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Authors: Hilary Mantel

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Any gloom we might have felt at the end of ’91 was dispelled by the continuing comedy of Camille’s return to the Bar.
They do contrive to spend a lot of money, he and Lucile—although, like most patriots, they avoid public censure by keeping few servants and no carriage. (I keep a carriage; I place personal comfort above the plaudits of the masses, I fear.) But where does anyone’s money go? They entertain, and Camille gambles, and Lolotte spends money on the things women do spend money on. But all in all, Camille’s venture was prompted less by shortage of cash than by the need of a new arena for self-advertisement.
In the old days, he claimed that his stutter was a complete obstacle to successful pleading. Of course, until one is used to it, it might discomfit, irritate or embarrass. But Hérault has pointed out that Camille has wrung some extraordinary verdicts from distraught judges. Certainly I have observed that Camille’s stutter comes and goes. It goes when he is angry or wishes forcibly to make a point; it comes when he feels put-upon, and when he wishes to show people that he is in fact a nice person who is really not quite able to cope. It says much for his natural optimism that after some eight years of acquaintance he sometimes assumes the latter pose with me and expects me to believe in it. Not entirely without success: there are days when I am so bemused by Camille’s helplessness that I go around opening doors for him.
All went smoothly until the New Year. Then he took on the defense of the couple concerned in the affair of the gambling house in the Passage Radziwill. Camille deplores the intervention of the state in what he sees as a matter of private morality; he not only published his opinion, but placarded it all over the city. Now Brissot—who is a man with a regrettable busybody tendency, both in his political philosophy and in his private life—was outraged by the whole affair. He attacked Camille
verbally and set one of his hacks to assail him in the press. As a result, Camille said he would “ruin Brissot. I shall simply write his autobiography,” he said. “I shall not need to embroider the facts. He is a plagiarist and a spy, and if I have refrained so far from making these revelations it is out of sentimentality over the length of our acquaintance.”
“Nonsense,” I said, “it has been out of fear of what he might reveal about you.”
“When I have finished with him …” Camille said. It was at this point I felt I must intervene. We may not see eye-to-eye on the war question, but if we are to achieve any political power of the formal kind, our natural allies are Brissot and the men of the Gironde.
I wish I could cast more light for you on Camille’s private life. The long-promised fidelity to Lucile lasted, oh, all of three months—yet from his disconnected statements at various times I gather that he doesn’t care for anyone else and would go through the whole business again to get her. There is nothing about them of the ironical coldness of people who are bored with each other; in fact, they give a lively impression of a well-heeled young couple with a great deal of energy who are having a very good time. It amuses Lucile to try out her powers on any personable man—and even on those who, like me, could never be described as personable. She has Fréron on a string, and now Hérault too. And you remember General Dillon, that romantic Irishman who is so attached to Camille? Camille brings him home from wherever they have been playing cards that night—for the general shares that addiction—and presents him to Lucile as if he were bringing her the most wonderful present—which indeed he is, because Dillon, along with Hérault, is widely spoken of as the most handsome man in Paris, and is in addition quite wonderfully poised and polished and gallant, and all that rubbish. Quite apart from the gratification she gets from flirting, I imagine that someone—the minx Rémy perhaps—has advised her that one way to keep an errant husband is to make him jealous. If this is her idea, she is having a great failure. Witness a recent conversation:
 
LUCILE: Hérault tried to kiss me.
CAMILLE: Well, you have been raising his hopes. Did you let him?
LUCILE: No.
CAMILLE: Why not?
LUCILE: He has a double chin.
 
What are they then—just an amiable, cool, amoral pair who have decided to make life easy for each other? That is not what you would think if you lived on our street, not what you would think if you lived
next door. They are playing for high stakes, it seems to me, and each of them is watching the other for a failure of nerve; each waits for the other to throw down the hand. The truth is, the more enmeshed Lucile becomes with her various beaux, the more Camille seems to enjoy himself. Why should this be? I’m afraid your imagination will have to supply the deficiencies of mine. After all, you know them well enough by now.
And I? Well, now, I suppose you like my wife, most people do. Our little actresses—Remy and her friends—are so accommodating, so pleasant and so easy for my Gabrielle to ignore. They never cross the threshold of this house; what would she have to say to them? They are not whores, these girls, far from it; they would be shocked if you offered them money. What they like are outings and treats and presents, and to be seen on the arms of the men whose names are in the papers. As my sister Anne-Madeleine says, people like us, we have our day; and when our day is over, and we are forgotten, they will be on the arms of other men. I like them, these girls. Because I like people who live without illusions.
I must get round to Rémy herself someday soon—if only as a gesture of fellowship to Fabre and Hérault and Camille.
I should say, in my defense, that I was faithful to Gabrielle for a long time; but these are not the days for fidelity. I think of all that has passed between us, the strong and sincere attachment I felt and do feel; I think of the kindness of her father and mother, and of the little child we buried. But I think, too, of her tone of cold disapproval, of her withdrawn silences. A man has his work in this world, and must do it as he sees fit, and (like the actresses) he must accommodate himself to the times in which he lives; Gabrielle does not see this. What irks me most is her downtrodden air. God knows, I never trod on her.
So I am seeing—oh, this girl and that girl—and from time to time the Duke’s ladies. Come now, you will say, surely not; this fellow is boasting again. With Mrs. Elliot, I would merely say that I have a business relationship. We discuss politics, English politics: English politics as applied to French affairs. But there is, nowadays, much warmth in Grace’s tone, in her eyes. She is an arch-dissimulator; I do believe she finds me perfectly loathsome.
Not so Agnès, I visit Agnès when the Duke is out of town. If the Duke thinks I might want to see Agnès, he is usually out of town. It works so smoothly that I would have credited Laclos with the arrangements, if that unfortunate had not disgraced himself by failure and slunk off into provincial oblivion. But why should the mistress of a Prince of the Blood—who might be a character in a novel, don’t you think?—bend herself to the conquest of a lawyer with an unsavory reputation, overweight and as ugly as sin?
Because the Duke foresees a future where he will need a friend; and I am the friend he will need.
But I find it hard, I tell you, to keep my thoughts away from Lucile. So much passion there, so much wit and flair. She is of course getting herself a reputation. It is widely believed already that she is my mistress, and soon of course she will be; unlike her other suitors, I am not a man to tease.
In a matter of weeks Gabrielle will give me another son. We shall celebrate, and be reconciled—which means that she will accept the situation. After Lucile’s child is born—by the way, it is her husband’s—Camille and I will arrive at an understanding, which will not be immensely difficult for us to do. I think perhaps 1792 is my year.
In January I took up my post as Deputy Public Prosecutor.
I shall be speaking to you again, no doubt.
Three Blades
,
Two in Reserve
L
ouis XVI to Frederick William of Prussia: “Monsieur my brother … I have just written to the Emperor, the Empress of Russia, the Kings of Spain and Sweden, and proposed to them a congress of the major powers of Europe, supported by an armed force, as the best means of checking the factions here, of reestablishing a more desirable order of things and of preventing the evil which torments us from gaining hold on other states in Europe … . I hope that Your Majesty … will keep this step on my part in the most absolute secrecy …”
 
 
J
.-P. Brissot to the Jacobin Club, December 16, 1791: “A people which has just gained its liberty after twelve centuries of slavery needs a war to consolidate itself.”
 
 
M
arie-Antoinette to Axel von Fersen: “The fools. They do not see that it is in our interests.”
 
 
G
abrielle’s pains began in the night, a week earlier than they had expected. He heard her lurch from her bed, and when he opened his eyes she stood over him. “It’s begun,” she said. “Call Catherine for me, would you? I don’t think it will be many hours this time.”
He sat up, put his arms around her bulky body. Candlelight flickered wetly on her dark hair. She cradled his head against her. “Please, after this,” she whispered, “let it be all right.”
How did it come to this? He doesn’t know.
“You’re cold,” he said, “you’re very cold.” He eased her back into her bed, tucked the counterpane around her. Then he went into the drawing room, to put some wood on the embers of the fire.
This was not the place for him now; this was the place for the surgeon and the midwife, for Angélique, for Mme. Gély from upstairs. He spoke to her once more, hovering at the door of the room. Louise Gély sat on the bed, braiding his wife’s hair tightly. He asked her mother in a low voice, was it suitable for the little girl to be here? But Louise heard him and looked up. “Well, M. Danton,” she said, “it is suitable. Or even if it is not, we all have to go through it, and I am fourteen now.”
“And when you are forty,” her mother told her, “it will be time enough for you to be pert. Back to your bed.”
He leaned over Gabrielle, kissed her, squeezed her hand. He stood back to let Louise pass, but she brushed against him, and looked up for a second into his face.
The dawn was late, late and very chill, and his son cried pitifully when he came into the world, with the frost riming the windows, and the icy winds of battle scything the empty streets.
 
 
O
n March 9 the Emperor Leopold died. For a day or two, until the views of the new Emperor became known, peace seemed possible.
“Stock market’s up,” Fabre said.
“Are you interested in the stock market?”
“I dabble, when I have the cash.”
 
 
“I
n the name of God,” said the Queen. “Escape in the carriage of Necker’s daughter? Take refuge in Lafayette’s camp? One could almost laugh.”
“Madame,” said the King, “Madame, they say it is our last chance. My ministers advise me—”
“Your ministers are mad.”
“It could be worse. We are still dealing with gentlemen.”
“It could not be worse,” the Queen said, in frank disbelief.
The King looked at her sadly. “If this administration falls …”
It fell.
 
 
M
arch 21: “So, Dumouriez,” said the King, “you think you can hold a government together?” Nagging in the back of his mind, the thought:
this man was two years in the Bastille. Charles Dumouriez bowed. “Let us not …” the Kind said hurriedly. “I know you are a Jacobin. I know it.” (But who else is there, Madame? Who else?)
“Sire, I am a soldier,” Dumouriez said. “I am fifty-three years old. I have always served Your Majesty faithfully. I am Your Majesty’s truest subject and I …”
“Yes, yes,” said the King.
“ … and I will take the Foreign Office. After all, I know Europe. I have served as Your Majesty’s agent—”
“I don’t query your abilities, General.”
Dumouriez allowed himself a very small sigh. Time was when Louis heard his ministers out. Louis had less and less appetite for the business of state, no relish for the distasteful details; this was the day of the incomplete statement and the quick payoff. If the King and Queen were to be saved, it was a good thing for them not to know too much: or they would reject his help, as they had rejected Lafayette’s.
“For Finance, Clavière,” he said.
“He was a crony of Mirabeau’s.” The King’s face was expressionless; Dumouriez did not know whether it commended the man or not. “For the Interior?”
“This is difficult. The really able men are in the Assembly, and deputies may not be ministers. Give me a day’s grace, if you please.”
The King nodded curtly. Dumouriez bowed. “General …” The unregal voice trailed after him. The dapper little man turned on his heel. “You aren’t against me, are you …?”
“Against Your Majesty? Because I attend at the Jacobins?” He tried to catch Louis’s eye, but Louis had fixed it at some point to the left of his head. “Factions rise and fall. The tradition of loyalty endures.”
“Oh yes,” Louis said absently. “I don’t so much call the Jacobins a faction, more a power …as once we had the church within the state, now we have the club. This man Robespierre, where does he come from?”
“Artois, sire, or so I understand.”
“Yes, but you know, in a deeper sense …where does he come from?” Louis shifted his heavy body uncomfortably in his chair. Of the two men, he looked rather older. “Like you, I recognize you. You are what we call an adventurer. And M. Brissot is a faddist—he is a man who holds all the ideas of his time, just because they are current. And M. Danton I recognize—for he is one of those brutal demagogues we find in our history books. But M. Robespierre … You see, if only I knew what the man wanted. Perhaps I could give it him, and that would be an end of it.” He slumped. “Something of a mystery there, don’t you think?”
General Dumouriez bowed again. Louis did not notice him go.
 
 
A
corridor away, Brissot waited for his favorite general. “You have your government,” Dumouriez told him.
“You seem depressed,” Brissot said sharply. “Something gone wrong?”
“No—just the epithets His Majesty has been hanging on me.”
“He was offensive? He is not in a position to be.”
“I did not say he was offensive.”
Their eyes rested on each other, just for a second. They did not trust each other, even slightly. Then Dumouriez touched Brissot on the shoulder, with a sportive air. “A Jacobin ministry, my dear fellow. Seemed unthinkable, only a short while ago.”
“And on the question of war?”
“I did not press him. But I think I can guarantee you hostilities within the month.”
“There must be war. The greatest possible disaster would be peace. You agree?”
Dumouriez turned his cane about in his fingers. “How not? I’m a soldier. I have my career to think of. Wonderful opportunity for all sorts of things.”
 
 
“T
ry it,” said Vergniaud. “Give the court the fright of its life. Can’t resist the idea.”
“Robespierre—” Brissot called.
Robespierre stopped. “Vergniaud,” he said. “Pétion. Brissot.” Having named them, he seemed satisfied.
“We have a proposal.”
“I know your proposal. You propose to make us slaves again.”
Pétion held up a placating hand. He was a larger, stouter man than when Robespierre had first known him, and satin success had settled in his face.
“I think we need not traffic in the small change of the debating chamber,” Vergniaud suggested. “We could have private talks.”
“I want no private talks.”
“Believe me,” Brissot said, “believe me, Robespierre, we wish you would come with us on the war question. The intolerable meddling in our internal affairs—”
“Why do you think of fighting Austria and England, when your enemy is here at home?”
“You mean there?” With a motion of his head, Vergniaud indicated the direction of the King’s apartments in the Tuileries.
“There, yes—and all around us.”
“With our friends in the ministry,” Pétion said, “we can take care of them.”
“Let me go.” Robespierre pushed past them.
“He is becoming morbidly suspicious,” Pétion said. “I used to be his friend. Not to mince matters, I fear for his sanity.”
“He has a following,” Vergniaud said.
Brissot pursued Robespierre, took him by the elbow. Vergniaud watched them. “A good ratting dog,” he observed.
“Eh?” Pétion said.
Brissot was still at Robespierre’s heels.
“Robespierre, we were speaking of the ministry—we are offering you a situation.”
Robespierre broke away. He pulled down the sleeve of his coat. “I want no situation,” he said somberly. “And there is no situation suitable for me.”
 
 
“F
ourth floor?” said Dumouriez. “Is he poverty-stricken, this Roland, that he lives on the fourth floor?”
“Paris costs money,” Brissot said defensively. His chest heaved.
“Really,” Dumouriez was irritated, “you don’t have to run after me if you can’t stand the pace. I would have waited; I have no intention of going in alone. Now: are you quite sure about this?”
“Proven administrator”—Brissot gasped—“and record of service—and sound attitudes—and wife—great capabilities—utter dedication—to our aims.”
“Yes, I think I followed that,” Dumouriez said. He did not think they had many aims in common.
Manon answered the door herself. She was little disheveled, and she had been very, very bored.
General Dumouriez kissed her hand with an excess of old regime politeness. “Monsieur?” he inquired.
“He is just now sleeping.”
“I think you could put it to Madame,” Brissot suggested.
“And I think not,” Dumouriez muttered. He turned to her. “Be so good as to rouse him. We have a proposition which may be of interest.” He looked around the room. “It would mean your moving house. Perhaps, m’dear, you’d like to pack your china or something?”
 
 
“B
ut no,” Manon said. She looked very young, and on the verge of frustrated tears. “You are teasing me. How can you do this?”
There was a slight abeyance of the grayness on her husband’s face. “I hardly think, my sweet, that M. Brissot would joke about so serious a subject as the composition of the government. The King offers the Ministry of the Interior. We—I—accept.”
 
 
V
ergniaud had also been asleep, in his apartment at Mme. Dodun’s house, No. 5 Place Vendôme. But one got out of bed for Danton. What he knew of Danton compelled his reluctant admiration, but he had one glaring fault—he worked too hard.
“But why this Roland?” Danton said.
“Because there was no one else,” Vergniaud said, listless. He was bored with the subject. He was tired of people asking him who Roland was. “Because he’s pliable. Believed to be discreet. Who would you have us take up? Marat?”
“They call themselves republicans, the Rolands. So do you, I think.”
Vergniaud nodded impassively. Danton studied him. A year under forty, he was not quite tall or broad enough to cut an impressive figure. His pale, heavy face was slightly marked from smallpox, and his large nose seemed to have slight acquaintance with his small, deep-set eyes, as if either feature would just as soon belong in some other face. He was not a man who would be noticed in a crowd; but at the tribune of the Assembly or the Jacobins—his audience silent, the galleries craning—he was a different man. He became handsome, with an assured graceful integrity of smooth voice and commanding body. There he had the presence supposed to belong only to aristocrats; a spark kindled in his brown eyes. “Note that,” Camille said. “That is the spark of self-regard.”
“Oh, but I like to see a man doing what he is good at,” Danton had answered warmly.
Of Brissot’s friends, he decided, this man was much the best. I like you, he thought; but you are lazy. “A republican in the ministry—” he said.
“—is not necessarily a republican minister,” Vergniaud finished. “Well, we shall see.” Carelessly he turned over a few papers on his desk. Danton saw in it a reflection of some slight contempt for the people they spoke of. “You will have to call on them, Danton, if you want to get on in life. Pay your compliments to the lady.” He chuckled at Danton’s expression. “Beginning to think you’re out on a limb? With Robespierre for company? He’d better reconcile himself to war. His popularity has never been lower.”

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