Cour du Commerce, 9 p.m.: “Just a moment,” Danton said. “Introductions.”
“Danton—”
“Introductions. My dear, this is Fabricius Paris, an old friend of mine, and the Clerk of the Court to the Tribunal.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Paris said hurriedly. “Your husband got me my job.”
“And that’s why you’re here. You see, Louise, I inspire loyalty. Now?”
Paris was agitated. “You know I go every evening to the Committee. I collect the orders for the following day.” He turned to Louise. “Orders for the Tribunal; I take them to Fouquier.” She nodded. “When I arrived the doors were locked. Such a thing had never happened before. I said to myself, it may be useful to a patriot to know what is going on in there. I know the building, you see. I went by a back way, and I found—forgive me—a keyhole—”
“I forgive you,” Danton said. “And you put your eye to the keyhole, and then your ear, and you saw and heard Saint-Just denouncing me.”
“How do you know?”
“It is logical.”
“Danton, they were sitting in silence, listening to every lie he uttered.”
“What exactly has he in mind? Do you know? Was there a warrant?”
“I didn’t see one. He was talking about denouncing you before the Convention, in your presence.”
“Couldn’t be better,” Danton said. “He wants to match his oratory against mine, does he? And his experience? And his name in the Revolution?” He turned to his wife. “It’s perfect. It is exactly as I wanted. The imbecile has chosen to meet me on my own ground. Paris, it couldn’t be better.”
Paris looked incredulous. “You wanted it forced to this point?”
“I shall crucify that smug young bastard, and I shall take the greatest pleasure in driving in the nails.”
“You will sit up and write your speech, I suppose,” Louise said. Danton laughed. “My wife doesn’t know my methods yet. But you do, Paris? I don’t need a speech, my love. I get it all out of my head.”
“Well, at least go and get the report of it written in advance for the newspapers. Complete with ‘tumultuous applause,’ and so on.”
“You’re learning,” he said. “Pâris, did Saint-Just mention Camille?”
“I didn’t wait, as soon as I caught the drift I got around here. I suppose he’s not in danger.”
“I went to the Convention this afternoon. Didn’t stay. He and Robespierre were deep in conversation.”
“So I heard. I was told they appeared very friendly. Is it possible then …?” He hesitated. How to ask someone if his best friend has reneged on him?
“In the Convention tomorrow I shall put him up to confront Saint-Just. Imagine it. Our man the picture of starched rectitude, and looking as if he has just devoured a beefsteak; and Camille making a joke or two at our man’s expense and then talking about ’89. A cheap trick, but the galleries will cheer. This will make Saint-Just lose his temper-not easy, since he cultivates this Greek statue manner of his—but I guarantee that Camille can do it. As soon as our man begins to bawl and roar, Camille will fold up and look helpless. That will get Robespierre on his feet, and we will all generate one of these huge emotional scenes. I always win those. I shall go round now—no, I won’t, we’ll plan this in the morning. I ought to leave Camille alone. Bad news from home. A death in the family.”
“Not the precious father?”
“His mother.”
“I’m sorry,” Paris said. “Bad timing. He may not be so keen to play games. Danton—I suppose you wouldn’t consider any less risky course of action?”
Rue Marat, 9:30 p.m.: “I could have gone home,” Camille said. “Why didn’t he tell me she was ill? He was here. He sat in the chair where you sit now. He didn’t say a word.”
“Perhaps he wanted to spare your feelings. Perhaps they thought she’d get better.”
One day at the end of last year, a stranger had come to the door: a distinguished man of sixty or so, spare, remote, with an impressive head of iron-gray hair. It had taken her a long moment to work out who he was.
“My father has never spared my feelings,” Camille said. “He has never understood the concept of sparing feelings. In fact, he has never understood the concept of feelings at all.”
It had been a brief visit—a day or two. Jean-Nicolas came because he had seen the “Old Cordelier.” He wanted to tell his son how much he admired it, how much he felt that he had done the right thing at last; how much, perhaps, he missed him, and wanted him to come home sometimes.
But when he tried to do this, a kind of hideous embarrassment swept over him, like the socially disabling blush of a girl of thirteen. His voice had strangled in his throat, and he had confronted, speechless, the son who usually preferred not to speak anyway.
It had been, Lucile thought, one of the worst half-hours in her life. Fabre had been there, bemoaning his lot as usual; but at the sight of the elder Desmoulins in such straits, he had actually found tears in his eyes. She had seen him dab them away; Camille had seen it too. Better that they had cried, Fabre said later; haven’t they a lot to cry for? When Jean-Nicolas gave up the effort at speech, father and son had embraced, in a minimal and chilly fashion. The man has some defect, Fabre had said later: I think there’s something wrong with his heart.
There was, of course, another aspect to the visit. Even Fabre wouldn’t mention it. It was the Will you survive this? aspect. They couldn’t either, mention it tonight. Camille said, “When you think of Georges-Jacques and his mother, it’s odd. She may be a tedious old witch, but they’re always on some sort of terms, they’re always connected. And you, and your mother.”
“Practically the same person,” Lucile said, acidly.
“Yes, but think of me—it’s hard to believe I’m related to my mother at all, perhaps Jean-Nicolas found me under a bush. I’ve spent my whole life trying to please him, and I’ve never succeeded, and I’ve never given up. Here I am, Father, I am ten years old, I can read Aristophanes as my sisters read nursery rhymes. Yes, but why did God give us a child with a speech impediment? Look, Father, I have passed every examination known to man—are you pleased? Yes, but when will you make some money? See, Father, you know that revolution you’ve been talking about for twenty years? I’ve just started it. Oh yes, very nice—but not quite what we had in mind for you, and what will the neighbors say?” Camille shook his head. “When I think, of the years of my life that I’ve spent, if you add it up, writing letters to that man. I could have learned Aramaic, instead. Done something useful. Put my head together with Marat, and worked on his roulette system.”
“He had one, did he?”
“So he said. It was just that he was so generally deplorable as a person that the gaming houses wouldn’t let him in.”
They sat in silence for a minute or two. The topic of Camille’s mother was exhausted. He didn’t know her, she didn’t know him, and it was that lack of knowledge that made the news of her death so miserable: that feeling of having calculated on a second chance, and missed it. “Gamblers,” she said. “I keep thinking of Hérault. He’s been in prison for a fortnight now. But he knew that they were going to arrest him. Why didn’t he run?”
“He is too proud.”
“And Fabre. Is it true that Lacroix will be arrested?”
“They say so. And Philippeaux. You can’t defy the Committee and live.”
“But Camille, you have defied them. You’ve done nothing but attack the Committee for the last five months.”
“Yes, but I have Max. They can’t touch me. They’d like to. But they can’t, without him.”
She knelt before the fire. Shivered. “Tomorrow I must send to the farm for more wood.”
Cour du Commerce: “Deputy Panis is here.” Louise had picked up fear in an instant from the man who stood at the door.
It was a quarter to one, the morning of 12 Germinal. Danton was in his dressing gown. “Forgive me, Citizen. The servants are in bed
and we were just going ourselves. Come to the fire—it’s cold out.”
He knelt before the embers. “Leave that,” Panis said. “They are coming to arrest you.”
“What?” He turned. “You’re misinformed. Fabricius Paris was here before you.”
“I don’t know what he told you, but he was not at the meeting of the two Committees. Lindet was. He sent me. There is a warrant out. They mean to deny you a hearing before the Convention. You are never to appear there again. You are to go straight to prison, and from there to the Tribunal.”
Danton was silenced for a moment: the shock made his face a blank. “But Paris heard Saint-Just say he wanted to fight it out with me, before the Convention.”
“So he did. What do you think? They talked him down. They knew the risk and they were not prepared to let him take it. They are not novices—they know you can start a riot in the public galleries. He was furious, Lindet said. He stormed out of the room, and he—” Panis looked away.
“Well, he what?”
Panis put a hand before his mouth. “Threw his hat into the fire.”
“What?” Danton said. The Deputy’s eyes met his own. They began to laugh, with a silent, contained, unsuitable mirth.
“His hat. It blazed up merrily, Lindet said. His notes would have followed his hat, but some benighted so-called patriot wrested them from his hand, as he was about to skim them into the flames. Oh, he did not care to be deprived of his moment of glory, I tell you. Not at all.”
“His hat! Oh, that Camille had been there!” Danton said.
“Yes,” the deputy agreed. “Camille would have been the one to appreciate it most.”
And then Danton remembered himself. No joke, he thought, none at all. “But you are saying they have signed a warrant? Robespierre too?”
“Yes. Lindet says you should take the chance, your last chance. At least get out of your apartment, because they may come here at any time. And I must go now—I must go round the corner, and tell Camille.”
Danton shook his head. “Leave it. Let them sleep, let them find out in the morning. Because this will be a cruel business for Camille. He will have to face Robespierre, and he won’t know what to say.”
Panis stared at him. “My God, you don’t realize, do you? He’ll not be saying anything to Robespierre. He’ll be locked up with you.”
Louise saw his body sag. He folded into a chair, and sat with his hand before his eyes.
Two o’clock. “I came,” Lindet said, “hoping to find that you were no longer here. For God’s sake, Danton, what are you trying to do? Are you bent on helping them destroy you?”
“I can’t believe it,” Danton said. He stared into the dying fire. “That he would have Camille arrested—and just this afternoon I saw them deep in conversation, he was friendly, smiling—oh, the consummate hypocrite!”
Louise had dressed hurriedly. She sat apart from them, hiding her face in her hands. She had seen his face, seen the will and power drain out of him. Tears seeped between her fingers. But at the back of her mind, an insistent little message hammered out its rhythm: you will be free, you will be free.
“I thought they would let me go before the Convention. Lindet, did no one remind them that the Convention has to agree to our arrest, that it has to lift our immunity?”
“Of course. Robespierre reminded them. Billaud told him that they would get the consent when you were safely under lock and key. They were very frightened men, Danton. They bolted the doors, and still they acted as if they expected you to burst through them at any minute.”
“But Lindet, what did he say? About Camille?”
“I felt sorry for him,” Lindet said abruptly. “They drove him into the ground. They gave him a straight choice. And the poor devil, he thinks he has to stay alive for the Republic. Much good his life will be to him, after this.”
“Marat was indicted before the Tribunal,” Danton said. “The Gironde arrested him and put him on trial, and the business blew up in their hands. The Tribunal acquitted. The people carried him through the streets in triumph. He came back stronger than ever.”
“Yes,” Lindet said. But, he thought, in those days, the Tribunal guarded its independence. Marat had a trial; do you think it will be a trial, what you’ll get?”
But he did not speak. He watched Danton gather himself; saw him take heart. “They can’t gag me, can they?” he said. “They can arrest me, but they have to let me speak. All right—I’m ready to take them on.” Lindet stood up. Danton slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll see what those buggers look like by the time I’ve finished with them.”
Rue Marat, 3 a. m.: Camille had begun to talk, in little more than a whisper, but fluently, without hesitation, as if a part of his mind had been set free. Lucile had finished crying; she sat and watched him now, in the drugged, hypnotized state that succeeds extreme emotion. In the next room, their child slept. There was no sound from the street outside; no sound in the room, except this low sibilation; no light, except the light of one candle. We might be cut adrift from the universe, she thought.
“You see, in ‘89, I thought, some aristocrat will run me through. I shall be a martyr for liberty, it will be very nice, it will be in all the papers. Then I thought, in ’92, the Austrians will come and shoot me, well, it will be over quickly, and I will be a national hero.” He put his hand to his throat. “Danton says he doesn’t care what they think of him, the people who come after us. I find I want their good opinion. But I don’t think I’m going to get it, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Lindet said.
“But after all this, to die on the wrong side of patriotism—to be accused of counter-revolution—I can’t bear it. Robert, will you help me to escape?”
Lindet hesitated. “There’s no time now.”
“I know there is no time, but will you?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Lindet said gently. “We would both be sacrificed. I’m very sorry, Camille.”
At the door Lindet put an arm around her. “Go to your mother and father. By morning this will be no place for you.” Suddenly he turned back. “Camille, did you mean it? Are you really prepared to run for it? Not go to pieces on me and do as I say?”
Camille looked up. “Oh no,” he said. “No, I don’t really want to. I was just testing you.”
“For what?”
“Never mind,” Camille said. “You passed.” He dropped his head again.
Robert Lindet was fifty years old. His age showed in his dry administrator’s face. She wondered how anyone survived to attain it.
“It must be almost dawn,” Lucile said. “No one has come yet.”
And she hopes—hope takes you by the throat like a strangler, it makes your heart leap—is it possible that Robespierre has somehow reversed the decision, that he has found courage, talked them down?
“I wrote to Rabbit,” she said. “I didn’t tell you. I asked him to come back, give us his support.”
“He didn’t reply.”
“No.”
“He thinks, when I am dead, he will marry you.”
“That’s what Louise said.”
“What does Louise know about it?”
“Nothing. Camille? Why did you call him Rabbit?”
“Are people still trying to work out why I called him Rabbit?”
“Yes.”
“No reason.”
She heard, below, boots on cobblestones; she heard the patrol halt. That might be, she thought, just the regular patrol; it is time for them, after all. How the heart deceives.
“There.” Camille stood up. “I’m glad Jeanette is away tonight. That’s the street door now.”
She stood in the middle of the room. She was aware of a puppet-like stiffness in her limbs. She seemed unable to speak.
“Are you looking for me?” Camille said. She watched him. She remembered August 10, after Suleau’s death: how he had cleaned himself up and gone back into the screaming streets. “You’re supposed to ask me wh
o I am,” he told the officer. “Are you Camille Desmoulins, you’re supposed to say, professional journalist, deputy to the National Convention—just as if there might be two of us, very similar.”
“Look, it’s very early,” the man said. “I know damn well who you are and there aren’t two of you. Here’s the warrant, if you’re interested.”
“Can I say good-bye to my little boy?”
“Only if we come with you.”
“I wanted not to wake him. Can’t I have a moment on my own?”
The men moved, took up stations before the doors and windows. “A man last week,” the officer said, “went to kiss his daughter and blew his brains out. Man across the river jumped out of a window, fell four floors, broke his neck.”
“Yes, you can’t understand why he’d bother,” Camille said. “When the state would have broken it for him.”
“Don’t give us any trouble,” the man said.
“No trouble,” Camille promised.
“Take some books.” She was appalled to hear her voice come out, full of bravado. “It will be boring.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
“Hurry up then.” The officer put his hand on Camille’s arm.
“No,” she said. She flung herself at Camille. She locked her arms around his neck. They kissed. “Come on now,” the officer said. “Citizeness, let him go.” But she clung tighter, shrugging off the hand on her arm. A moment later the officer tore her away bodily, and with her fist she caught him one good blow on the jaw, felt the impact of it run through her own body, but felt nothing as her head hit the floor. As if I were a fly, she thought, or some little bird: I am just brushed away, I am crushed.
She was alone. They had hustled him out of the room, down the stairs, out of the house. She sat up. She was not hurt, not at all. She picked up a cushion from the sofa, and held it against her, rocking herself a little, eyes blank: and the scream she had meant to scream, and the words of love she had meant to speak, locked into her throat and set there like iron. She rocked herself. What now? She must dress herself. She must write letters and deliver them. She must see every deputy, every committeeman. She knows how she must set things moving. She must act. She rocks herself. There is the world and there is the shadow-play world; there is the world of freedom and illusion, and then there is the real world, in which we watch, year by year, the people we love hammer on their chains. Rising from the floor, she feels the fetters bite into her flesh. I’m bound to you, she thinks: bound to you.
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