A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

by Hilary Mantel

  “Philippe is dead.”

  “The Duke? Yes, I know.”

  “Charles-Alexis is dead. Valazé stabbed himself right in front of me.”

  “I heard. They brought me the news. But leave this for a minute. Tell me about Chabot and those people.”

  “Chabot and two of his friends have been expelled from the Convention. They’re under arrest. Deputy Julien’s gone, he ran away. Vadier is asking questions.”

  “Is he, now?” The head of the Committee of General Security was gaining himself a reputation for a horrible efficiency in the hounding of suspects. “The Inquisitor,” people called him. He was a man of sixty or so, with a long, yellow face, and long, yellow, many-jointed hands. “What sort of questions?” Danton said.

  “About you. About Fabre and your friend Lacroix.”

  Fabre’s dreary little confession was in Danton’s pocket. He has done … he does not appear to know, himself, what he has done. Yes, he amended a government document, in his own hand, and the amendment has been printed as part of the text; but then again, some unknown hand made an amendment to the amendment … . It makes you tired just to think about it. The possible conclusion is that Fabre is a forger—a common criminal, as opposed to some more refined type. All the indications are that Robespierre hasn’t an inkling what is going on.

  He returned his attention to Camille. “Vadier obviously thinks he is about to uncover something damning about you, Georges. I spend my time avoiding Fabre. The Police Committee have had Chabot in. He denounced a conspiracy, of course. Said he’d gone along with it to track it to its source. No one believed that. Fabre has been delegated to produce a report of the affair.”

  “On the East India Company? Fabre has?” This is becoming completely absurd, Danton thought.

  “Yes, and on its political ramifications. Robespierre’s not interested in crooked stock-market deals, he’s interested in who’s behind them, and where their instructions come from.”

  “But why didn’t Chabot denounce Fabre right away—why didn’t he say, Fabre was in it with me from the beginning?”

  “What had he to gain? Then they’d be in the dock together. So Chabot kept quiet, thinking Fabre might be grateful, and exonerate him in the report. Another deal struck, you see.”

  “And Chabot really thinks that Fabre will remain in the clear?”

  “They expect you to use your influence to pull him into the clear.”

  “What a mess,” Danton said.

  “Anyway, it’s all worse now. Chabot’s denouncing Fabre, and everybody—the only saving grace is that by now no one believes anything he says. Vadier questioned me.”

  “Questioned you? He’s getting a bit above himself.”

  “Oh, it was all very informal. One good patriot to another. He said, Citizen, no one imagines you’ve done anything shady, but have you perhaps done something a little bit sharp? The idea was that I’d tell him all about it and feel much better afterwards.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, hardly anything. I opened my eyes and said, me, sharp? My stutter was very bad that day. I dropped Max’s name into the conversation a lot. Vadier is terrified of crossing him. He knew if he put any pressure on me I’d complain.”

  “Well done,” Danton said grimly. But he saw the difficulty that he was in; it was not just a matter of what he did about Fabre, it was the rather larger matter of Camille’s conscience.

  “I’m lying to Robespierre,” Camille said. “By implication, anyway. I don’t like this, you know. It puts me on shaky ground for what I want to do next.”

  “And that is?”

  “There is worse news, I’m afraid. Hébert has come out with a story about Lacroix lining his pockets in Belgium last year, when you were on mission together. He claims to have evidence. He has also persuaded the Jacobins to petition the Convention to pull Lacroix and Legendre back from mission in Normandy.”

  “What does he say Legendre has done?”

  “He’s your friend, isn’t he? I went to Robespierre and said, we must stop the Terror.”

  “You said that?”

  “He said, I entirely agree. He does, of course, he hates the killing, it’s only me who took so long to see … . So I said, Hébert is too powerful. He’s entrenched at the War Ministry and the Commune, he’s got his newspaper circulating to the troops—and Hébert will not agree to stop the Terror. It touched his pride. He said, if I want to stop it, I will, even if I have to cut off Hébert’s head first. All right, I told him, think about it for twenty-four hours and then we’ll decide how to move in on him. I came home and drafted a pamphlet against Hébert.”

  “You never learn, do you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You were bewailing the Gironde. Your part in their downfall.”

  “But this is Hébert,” Camille said uncomprehendingly. “Look, don’t confuse me. Hébert’s the obstacle to stopping the Terror. If we kill him, we won’t need to kill anyone else. Anyway, Robespierre—in that twenty-four hours he started to temporize. He came over all twitchy and indecisive. When I went back he said, ‘Hébert is very powerful, but he is right about some things, and he could be very useful if he were under our control.’” Two-faced little bastard, Danton thought; what’s he up to? “‘It might be better,’ he said, ‘if we could find a compromise. We don’t want anymore unnecessary bloodshed.’ For once I wished for Saint-Just. I really thought he was going to do it, you know, and then—” He made an exasperated gesture. “Saint-Just might have been able to push him into some action.”

  “Action?” Danton said. “He won’t take action. He’s got no idea when it comes to action. Unnecessary bloodshed, oh my. Violence, how deplorable. He wears me out with his rectitude. That bugger couldn’t boil an egg.”

  “Oh no,” Camille said. “Don’t, don’t.”

  “So what does he want to do?”

  “He won’t be pinned down to an opinion. Go and see him. Just take in what he says. Don’t argue.”

  Danton thought, but that is how they used to talk about me. He pulled Camille into his arms. His body seemed strange and precarious, made of shadows and angles. Camille buried his head in his shoulder; and said, “You really are a shocking and cynical man.”

  For a moment or two they didn’t speak. Then Camille pulled away and looked up at him. His hands rested lightly on Danton’s shoulders. “Has it ever occurred to you that Max feels the same basic contempt for you as you do for him?”

  “He feels contempt for me?”

  “It is something he feels very readily.”

  “No, I hadn’t thought that.”

  “Well, the whole world isn’t driven by your appetites, and people who are not feel themselves your superior, naturally. He struggles very hard to make allowances for you. He is not tolerant, but he is charitable. Or perhaps it is the other way around.”

  “One becomes tired of analyzing his character,” Danton said. “As if one’s life depended on it.”

  He had intended to go back to Louise for an hour. He stood at the corner of the Cour du Commerce. He had become used to talking to her, recounting everything that happened and what had been said, waiting for her comments. He told her things he would never have told Gabrielle; her very lack of involvement, lack of knowledge made her valuable to him. But just now, there was nothing to say. He felt a great inarticulate weight inside him. He looked at his watch. It was possible, though not likely, that the Incorruptible would be at home at this hour, and while he stretched his legs in crossing the river he could think what to say. He glanced up at his own lighted window, then strode off vengefully into the evening.

  The lanterns were being lit, swinging giddily from ropes in the narrow alleys between the houses, or hanging from iron brackets. There were more of them now than there had been before the Revolution: lights against the conspirators, against the counterfeiters, against the dark night of the Duke of Brunswick. In ’89 they had been hanging up an aristo, and he had asked, “Do y
ou think the light will shine brighter afterwards?” And Louis Suleau, expressing his surprise at being still alive: “Whenever I pass a lamppost, I see it stretch out towards me, covetously.”

  Two young boys passed him, with cheerful country faces and running noses; they were selling rabbits to the townsfolk, and they carried the animals slung upside down on poles, bloodstained bundles caught in the field in traps. Someone will rob them, he thought, and then they will have neither money nor rabbits on a pole; as they passed him the furry corpses looked meager, little flesh on the swinging bones. Two women quarreled in the door of a cookshop, fists on hips; the river was a smudged channel of yellow and dirty gray, creeping up at the winter like the onset of a wasting disease. People hurried off the streets, to be shut away from the city and the night.

  The carriage was new, and remarkable because it was smart; even in the gloom you could see fresh polish on new paint. He caught a glimpse of a round, pale face, and the coachman drew up beside him with a ponderous creak of harness; above it, the squeak of the owner’s voice. “My dear Danton, is it you?”

  He halted unwillingly. The horses breathed wetly into the raw, wet twilight. “Hébert, is it you?”

  Hébert stuck his head out. “So it is. One recognizes your bulk. My dear Danton, it grows dark, what are you doing, walking the streets in this democratic fashion? It is not safe.”

  “Don’t I look as if I can take care of myself?”

  “Of course, but don’t you realize, there are gangs of armed robbers—can’t I take you somewhere?”

  “Not unless you’re prepared to go back the way you came.”

  “Of course. No trouble.”

  “All right.” He spoke to the coachman. “You know Robespierre’s house?”

  He had the satisfaction of hearing a minute quaver in Hébert’s voice. “And when did you arrive back?”

  “Two hours ago.”

  “And the family? All well?”

  “Hébert, you really are a most unpleasant person,” Danton said, settling himself opposite in the well-upholstered seat, “so it’s no use pretending otherwise.”

  “Yes, I see.” Hébert gave a sort of nervous giggle. “Danton, you may have heard about certain speeches I have made.”

  “Attacking my friends.”

  “Don’t put it like that,” Hébert said reproachfully. “After all, if they’ve nothing to be ashamed of—I’m just offering them a chance to show what good patriots they are.”

  “They have already shown it.”

  “But surely, none of us should be afraid to have our conduct held up to scrutiny? The point is, Danton, that I shouldn’t like you to imagine that I was criticizing you, yourself.”

  “I don’t think you would dare.”

  “As a matter of fact, I thought that a tactical alliance between us—”

  “I could as confidently form a tactical alliance with a sponge.”

  “Well, think about it,” Hébert said, without rancor. “By the way, Camille’s in a bad state, isn’t he? Fainting like that.”

  “I’ll tell him of your concern.”

  “Chose the most inopportune moment. People are saying—quite understandably I suppose—that he’s regretting his part in bringing Brissot down. Soft-hearted, dear Marat used to say. Though it seems fearfully inconsistent with his past conduct. ’89. The lynchings. Mm. Here we are. Now then—how shall I put it? Citizen Robespierre’s a slippery fish this month. Hard to handle. Take care.”

  “Thank you, Hébert, for transporting me.”

  Danton swung down from the carriage. Hébert’s white face appeared beside him. “Persuade Camille to take a holiday,” he said.

  “He might,” Danton said, “take the day off if it were your funeral.”

  The unctuous smile froze. “Is that a declaration of war?”

  Danton shrugged. “As you like,” he said. “Drive on,” he shouted to the coachman. Standing in the street, he wanted to shout obsenities after Père Duchesne, chase him and drive a first into his face. Hostilities begin here.

  “So how’s your little sister liking married life?” Danton asked Eléonore.

  Eléonore flushed darkly. “All right I suppose. Philippe Lebas doesn’t amount to so much.”

  You poor, spiteful, disappointed cow, he thought. “I can find my own way,” he said.

  There was no answer when he knocked. He pushed the door open and walked straight into Robespierre’s belligerent stare. He was sitting at his desk with pen, ink, one small notebook.

  “Pretending not to be here, then?”

  “Danton.” Robespierre got to his feet. He colored slightly. “I’m sorry, I thought it was Cornélia.”

  “Well, what a way to treat your lady friend! Sit down, relax. What were you writing? A love letter to somebody else?”

  “No, as a matter of fact I—never mind.” Robespierre flicked the little book shut. He sat down at his desk and joined his hands in an attitude of rather nervous prayer. “I could have done with you a week ago, Danton. Chabot came to see me. I—well, what did you ever think of Chabot?”

  Danton noted the past tense. “I think he is a red-faced buffoon with a cap of liberty on his head and very little of a brain beneath it.”

  “This marriage of his, you know … the Frei brothers are to be arrested tomorrow. It was the marriage that trapped him.”

  “The dowry,” Danton said.

  “Just so. The so-called brothers are millionaires. And Chabot, he likes all that—he’s susceptible. Well, how not? He’s kept too many frozen Lents.”

  Danton looked closely at Robespierre. He’s softening? Possibly.

  “It’s the girl I feel sorry for, the little Jewess.”

  “Yes, but then,” Danton said, “they say she’s not the sister of either of them. They say she was bought out of a brothel in Vienna.”

  “They’ll say anything, won’t they? I do know one thing—Chabot’s servant has given birth to his child since he left her. And this is the man who spoke so touchingly to the Jacobins last September about the rights of illegitimate children.”

  You can never tell what will upset Robespierre most, Danton thought: treason, peculation or sex. “Anyway—Chabot came to see you, you were saying.”

  “Yes.” Robespierre shook his head, amused by the human condition. “He had a packet with him which he said contained 100,000 francs.”

  “You should have counted it.”

  “It was wastepaper, for all I know. He went on in his usual way about plotters, and I said. ‘Have you any documentary evidence?’ He said, ‘I do, but,’” Robespierre laughed, “‘it’s all written in invisible ink.’ Then he said, ‘This money was given to me to bribe the Committee of Public Safety with, so I thought the best thing to do was to bring it to you. Can I have a safe conduct? I think I ought to get out of the country.’” He looked up at Danton. “Pitiable, isn’t it? We had him picked up at eight o’clock the next morning. He’s in the Luxembourg now. We made the mistake of letting him have pen and ink, so now every day he produces yards and yards of self-justificatory maundering which he sends to the Police Committee. Your name crops up a lot, I’m afraid.”

  “And not in invisible ink?” Danton asked. “Talking of which—” He took Robespierre’s letter out of his pocket and dropped it on the desk between them. “Well, my old friend—what’s all this about doing away with Hébert?”

  “Ah,” Robespierre said. “Camille and I got together and had a little panic.”

  “I see. So I came all this way because you had a little panic.”

  “I spoiled your holiday? I’m sorry. You’re quite better, though?”

  “Fighting fit. I’m just trying to work out where’s the fight.”

  “You know,” Robespierre cleared his throat, “I really think that by New Year our position may be quite favorable. As long as we get Toulon back. And here in Paris, rid ourselves of these anti-religious fanatics. Your friend Fabre is doing a good job on the so-called businessmen. Tomo
rrow I intend to obtain four expulsions from the Jacobins.”

  “Of?”

  “Proli, this Austrian who has worked for Hérault. And three of Hébert’s friends. To put them outside the club paralyzes them. And it serves as a warning to others.”

  “I must point out that recently expulsion from the club has been the prelude to arrest. And yet Camille says you favor an end to the Terror?”

  “I wouldn’t put it—quite so—I mean, I think in a couple of months we may be able to relax, but there are still a number of foreign agents that we have to flush out.”

  “And that aside, you’d favor a return to the normal judicial process, and bringing in the new constitution?”

  “We’re still at war, that’s the trouble. Very much at war. You know what the Convention said—‘The government of France is revolutionary until the peace.’”

  “‘Terror is the order of the day.’”

  “It was the wrong word, perhaps. You’d think the populace was going around with its teeth chattering. But it isn’t so. The theaters are open as usual.”

  “For the performance of patriotic dramas. They bore me, patriotic dramas.”

  “They are more wholesome than what the theater used to provide.”

  “How would you know? You never go to the theater.”

  Robespierre blinked at him. “Well, it seems, logically, that it must be so. I can’t oversee everything. I haven’t time to go to the theater. But if we return to the point—you must understand that in my private capacity I don’t like what has been happening, but I have to admit that politically it has been necessary. Now if Camille were here he would demolish that, but, well, Camille is a theoretician and I have to get on with things in the Committee and reconcile myself … as best I can. The way I see it … externally, our situation is much better, but internally we still have an emergency; we still have the Vendee rebels, and a capital full of conspirators. The Revolution is not safe from day to day.”

  “Do you know what the hell it is you do want?”

  Robespierre looked up at him helplessly. “No.”

  “Can’t you think it out?”