It is the earnest desire of the Commons that the Estates should meet as one body, and that the votes should be counted individually, by head. Otherwise, the churchmen and the nobles will combine against the Commons; the generous grant of double representation—their six hundred to the three hundred each of the Nobles and the Clergy—will avail them nothing. They might as well go home.
But not before Necker’s speech. The Comptroller of Finances rose, to an expectant hush; and Maximilien de Robespierre moved, imperceptibly, forward on his bench. Necker began. You could hear him better than Barentin. It was figures, figures, figures.
After ten minutes, Maximilien de Robespierre’s eyes followed the eyes of the other men in the hall. The ladies of the court were stacked on benches like crockery on a shelf, rigid and trapped inside their impossible gowns and stays and trains. Each one sat upright; then, when this exhausted her, leaned back for support against the knees of the lady behind. After ten minutes, those knees would twitch and flex; then the first lady would shoot upright again. Soon she would droop, stir, yawn, twitch, she would shift in the little space allowed, she would rustle and moan silently to herself, and pray for the torture to be over. How they longed to lean forward, drop their addled heads onto their knees! Pride kept them upright—more or less. Poor things, he thought. Poor little creatures. Their spines will break.
The first half hour passed. Necker must have been in here before, to test his voice in the hall, for he had been quite audible; it was just a shame that none of it made any sense. A lead was what we wanted, Max thought, we wanted some—fine phrases, I suppose. Inspiration, call it what you will. Necker was struggling now. His voice was fading. This, clearly, had been anticipated. He had a substitute by him. He passed his notes across. The substitute rose and began. He had a voice like a creaking drawbridge.
Now there was one woman Max watched: the Queen. When her husband spoke, there was some effort at a frowning concentration. When Barentin rose, she had dropped her eyes. Now she looked about her, quite frankly; she scanned the benches of the Commoners. She would watch them, watching her. She would glance down to her lap, move her fingers slightly, to catch the flash of diamonds in the light. She would raise her head, and again the stiff-jawed face would turn, turn. She seemed to be searching, searching. What was she searching for? For one face above the black coats … An enemy? A friend? Her fan jerked in her hand, like a live bird.
Three hours later, heads reeling, the deputies stumbled out into the sun. A large group gathered at once about Mirabeau, who was dissecting for their instruction the speech of M. Necker. “It is the speech, gentlemen, that one might expect from a banker’s clerk of some small ability … . As for the deficit, it is our best friend. If the King didn’t need to raise money, would we be here?”
“We may as well not be here,” a deputy observed, “if we cannot have the voting by head.” Mirabeau slapped the man on the shoulder, unbalancing him.
Max moved well out of range. He didn’t want to risk, even accidentally, being pounded on the back by Mirabeau; and the man was so free with his fists. At once, he felt a tap on his shoulder; it was no more than a tap. He turned. One of the Breton deputies. “Conference on tactics, tonight, my rooms, eight o’clock, all right?”
Max nodded. Strategy, he means, he thought: the art of imposing on the enemy the time, place and conditions for the fight.
Here was Deputy Pétion, bounding up. “Why lurk so modestly, de Robespierre? Look now—I’ve found you your friend.” The Deputy dived bravely into the circle around Mirabeau, and in a moment re-emerged: and with him, Camille Desmoulins. Pétion was a sentimental man; gratified, he stood aside to watch the reunion. Mirabeau stumped off in animated conversation with Barnave. Camille put his hands into de Robespierre’s. De Robespierre’s hands were cool, steady, dry. Camille felt his heart slow. He glanced over his shoulder at the retreating Mirabeau. For a second, he saw the Comte in quite a different light: a tawdry grandee, in some noisy meoldrama. He wished to leave the theater.
On May 6 the Clergy and the Nobility met separately, in the chambers allocated to them. But except for the Hall of the Lesser Pleasures, there was nowhere big enough for the Third Estate. They were allowed to stay where they were. “The King has made an error,” de Robespierre said. “He has left us in possession of the ground.” He surprised himself: perhaps he had learned something after all from his scraps of conversation with Lazare Carnot, the military engineer. One day soon he must undertake the nervous business of addressing this great assembly. Arras seems far, very far away.
The Third Estate cannot actually transact any business, of course. To do so would be to accept their status as a separate assembly. They don’t accept it. They ask the two other Estates to come back and join them. Nobility and Clergy refuse. Deadlock.
“So whatever I say next, write it down.”
The Genevan slaves sat about with scraps of paper resting on books propped on their knees. The Comte’s papers covered every surface that might have been used as a writing desk. From time to time they exchanged glances, like the knowing veteran revolutionaries they were. The Comte strode about, gesturing with a sheaf of notes. He was wearing his crimson dressing-gown, and the rings on his big hairy hands caught the candlelight and flashed fire into the airless room. It was 1 a.m. Teutch came in.
TEUTCH: Monsieur …
MIRABEAU: Out.
[Teutch draws the door closed behind him.]
MIRABEAU: So, the Nobility don’t wish to join us. They have voted against our proposal—by a clear hundred votes. The Clergy don’t wish to join us, but their voting was, am I right, 133 to 114?
GENEVANS: You are right.
MIRABEAU: So that’s close. That tells us something.
[He begins to pace. The Genevans scribble. It is 2:15 a.m. Teutch comes in.]
TEUTCH: Monsieur, there is a man here with a very hard name who has been waiting to see you since eleven o’clock.
MIRABEAU: What do you mean, a hard name?
TEUTCH: I can’t understand what it is.
MIRABEAU: Well, get him to write it down on a piece of paper and bring it in, can’t you, imbecile?
[Teutch goes out.]
MIRABEAU [digressing]: Necker. What is Necker, in the Lord’s name? What are his qualifications for office? What in the name of God makes him look so good? I’ll tell you what it is—the fellow has no debts, and no mistresses. Can that be what the public wants these days—a Swiss pinch-penny, with no balls? No, Dumont, don’t write that down.
DUMONT: You make yourself sound envious of Necker, Mirabeau. Of his position as minister.
[2:45 a. m. Teutch comes in with a slip of paper. Mirabeau takes it from him in passing and puts it in his pocket.]
MIRABEAU: Forget Necker. Everybody will, anyway. Return to the point. It seems, then, that the Clergy are our best hope. If we can persuade them to join us …
[At 3:15 he takes the slip of paper out of his pocket.]
MIRABEAU: De Robespierre. Yes, it is a peculiar name … . Now, everything depends on those nineteen priests. I must have a speech that will not only invite them to join us, but will inspire them to join us—no commonplace speech, but a great speech. A speech that will set their interest and duty plainly before them.
DUROVERAY: And one that will cover the name of Mirabeau in eternal glory, just by the way.
MIRABEAU: There is that.
[Teutch comes in.]
MIRABEAU: Oh, good heavens, am I to endure you walking in and out and slamming the door every two minutes? Is M. de Robespierre still here?
TEUTCH: Yes, Monsieur.
MIRABEAU: How very patient he must be. I wish I had that kind of patience. Well, make the good deputy a cup of chocolate, Teutch, out of your Christian charity, and tell him I will see him soon.
[4:30 a. m. Mirabeau talks. Occasionally he pauses in front of a mirror to try out the effect of a gesture. M. Dumont has fallen asleep.]
MIRABEAU: M. de Robinpère still here?<
br />
[5:00 a. m. The leonine brow clears.]
MIRABEAU: My thanks, my thanks to you all. How can I ever thank you enough? The combination, my dear Duroveray, of your erudition, my dear Dumont, of your—snores—of all your singular talents, welded together by my own genius as an orator—
[Teutch sticks his head around the door.]
TEUTCH: Finished, have you? He’s still here, you know.
MIRABEAU: Our great work is concluded. Bring him in, bring him in.
[Dawn is breaking behind the head of the deputy from Arras as he steps into the stuffy little room. The tobacco smoke stings his eyes. He feels at a disadvantage, because his clothes are creased and his gloves are soiled; he should have gone home to change. Mirabeau, in greater disarray, examines him—young, anemic, tired. De Robespierre has to concentrate to smile, holding out a small hand with bitten nails. Bypassing the hand, Mirabeau touches him lightly on the shoulder.]
MIRABEAU: My dear M. Robispère, take a seat. Oh—is there one?
DE ROBESPIERRE: That’s all right, I’ve been sitting for quite a time.
MIRABEAU: Yes, I’m sorry about that. The pressure of business …
DE ROBESPIERRE: That’s all right.
MIRABEAU: I’m sorry. I try to be available to any deputy who wants me.
DE ROBESPIERRE: I really won’t keep you long.
[Stop apologizing, Mirabeau says to himself. He doesn’t mind; he’s just said he doesn’t mind.]
MIRABEAU: Is there anything in particular, M. de Robertspierre?
[The deputy takes some folded papers from his pocket. He hands them to Mirabeau.]
DE ROBESPIERRE: This is the text of a speech I hope to make tomorrow.
I wondered if you’d look at it, give me your comments? Though it’s rather long, I know, and you probably want to go to bed …?
MIRABEAU: Of course I’ll look at it. It’s really no trouble. The subject of your speech, M. de Robespère?
DE ROBESPIERRE: My speech invites the Clergy to join the Third Estate.
[Mirabeau wheels round. His fist closes on the papers. Duroveray puts his head in his hands and groans unobtrusively. But when the Comte turns again to face de Robespierre, his features are composed and his voice is like satin.]
MIRABEAU: M. de Robinpère, I must congratulate you. You have fixed on the very point which should occupy us tomorrow. We must ensure the success of this proposal, must we not?
DE ROBESPIERRE: Certainly.
MIRABEAU: But does it occur to you that other members of our assembly might have fixed on the same point?
DE ROBESPIERRE: Well, yes, it would be odd if no one had. That’s why I came to see you, I imagined you knew the plans, we don’t want a stream of people all getting up and saying the same thing.
MIRABEAU: It may reassure you to know that I have myself been drafting a little speech which touches on the topic. [Mirabeau speaks; he also reads.] May I suggest that the question might be better propounded by some person well known to our fellow deputies, some orator of experience? The Clergy may be less inclined to listen to someone who has yet—what shall we say?—who has yet to reveal his remarkable talents.
DE ROBESPIERRE: Reveal? We’re not conjurers, Monsieur. We’re not here to pull rabbits out of hats.
MIRABEAU: Don’t be too sure.
DE ROBESPIERRE: Always supposing that one had remarkable talents, could there be a better time to reveal them?
MIRABEAU: I understand your viewpoint, but I suggest on this occasion you give way, for the common good. You see, I can be sure of carrying my audience with me. Sometimes when a famous name allies himself with a cause—
[Mirabeau stops abruptly. He can see on the young man’s delicate triangular face the pale traces of contempt. Yet his voice is still deferential.]
DE ROBESPIERRE: My speech is quite a good speech, it makes all the relevant points.
MIRABEAU: Yes, but it is the speaker—I tell you frankly, M. de Robertpere, that I have spent the whole night working on my speech, and I intend to deliver it, and in all possible cordiality and friendship I must ask you to find another occasion for your debut, or else to confine yourself to a few words in my support.
DE ROBESPIERRE: No, I’m not prepared to do that.
MIRABEAU: Oh, you aren’t prepared? [He sees with pleasure that the deputy flinches when he raises his voice.] It is I who carry weight at our meetings. You are unknown. They will not even suspend their private conversacions to listen to you. Look at this speech, it is prolix, it is overblown, you will be howled down.
DE ROBESPIERRE: There’s no point trying to frighten me. [Not a boast.
Mirabeau scrutinizes him. Experience has taught him he can frighten most people.] Look, I’m not trying to stop you making your speech. If you must, you make yours, then I’ll make mine.
MIRABEAU: But God damn you, man, they say exactly the same thing.
DE ROBESPIERRE: I know—but I thought that since you have a name as a demagogue, they might not quite trust you.
MIRABEAU: Demagogue?
DE ROBESPIERRE: Politician.
MIRABEAU: And what are you?
DE ROBESPIERRE: Just an ordinary person.
[The Comte’s face purples, and he runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up like a bush.]
MIRABEAU: You will make yourself a laughingstock.
DE ROBESPIERRE: Let me worry about that.
MIRABEAU: You’re used to it, I suppose.
[He turns his back. Through the mirror, Duroveray wavers into life.]
DUROVERAY: May one suggest a compromise?
DE ROBESPIERRE: No. I offered him a compromise, and he rejected it.
[There is a silence. Into it, the Comte sighs heavily. Take hold of yourself, Mirabeau, he advises. Now. Conciliate.]
MIRABEAU: M. De Robinspère, this has all been a misunderstanding. We mustn’t quarrel.
[De Robespierre takes off his spectacles and puts a finger and thumb into the corners of his itching eyes. Mirabeau sees that his left eyelid flickers in a nervous spasm. Victory, he thinks.]
DE ROBESPIERRE: I must leave you. I’m sure you’d like to get to bed for an hour or two.
[Mirabeau smiles. De RobesPierre looks down at the carpet, where the pages of his speech lie crumpled and torn.]
MIRABEAU: I’m sorry about that. A symptom of childish rage. [De Robespierre bends down and picks up the papers in an easy movement that does not seem tired at all.]
MIRABEAU: Shall I put them on the fire? [De Robespierre hands them over, docile. The Comte’s muscles visibly relax.] You must come to dinner sometime, de Robertpère.
DE ROBESPIERRE: Thank you, I’d like that. It doesn’t matter about the papers—I’ve got a draft copy I can read my speech from later today. I always keep my drafts.
[Out of the corner of his eye Mirabeau sees Duroveray rise, scraping his chair, and inconspicuously put his hand to his heart.]
MIRABEAU: Teutch.
DE ROBESPIERRE: Don’t trouble your man, I can see myself out. By the way, my name is Robespierre.
MIRABEAU: Oh. I thought it was “de Robespierre.”
ROBESPIERRE: No. Just the plain name.
D’Anton went to hear Camille speak at the Palais-Royal. He hung to the back of the gathering and tried to find something to lean on, so that he could fold his arms and watch the proceedings with a detached smile. Camille said to him sharply, “You can’t spend all your life leering. It’s time you took up an attitude.”
D’Anton asked: “By that do you mean a pose?”
Camille was now constantly with Mirabeau. His cousin de Viefville would scarcely give him the time of day. At Versailles the deputies talked: as if there were some point in talking. When the Comte took the floor, disapproval rustled like autumn leaves. The court has not sent for him yet; in the evenings he needed much company, to keep his spirits up. The Comte had talks with Lafayette: bring over the liberal nobles, he begged. He told the Abbé Sieyès: work on the poor country cures, their
hearts lie with the commoners, not with their bishops. The abbé put his fingertips together: he was a frail, still, wan man, who dropped words from his lips as though they were written in stone, who never joked, never argued: politics, he said, is a science I have made perfect.
Next the Comte pounded on the desk of M. Bailly, the Commoners’ chairman, putting his forcible suggestions. M. Bailly viewed him gravely: he was a famous astronomer, and his mind, as someone had said, was more on heavenly revolutions than this terrestrial one. Because “revolution” was the word now: not just at the Palais-Royal, but here amid the tassels and gold paint. You could hear it on Deputy Pétion’s lips as he inclined his powdered head to Deputy Buzot, a personable young lawyer from Evreux. There were twenty or thirty men who always sat together, who kept up a disaffected murmur, and sometimes laughed. Deputy Robespierre’s maiden speech was ruled out of order on a technicality. People wondered what he had done to upset Mirabeau at this early stage. Mirabeau calls him “the rabid lamb.”
A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel Page 22
