translations, her studies, her painting. If anything, she painted more seriously. She preferred to catch Eliza in watercolors or in pencil sketches. She said oils were too slow to do justice to their ever-changing child.

  Lately she had been doing portraits of Tom Paine, Bonneville and Henriette, a set to be presented to them. Tom Paine had moved in with the Bonnevilles, a subject of much speculation and gossip.

  “Sophie, do you ever imagine living like that? With me and perhaps a younger man?”

  “Nico, don’t b
e silly. You take a great deal of looking after. If I had two husbands, I’d never finish Adam Smith. I’d have no time to myself.”

  He was silent a moment, contemplating the three portraits ranged against the wall. She came to stand just behind him. He could feel the heat of her body and smell her personal scent that always worked on him. She was so beautiful, sometimes he felt like a large floppy animal, a sheep dog, shaggy and wagging, sprawled over her. He loved her so much that from time to time, he was frightened. Then he wondered if she wished for a younger, handsome mate.

  Tom Paine brought over a new board game called the Game of the Revolution. It was clever but years beyond Eliza. The successful end of the game was the passage of the Constitution, the one already outdated by events. Still, the game was an engaging way to carry out political education. It went round in a large spiral with places that held penalties (the courts, the prisons) and places that enabled the player to leap ahead, like the Tennis Court Oath and the Taking of the Bastille. There were little colored portraits of the King and Queen, Mirabeau, Lafayette, Robespierre, Bailly. Not himself, of course. Did he long to have his face on a game board?

  When he walked into the Assembly the next day, delegates were attacking the current administration, the King’s ministers. Even previous supporters denounced them. Reports from deputies who had gone into the field insisted that Austria and Prussia were making military preparations on a scale that the administration had been concealing. “It’s treason,” they were shouting. “They’re selling us out to the Austrians.” “They’re hiding the truth.” “They’re loyal to the King only.” Brissot craned back his neck to address Nicolas, who at once took a seat so they would be on the same level. Brissot was more than a foot shorter than Nicolas. “The government must resign. The King will have to appoint new ministers. Do you want to be in the government?”

  Nicolas said fervently, “No, thank you. I think I’m more useful writing propaganda and working in the Assembly.”

  “I have a feeling Louis is going to have to turn to us to continue to govern. I think we’re ready! It’s our time, Condorcet. It’s our time.”

  He felt a quiet satisfaction, smiling at Brissot, although he could wish Brissot and his friends were a little less eager to go to war. They thought it would unite the country. Some were convinced that as soon as the French armies appeared, the subjugated masses would rise and throw off their masters. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. They would all find out soon. He did not know if war would make or ruin their future.

  “Things certainly change quickly, almost too quickly for us to see what’s happening before it’s past,” Nicolas said, but Brissot was already on his feet and off to buttonhole Louvet.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Manon

  (February-June 1792)

  JEAN’S pension was suppressed, so Manon and Jean returned to Paris to petition the new Assembly to restore it. They signed a lease for a small flat on the Rue de Harpe. She set about visiting their friends. It was immediately evident she should not have left Paris. Brissot and Louvet and everyone else seemed a little distant, as if they had forgotten her and Jean. She did not like to think of herself as someone who could be so easily dismissed. Brissot was in the Assembly, chair of the diplomatic committee. Pétion was Mayor. Condorcet was one of the secretaries of the Assembly. The only one who seemed exactly the same as when she had left was Robespierre, who appeared isolated over the war issue. He greeted her as if he had seen her the day before, accepted her invitation to dinner, then issued a warning about Brissot and her other friends, whom he called the “war party.” He described the recent sugar riots, when the women and pastry cooks had taken to the streets. The sansculottes, he said, were incensed with the policies of the King’s ministers.

  At the Jacobins, Bosc got Jean on the committee of correspondence that kept up with hundreds of daughter clubs all over the country. Jean was secretary, which meant Manon did the work. Robespierre served on the same committee, so they were colleagues. That pleased Manon. She still preferred him to other politicians, for he was a man of ideals. She felt they had a certain sympathy, an understanding.

  Then in one evening on March twenty-third, their life changed. She had just had a long chat with Condorcet, whom she disliked but cultivated. He briefed her on the total incompetence of the present ministers. The nation was about to be attacked, yet nothing had been done to defend its borders or mobilize a functional army. The King must appoint ministers with popular support. One could only imagine that this set of Feuillant ministers were doing their best to do nothing whatsoever and would probably welcome the Austrians.

  Condorcet left and Jean was dozing with a dozen newspapers littered around the chaise longue where he lay under a woolen throw. She was startled by a sudden knock. He rose abruptly, straightened himself and his area. She repinned her white fichu to make sure she was not showing too much décollété and nodded at Fleury to answer.

  General Dumouriez and Brissot came in, highly excited. “Congratulations, old friend,” Brissot said far more warmly than he had greeted Jean when they arrived in Paris. “You’ve been drafted for the new government.”

  Jean could not keep himself from looking astonished. His hands clasped and unclasped. “Well, well,” he said lamely. “Could you explain?”

  Dumouriez bowed over her hand, kissing it. She eyed his elegant manners with mistrust. He would have been far more comfortable with Versailles than with the new constitutional government. Still, he was by all reports an able and talented general, and for that, apparently, there was a dire need.

  General Dumouriez said, “The King has appointed me Minister for Foreign Affairs. He has agreed to appoint you as his Minister of the Interior. It is important for all of us and for the Revolution that you accept.”

  Jean met her gaze and she imperceptibly nodded. This was a signal opportunity for him to show his ability. Besides, it would end their financial difficulties. Jean brightened and said slowly, “Well, then, my friends, I’ll do as you ask. I’ll accept the great honor you offer me.”

  “It’ll be far more work than honor,” Brissot said. “I’m glad you’re taking the portfolio. None of us in the Assembly can serve as ministers, thanks to that ridiculous measure passed by the last Assembly. Now if we repeal it, we’ll seem self-serving. Servan will take over the war ministry.”

  As the general prepared to leave, he turned to Manon. “Madame, you should prepare your household. As soon as the formalities are over, you are expected to move into the Ministry residence. I believe you’ll find it … comfortable, one of the pleasanter aspects of being a minister’s wife.”

  “I am indifferent to my abode, as you can tell from this simple flat. But we will comply willingly with all obligations.”

  After Dumouriez left, Brissot remained. Manon paced, her hands clasped before her. “I suspect Louis’ motives. Three ministers from our group. No other Jacobins. Most of the previous government preserved intact to quarrel with us and undermine us. I think we’re meant to fail.”

  “That may be,” Brissot rubbed his chin, “but that doesn’t mean we will. I have great faith in Citizen Roland to seize control of his department and knock it into shape.”

  “I certainly have ideas,” Jean said. “This will be most interesting. An opportunity to govern, instead of criticizing.”

  “Jacques-Pierre,” she said to Brissot. “Could this be a clever trap? To discredit us by drawing us too close to the court? It happened to Mirabeau.”

  “I doubt it. Do you think Louis has the brains to plan that?” Brissot was ever the optimist, as she had noticed before.

  “Louis is a man of mediocre intelligence, with a good memory and as stubborn as any two-year-old,” she said slowly. “He’s able to use people and lie endlessly. I would not trust him, ever.”

  “Well, I suppose I shall be meeting him soon enough,” Jean said. “They say when one door closes, another opens. I was lamenting the end of my position as inspector of manufactures, and now I
’ll be Minister of the entire department. That ought to shock my old superiors out of their lethargy.”

  “You’re finally getting some of the attention and the respect you richly deserve.” Manon rested a hand on his bony shoulder. “At last, you’ll have a position of real power where you can affect the course of the country. I’m extremely proud of you.”

  As Brissot was leaving, she walked him to the door. She said quietly, “I know you’re responsible for this. I won’t forget. I will be a true supporter and a true friend to you until the grave, Jacques-Pierre.”

  “Your friendship’s a formidable gift. The King thinks Jean’s an obscure bureaucrat. He’ll find out differently. And …” he clasped her hand, “we all know how much enjoyment we’ll get from his well-written crisp memos, like so many daggers.” He winked and left.

  Jean told her about his first presentation to the King, but she heard a much better version of it from General Dumouriez, who presented him. Jean went off that day as he did every day in his black Quakerly suit, wearing his ordinary shoes and simple round hat. Apparently the lackeys and the courtiers threw fits. They stared at Jean. They gaped at his clothing. The Master of Ceremonies finally approached Dumouriez. “General, this is not done!”

  “No,” said Dumouriez, “it is in process. What do you want?”

  “Sir! This is terrible!” The Master of Ceremonies pointed to Jean’s shoes with horror. “Sir, he has no buckles on his shoes.”

  Dumouriez threw up his hands. “All is lost! Whatever shall we do?” Then he took Jean by the hand and swept past the Master of Ceremonies. The King was going to see Jean as he was. Hearing the story, Manon was amused.

  The move into the new house was a shock. It was immense and ornate. It was, fortunately for them, lavishly furnished. They had nothing suitable, except for the pianoforte she had been thinking of selling when the ministerial appointment saved them. This residence had been built for the Comte de Lionne and had housed Mme Necker in her day. A magnificent coil of marble staircase led to a huge salon with crystal chandeliers, Venetian mirrors, ormolu inlay. At the focal point of the salon was a twice-life-size portrait of Louis XIV being crowned by Victory. Bergères and sofas were covered with tapestries of scenes of cupidons. The draperies were red velvet.