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Authors: Hilary Mantel

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“Yes,” the Duke said with relish. “The booby. Let himself get caught. They’ve sent Barnave and Pétion to fetch them back. I hope Deputy Pétion is bloody rude to them all the way.”
Félicité did not doubt that he would be. “You know,” she went on, “that now the Assembly has the new constitution framed and ready for the King’s signature, it—I mean the Assembly—is most anxious for stability. Change has gone so far and so fast, and I believe people are aching for a return to good order. It is possible that a month from now Louis will be replaced firmly on the throne. It will be as if all this had never happened.”
“But dammit, he
ran away.
He’s supposed to be King of this country, and he was
running away
from it.”
“The Assembly may not put that construction on his actions.”
“What other is there? Forgive me, I’m a simple man—”
“They aren’t. They’re really quite ingenious. Lawyers, mostly.”
“Don’t trust ’em,” Philippe said. “As a breed.”
“Think then, my dear—if Louis is restored—think how it will antagonize him if you appear so anxious to step into his shoes.”
“But I am, aren’t I?” Philippe gaped at her. What was she trying to do to him? Wasn’t this what all the fuss was about, over the last three years and more? Wasn’t it to be King that he had endured the company of people who weren’t gentlemen, who didn’t hunt, who didn’t know the nose of a racehorse from its tail? Wasn’t it in order to be King that he had allowed himself to be patronized by that fish-eyed Laclos? Wasn’t it to be King that he had endured that scar-faced thug Danton at his own dinner table, quite blatantly eyeing up his mistress Agnès and his ex-mistress Grace? Wasn’t it to be King that he had paid, paid, paid?
Félicité closed her eyes. Carefully, she thought. Speak carefully, but do speak: for the nation, for this man’s children, whom I have brought up. And for our lives.
“Think,” she said.
“Think!” The Duke exploded. “Very well, you don’t trust my supporters. Neither do I. I have their measure, I tell you.”
“I doubt it.”
“You think I’d let those low types push me around?”
“Philippe, you’re not the man to set limits to their ambition. They’ll swallow you up, you and your children—and everything, everybody that is close to your heart. Don’t you realize that the men who can destroy one King can destroy another? Do you think they’d have any scruple, if you didn’t do everything exactly as they wished? And you’d only be, at best, a stop gap for them—until they felt they could get along without you, till they felt they didn’t need any King at all.” She took a breath. “Think back, Philippe—think back to before the Bastille fell. Louis used to tell you, go here, go there—come back to Versailles, keep away from Versailles—you know how it was? Your life wasn’t your own, you used to say. You had no freedom. Now, from the moment you say, ‘Yes, I want to be King,’ you give your freedom away again. From that day on, you will be in prison. Oh, not a prison with bars and chains—but a pleasant gaol that M. Danton will make for you. A gaol with a civil list and protocol and precedent and the most charming social occasions, ballets and masked balls and, yes, even horse-racing.”
“Don’t like ballet,” the Duke said. “Bores me.”
Félicité smoothed her skirt, glanced down at her hands. A woman’s hands show her age, she thought; they give everything away. Once there’d been hope. Once there’d been the promise of a fairer, cleaner world; and no one had hoped harder, no one had worked for it more
assiduously than she had. “A gaol,” she said. “They’ll trick you, amuse you, occupy you—while they carve up the country between them. That is their object.”
He looked up at her, this middle-aged child of hers. “You think they’re cleverer than me, do you?”
“Oh, much, my darling: much, much, much.”
He avoided her eye now. “I’ve always known my limitations.”
“Which makes you wiser than most men. And wiser than these manipulators give you credit for.”
That pleased him. It came to him vaguely that he might outsmart them. She had spoken so softly, as if the thought were his own. “What’s the best thing to do? Tell me, Félicité, please.”
“Disassociate yourself. Keep your name clear. Refuse to be their dupe.”
“So you want me”—he struggled—“to go to the Assembly, and say, no, I don’t want the throne, you may have thought I did but that was not what I meant at all?”
“Take this paper. Look. Sit here. Write as I dictate.”
She leaned against the back of his chair. The words were prepared, in her head. Precarious, she thought. This was a near thing. If I could shut him away from all counter-persuasion, all other influence—but that’s impossible. I was lucky to get him for an hour alone.
Quickly now—before he changed his mind. “Put your signature. There, it’s done.”
Philippe threw his pen down. Ink spattered the roses, the ribbons, the violins. He clapped a hand to his head. “Laclos will kill me,” he wailed.
Félicité made soothing noises, as if to a child with colic, and took the paper from Philippe to amend his punctuation.
 
 
W
hen the Duke told Laclos of his decision, Laclos bowed imperceptibly from the shoulder. “As you wish, Milord,” he said, and withdrew. Why he had spoken in English he never afterwards understood. In his apartment he turned his face to the wall and drank a bottle of brandy with a thoughtful but murderous expression.
At Danton’s apartment he worked around to a comfortable chair, handing himself from one piece of furniture to the next in a manner faintly nautical. “Have patience,” he said. “Any moment now I shall deliver myself of a profound observation.”
“I shall go,” Camille said. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what Laclos had to say. He preferred not to know the finer details of Danton’s
entanglements; and, though he knew they were supposed to regard Philippe only as a means to an end, it was very difficult when somebody had been so nice to you. Every time some Cordeliers oaf came tramping through his apartment, yelling from room to room, he thought of the Duke’s twelve-bedroomed wedding present. He could have wept.
“Sit down, Camille,” Danton said.
“You may stay,” Laclos said, “but keep confidences, or I shall kill you.”
“Yes, of course you will,” Danton said. “Now—go on.”
“My observations fall into three parts. One, Philippe is a pea-brained yellow-livered imbecile. Two, Félicité is a nasty, poxy, vomit-inducing whore.”
“All right,” Danton said. “And the third part of your observations?”
“A
coup d’état,
” Laclos said. He looked at Danton without lifting his head.
“Come now. Let’s not get over-excited.”
“Force Philippe’s hand. Make him see his duty. Put him in a position where—” Laclos’s right hand made languid chopping motions.
Danton stood over him. “What exactly is it you have in mind?”
“The Assembly will debate, decide to restore Louis. Because they need him to make their pretty constitution work. Because they’re King’s men, Danton, because bloody Barnave has been bought. Alliteration.” He hiccuped. “Or if he hadn’t, he has been by now, after his knee-to-knee trip back from the border with the Austrian slut. I tell you, even now they are working on the most risible set of fictions. You’ve seen the proclamation that Lafayette put out—‘the enemies of the Revolution have seized the person of the King.’ They are speaking of
abduction
”—he smashed the heel of his hand into the arm of his chair—“they are saying that the fat fool was carried to the border against his will. They will say anything, anything, to save their faces. Now tell me, Danton, when such lies are sold to the people, isn’t it time to spill a little blood?”
Laclos now looked at his feet. His manner became sober and discursive. “The Assembly should be influenced, must be influenced by the people’s will. The people will never forgive Louis for abandoning them. Therefore
dignum et justum est,
aequum et
salutare that the Riding School should do what we tell them. Therefore we will make a petition. Some hack such as Brissot may draft it. It will ask for the deposition of Louis. The Cordeliers will sponsor it. The Jacobins might be persuaded to sign it, I say they might. The 17th of July, the whole city assembles on the Champs-de-Mars for the Bastille celebrations. We get our petition signed, thousands and thousands of names. We take it to the Assembly. If they
refuse to act on it, the people invade the Assembly—in pursuance of their Sacred Will, all that. The doctrine behind the action we’ll work out when we have leisure.”
“You suggest that we employ armed force against the Assembly?”
“Yes.”
“Against our representatives?”
“Representatives nothing.”
“Bloodshed, possibly?”
“Damn you,” Laclos said. Scarlet flowed into his fine-boned face. “Have we come all this way to throw up our hands now, to turn into some sort of puling humanitarians—now, when everything’s ours for the taking?” He splayed out his fingers, palms upwards. “Can you have a revolution without blood?”
“I never said you could.”
“Well, then. Not even Robespierre thinks you could.”
“I just wanted to have your meaning clear.”
“Oh. I see.”
“And then, if we succeed in deposing Louis?”
“Then, Danton, divide the spoils.”
“And do we divide them with Philippe?”
“Right, he’s refused the throne once. But he will see his duty, if I have to strangle Félicité with my own hands—and that would be a thrill, I can tell you. Look, Danton, we’ll run the country between us. We’ll make Robespierre our Minister of Finance, he’s honest they say. We’ll repatriate Marat and let him give fleas to the Swiss. We’ll—”
“Laclos, this is not serious.”
“Oh, I know.” Laclos got unsteadily to his feet. “I know what you want. One month after the ascension of Philippe the Gullible, M. Laclos found in a gutter, deceased. Blamed on a traffic accident. Two months after, King Philippe found in a gutter, deceased—it really is a bad stretch of road. Philippe’s heirs and assigns having coincidentally expired, end of the monarchy, reign of M. Danton.”
“How your imagination runs away with you.”
“They do say that if you keep drinking you start to see snakes,” Laclos said. “Great serpent things, dragons and similar. Would you do it, Danton? Would you risk it with me?”
Danton didn’t answer.
“You would, you would.” Laclos stood up, swaying a little, and held out his arms. “Triumph and glory.” He dropped his arms to his side. “And then perhaps you’ll kill me. I’ll risk it. For a footnote in the history books. I dread obscurity, do you see? The meager and unrewarded old
age, the piddling end of mediocrity,
sans
everything, as the English poet says. ‘There goes poor old Laclos, he wrote a book once, the title escapes me.’ I’m going away now,” he said with dignity. “All I ask is that you think it over.” He lurched towards the door, and met Gabrielle coming in. “Nice little woman,” he said under his breath. They heard him stumble on the stairs.
“I thought you’d want to know,” she said. “They’re back.”
“The Capet family?” Camille asked.
“The royal family. Yes.” She withdrew from the room, closing the door softly behind her. They listened. Heat and silence lay over the city.
“I like a crisis,” Camille said. A short pause. Danton looked not at him, but through him. “I’ll keep you to the spirit of your recent republican mouthings. I was thinking about it, when Laclos was ranting—and I’m sorry for it, but I think Philippe will have to go. You can use him and dispense with him later.”
“Oh, you are as cold-blooded—” Danton stopped. He couldn’t think what was as cold-blooded as Camille, pushing his hair back with a flick of his wrist and saying
use him and dispense with him later
. “Were you born with that gesture,” he asked, “or did you pick it up from some prostitute?”
“First get rid of Louis, then we can battle it out.”
“We might lose everything,” Danton said. But he had made his calculations: always, when he seemed to flare up for a moment into some unreasoning, sneering aggression, his mind was moving quite coldly, quite calmly, in a certain direction. Now his mind was made up. He was going to do it.
 
 
T
he royal party had been intercepted at Varennes; they had traveled 165 miles from inept beginning to blundering end. Six thousand people surrounded the two carriages on the first stage of their journey home. A day later the company was joined by three deputies of the National Assembly. Barnave and Pétion sat with the family inside the berlin. The Dauphin took a liking to Barnave. He chattered to him and played with the buttons on his coat, reading out the legend engraved there: “Live free, or die.” “We must show character,” the Queen repeated, over and over again.
By the end of the journey, the future for Deputy Barnave was plain. Mirabeau dead, he would replace him as secret adviser to the court. Pétion believed that the King’s plump little sister, Mme. Elisabeth, had fallen in love with him; it was true that, on the long road back, she had
fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder. Pétion burbled incessantly about it, for a month or two.

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