City of Darkness, City of Light

by Marge Piercy

  The trial of the Girondins began. Some had been living under loose house arrest, entertaining their friends, plotting together, writing letters and petitions, trying to organize support. But the revolt in the provinces, the actions of their colleagues who had escaped, turned them from defeated politicians into traitors. A war was being fought at Lyon between Girondins and the revolutionary government. Twenty-one stood trial together, including Brissot and Vergniaud. As she followed the trial in the papers, she understood she had no chance. This was not a trial designed to establish guilt or innocence: it was a drama designed to demonstrate that the accused were guilty and to justify in advance the execution that would immediately follow, a trial to whip up popular enthusiasm for the spectacle of death.

  Amar of the Committee of Security had drawn up the accusation, printing so many thousands of copies that she had no trouble getting hold of one. Half the charges did not apply to half the defendants. They were all deemed guilty of anything charged to one. The witnesses were their political opponents, who made long speeches about how dreadful the Girondins had been to disagree with them.

  She managed to get a message to Brissot urging him to protest to the world. His reply came back, “They did it to us before we could do it to them. We failed; they didn’t.”

  They were accused of a conspiracy against the Revolution. Against France. She was deeply grateful that neither Jean nor François had been caught. But if there was anything her friends were good at, making speeches was their forte. By the fifth day of the trial, it was clear that the Girondins could hold their own on the field of words. Fouquier-Tinville was chewing his nails. He appealed to the Convention, “Each witness gives his own history of the Revolution. The accused answer and the witnesses answer them and it turns into a debate that goes on as long as they desire. The trial will never end.”

  The Convention responded with a decree. After the third day of a trial, the judge might end it if the jury informed him they had enough evidence. At seven on the evening of day six, the jury so declared and retired to deliberate. The accused were marched in to hear their sentence three hours later. All and entirely guilty. Valèze stabbed himself on the spot with a knife he had concealed. The prisoners were seldom rigorously searched.

  The last of October under the old calendar, they were taken to the guillotine. She heard the details the same day. Valèze’s corpse was guillotined with the twenty live men. In the tumbrels, they sang “The Marseillaise.” They died well. She was proud of them. Then she was informed her own trial was scheduled for next week. She broke her hunger strike at once. If they could die well, so could she. She could show the brutes how ably she could defend herself, that a woman with convictions could be brave.

  She was transferred to the Conciergerie, the antechamber of death, not half a block from the house where she had grown up. She began writing her defense. Her new cell smelled like a sewer and was almost too dark to see the paper. Everything felt slimy. It was truly a tomb and for the first time in a while, she broke down and wept. She kept being interrupted by interrogations. They never touched her roughly but they questioned her again and again about the whereabouts of the fugitives. Some questions were outrageous. They seemed to imagine she had been the mistress of half the men who were fugitives and all those who had died last week. She managed to smuggle out a last letter to François. “I am still in this world. While there is any refuge for honor, stay alive to convict the unjust who have unfairly condemned you. But don’t let yourself fall into their hands. Die free, as you have lived, following the generous impulses that have always endeared you to me.”

  It was a chilly morning of grey fog when the summons came. She dressed herself carefully. She wore a white muslin dress, perhaps a little summery for early November, representing her innocence. Around her shoulders she had a paisley shawl, and on her head a little white mob cap. Her hair was loose. The dampness made it curl. Her trial lasted only three hours. They would not allow her to deliver her defense. They seemed in a great hurry to get rid of her. When the death sentence was pronounced, she managed to speak for a moment. “You have pronounced me worthy to share the fate of great men you have already murdered. I thank you. I assure you that on my way to the guillotine, I’ll try to display the same courage they did.”

  She was prepared for execution at once. Her hair was cut, her hands tied behind her back. She walked out with her spine held straight, to the tumbrel in the courtyard. She was to be executed with a man named Lamarque who was accused of forging paper money. He was sweating with fear. She smiled at him. “Courage, Citizen Lamarque. We have only a short ride and then a shorter trip. Don’t worry. They say it doesn’t hurt.”

  The tumbrel rattled over the stones, jarring her, but she was determined to remain upright. She sighed as she passed over the Seine, seeing the brick house where she had grown up on the Quai de l’Horloge. She was young to die, but her life felt long indeed. “Now, Lamarque, bear up.” He was kneeling, weeping into her waist. She made soothing noises. It was a little late to worry about propriety. She saw her friend Sophie standing on the bridge, as she had promised. Sophie waved and Manon nodded, her hands still bound. She held herself straighter, letting the forger lean against her. Finally she saw the Place ahead, the guillotine on its scaffold near the enormous statue of Liberty. It was said that doves released at some festival had built nests in the folds of its plaster draperies. It was getting dark. There was always an audience for executions, but this was a modest crowd. It was a workday and time for the evening meal.

  Lamarque was still blubbering. Fouquier-Tinville always gave Sanson a list of the order of the executions, but she argued with him, smiling into his face. “You must take him first. He’ll become completely hysterical if he watches me die. I don’t mind, you understand.”

  Sanson nodded. “I never do this, but for you, I will.”

  “Thank you. You’re a man of feeling despite your profession,” she said, remembering that when only the nobility had the privilege of being beheaded, some woman-Mary Queen of Scots?-had tipped the executioner to make sure the sword was sharp and her death would be swift.

  Lamarque was carried up the steps to the platform and tied to the form. She was glad to see how it was done, so there would be no surprises. Snick, the blade descended. His body was unstrapped and tossed into the cart, where her own soon would lie. She mounted the steps without prompting. Over her the statue of Liberty loomed. “Ah liberty,” she said loudly, “what crimes are committed in your name.” There, she got to say one sentence from her defense. Then they strapped her to the form. She was aware of an unpleasant odor of stale blood. They should do a better job cleaning. She heard the sound of the release and a noise from the crowd. It was a pity she had not got to give her speech, but one of the prisoners would smuggle it out for her and

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Georges

  (November-December 1793)

  GEORGES supervised the harvest, meddled happily in everything, lending a hand and his strength-thus endearing himself to the men who worked for him. The respectable people in town kept away: Danton, drinker of blood. But the peasants and the artisans, the laborers liked him. He bought another piece of property. He tramped over it with Louise, who had sturdy legs. At first his mother was shy with Louise, but she managed to charm his family. The boys loved Arcis, where he was available to them and his family spoiled them.

  When he thought of Paris, it was with a shudder. He remembered a night in October, strolling with Camille along the Seine just at sunset. The trial of the twenty-one Girondin leaders had been announced. “The river is running blood,” he said to Camille. “We have a lot to account for.”

  “It’s gone far enough,” Camille said. “It’s not amusing anymore.”

  The next day Georges asked the Convention for a leave of absence. Now he was free. “Do you miss Paris? Do you miss power?” Louise asked him.

  He put his hand on her breast. “This is enough power for me.”

  T
he leaves had fallen. The grasses were brown, the weeds frosted in the mornings. The sun set markedly earlier. He was in the big barn supervising the treatment of an ailing cow, when Camille suddenly appeared at the open barn door. Camille was dusty and looked exhausted. “Camille? Have you come for a country vacation? Is Lucile with you?”

  Camille embraced him, leading him into the air out of earshot. “Georges, old goat, everything’s going to hell. We’re in danger. There’s nothing but ambition biting ambition, the cupidity for money wrestling with the cupidity for power. It’s raining shit, my dear, and we’re getting covered.”

  Georges sat down on a stone fence and motioned Camille beside him. Camille was shivering. His flyaway hair was tangled and dirty. “The Committee-” That phrase without modification meant the Committee of Public Safety, created by Georges but now Robespierre’s-“arrested three of our friends. They’re accused of using political influence to blackmail bankers and merchants. Of illegally changing the text of the decree terminating the East India Company.” Camille drew his finger across his throat.

  Georges let out his breath in a long sigh. “That’s close to home. Are we both in trouble? Have they linked us to the stock?”

  “It won’t take them long to find out. Fabre is involved over his head, but they didn’t arrest him. Max prevented it. He’s protecting Fabre-and probably us. But he’s in trouble himself. Hebert is attacking him daily. Chabot denounced us to the Committee of Security. He says we got rich in a plot led by royalists, with the intention of undermining the Convention and the government. He says you were bought by British gold.”

  Georges groaned. “A bloody mess. But it can still be headed off. We’ve been in trouble before and we’ll live to cause more. How’s Lucile?”

  “Beautiful, scandalous and a little bored. She wanted to come with me, but I knew if I came hard, I could get here by sunset tonight.”

  “Come see my beauty, and we’ll let her know there’s one more for supper. How long can you stay?”

  “I leave at dawn. Georges, things are closing in on us. It made me feel rotten, like a betrayer, to see the Girondins die. And Manon Roland.”

  “What a waste. Not that she used what she had.”

  “You don’t think Buzot finally laid her? Sure he did…. Her husband and lover ran away, and she died in their place.”

  Georges paused. “Is it really vital I go to Paris? I’m in pig heaven here.”

  “You’ll die in Paris if you don’t go live there and fight.”

  “Dying is a last resort.” Georges poked Camille. It took a lot to scare Camille, who never took much seriously. “All right, I’ll pack it up here. I’ll make my speeches and tame the Convention.”

  “Unless the Committee tames you first.”

  Georges stroked his ravaged cheek. “I’m a wise old bull.”

  It took Georges three days to set off, and he did not go flat-out as Camille had. He had his wife, children, clothing, toys, produce, wine, three servants and piles of valises to transport. He spent his first day in Paris just sitting and thinking. He dreaded plunging into the turbid muddy Convention and the windy wars of the Jacobin Club. He delayed, until he heard that Hébert had reported to the Jacobins that Danton returned to Paris but neglected to respect the Club by coming to answer the charges against him. He cursed and got dressed.

  His old Cordeliers Club was lost to him, under the control of Hébert and the Mad Dogs. The important playing fields left were the Jacobin Club, where Hébert was also a power, and the Convention. Hébert lacked support in the Convention but controlled the Commune. A lot of old players, both friends and antagonists, were gone, out the same narrow window: The duc d’Orléans, whose hospitality and purse he had often enjoyed, condemned by his son’s defection to the Austrians. Bailly, the old mayor and astronomer, once the hero of the Third Estate in Versailles. Brissot, Vergniaud, Barnave had ridden the tumbrel of no return. Oddly, Condorcet, that mild academician, had successfully disappeared. Louvet had so far eluded pursuit. He had been poor for years and was used to living hand-to-mouth. He would fit into a city slum without anyone remarking on him. Georges wished the fugitives luck. The guillotine was busy enough.

  He had always caught the mood of the populace. If he felt the Terror had gone too far, others must secretly harbor those thoughts. If he dared articulate moderation, that might be an act of courage, a way not only to survive, but to lead again. Camille had been thinking along similar lines. Who better to articulate a cry for moderation than the lamppost lawyer? They needed a vehicle. A paper for Camille to edit.

  Camille agreed. They sat in Georges’ study, with striped tricolor wallpaper and a wide selection of Paris periodicals overflowing the desk. Georges was reviewing the opposition. Camille said, his voice rising with passion, “Enough blood. It turns my stomach. They say people living near the Place de la Revolution can’t stand the smell. Like a shambles where cattle are slaughtered.”

  “Never forget, my friend, where the Revolution kills twenty, the old regime killed a thousand, in the galleys, whipped to death, broken on the wheel, starved when the food they had grown was ripped from them. Never forget what we replaced…. But it’s enough. What will you call your paper?”

  “That’s easy. Hébert and his henchmen make me sick. They’ve taken over what we built and turned it into a sty. I shall call the paper The Old Cordelier. That will make several points at once.” On his long fingers that would have been elegant if not stained with ink, he ticked off his points. “One, we were here first. We made the fucking Revolution. Two, we stand for the values the Cordeliers once stood for, against a tyrannical Tribunal, against Hébert and his hogs. Third, it sounds nice and homely, just like his Père Duchesne. We’re going to take Hébert on.”

  “We’ll roast him on a public spit.” His blood was zipping in his veins. There was nothing like a good fight to give him an appetite. “You know, he does look like a pig. A nice caricature, don’t you think? Who can draw? David? The Old Cordelier. I like that. In the meantime, I need to carry the battle to him in the Convention-and at the Jacobins.”

  “I’ll talk to Max. We have to detach him slowly from the Committee. From Saint-Just, the rabid. Max adores Lucile and me and Horace. We do his living for him. We have to ally him with us. He hates the spilling of blood. He was only won to the Terror by his blathering fear of conspiracy. If we can seduce Max, we’ll get our way.”

  “In the meantime, weaken the Commune and the Tribunal.” Georges rose to pace. He found his energy surging back. The old bull was good for one more fight. “Strengthen the role of the Convention, and eventually take the great Committee back, pack it with moderates or abolish it. Every month it comes up and is reinstated, so we have a monthly shot at the Committee. That’s my strategy. Carefully lay the groundwork for mercy. Test the waters for moderation. Aim to finally end the Terror.”

  They found Robespierre fuming over deChristianization. Hébert and his pals were behind a movement to get rid of what they saw as relics of superstition. “Two weeks ago, they had a festival of reason in Notre Dame,” Robespierre said, entertaining them in the Duplays’ dining room. A big plate of fresh fruit stood on the table. Robespierre was peeling an apple neatly, the long red skin unscrolling from the tiny silver knife. “A mostly naked woman on top of an artificial mountain. That RRW actress, can you believe it? Then two days ago, the Commune closed all the churches of Paris. This must stop! We just brought the peasants over to our side with land reform, and now these dangerous fanatics want to stir them up again by taking their Church away. One Vendée in revolt is not enough for them. Hébert wants twenty Vendées! Danton, you have a soft spot for religion…. Can’t you mount some opposition to this outrage?”

  It was an icepick in the chest. What did Robespierre mean? Did he know that Louise went regularly, secretly, to a priest loyal to Rome? He could not know. “I believe in tolerance, just as you do, Max. That’s part of the Constitution, if we ever can bring it into play.”

&
nbsp; “We all look forward to that day. Because that will mean the war is over, the nation is saved and instead of fighting for the Revolution, we can build for it…. But deChristianization is splitting the populace. We promised religious freedom. That we can deliver if we control those fanatics.”

  Camille picked up the peel and strung it around his head, a crown of blood. “Do you believe in God, Max?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “You didn’t toward the end at Louis-le-Grand.”

  “I simply didn’t believe in the Christian God. I still don’t. It seems narrow. But Camille, how can you be surprised that I believe?”

  “Why do we need a divine rationale for good behavior? But I’m astonished by your vehemence.”

  “I experience God. God is virtue.” Robespierre let the little silver knife drop onto his plate and rose. He looked exalted, his face paler than usual, his voice even more intense. “When we act in accordance with the higher part of our natures and when we act as one with the people, there is a sense of divinity that overwhelms me. It’s not that I feel worthy. Whatever I do is never enough and never can be. There is a destiny that works through us. I am only a tool. But a conscious tool.”

  Camille and Georges glanced at each other surreptitiously. Robespierre caught the glance. He challenged Georges directly. “Don’t you have a personal religion?”

  “Fucking my wife, Max,” Georges said truthfully. “That’s as close as I come to God.”

  Robespierre glared at him and said nothing, nothing at all.

  Camille hastened to change the subject, “I’m starting a paper to be called The Old Cordelier-”

  “Ah, as opposed to the new dangerous kind.” Max’s voice dropped to a conversational level and he sat down, slicing his apple into fours to core it, then into neat segments he fanned out on his plate. “Hébert’s crew.”