A Place of Greater Safety (64 page)
Read A Place of Greater Safety Online
Authors: Hilary Mantel
“Goodness,” Louise said. “What a legion of admirers you have, Lucile. He’s probably been waiting two years for the chance to do that.”
Lucile took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her neck. It wasn’t my admirers I met this morning, she thought. She wagged a finger and dropped her voice a tone, for her well-rehearsed Rémy imitation: “I just say to them, now boys, stop quarreling over me—liberty, equality, fraternity, remember?”
The Queen’s hairbrush lay where Gabrielle had dropped it, on the drawing-room carpet.
D
anton came home. It was late afternoon. They could hear his voice out in the street. He came home with Fabre the genius of our age, with Legendre the butcher, with Collot d’Herbois much-the-worst-person-in-the-world; with François Robert, with Westermann. He came home with his arms around the shoulders of Legendre and Westermann, unsteady on his feet, unshaven, exhausted, reeking of brandy. “We won!” they shouted. It was a simple chant—as slogans go it was right to the point. He gathered Gabrielle into his arms, hugged her fiercely, protectively; once again she felt her knees give way.
anton came home. It was late afternoon. They could hear his voice out in the street. He came home with Fabre the genius of our age, with Legendre the butcher, with Collot d’Herbois much-the-worst-person-in-the-world; with François Robert, with Westermann. He came home with his arms around the shoulders of Legendre and Westermann, unsteady on his feet, unshaven, exhausted, reeking of brandy. “We won!” they shouted. It was a simple chant—as slogans go it was right to the point. He gathered Gabrielle into his arms, hugged her fiercely, protectively; once again she felt her knees give way.
He propped her into a chair. “She’s had terrible trouble staying upright
at all,” Louise Robert said. Her skin glowed now, beneath the rouge; François was back at her side.
at all,” Louise Robert said. Her skin glowed now, beneath the rouge; François was back at her side.
“Get out, the lot of you!” Danton said. “Haven’t you beds to go to?” He crashed into his own bedroom, threw himself down on his bed. Lucile followed him. She touched the back of his neck, took him by the shoulders. He groaned. “Try me some other time,” he advised. He flopped onto his back, grinning. “Oh, Georges-Jacques, Georges-Jacques,” he said to himself, “life’s just a series of wonderful opportunities. What would Maître Vinot make of you now?”
“Tell me where my husband is.”
“Camille?” His grin broadened. “Camille’s at the Riding School, fixing the next bit of the Life Plan. No, Camille’s not like humans, he doesn’t need sleep.”
“When I last saw him,” she said, “he was in a state of shock.”
“Yes.” The grin faded. His eyelids fluttered closed, then opened again. “That bitch Théroigne slaughtered Suleau within twenty yards of where he stood. You know, we never saw Robespierre all day. Perhaps he was hiding in Duplay’s cellar.” His voice began to trail off. “Suleau was at school with Camille. Small world, so was Max. Camille is a hardworking boy, and will go far. Tomorrow we shall know … .” His eyes closed. “That’s it,” he said.
T
he Assembly had begun its current sitting at 2 a.m. The debate was attended by some inconveniences: drowned out intermittently by gunfire, and thrown into confusion by the arrival of the royal family at about 8:30 in the morning. Only yesterday it had voted to suspend any further discussion on the future of the monarchy, yet it did seem now that the vestiges of the institution had been left behind in the smashed and devastated palace. The Right said that the adjournment of the debate had been the signal for insurrection; the Left said that when the deputies abandoned the issue they also abandoned any claim to be leaders of public opinion.
he Assembly had begun its current sitting at 2 a.m. The debate was attended by some inconveniences: drowned out intermittently by gunfire, and thrown into confusion by the arrival of the royal family at about 8:30 in the morning. Only yesterday it had voted to suspend any further discussion on the future of the monarchy, yet it did seem now that the vestiges of the institution had been left behind in the smashed and devastated palace. The Right said that the adjournment of the debate had been the signal for insurrection; the Left said that when the deputies abandoned the issue they also abandoned any claim to be leaders of public opinion.
The King’s family and a few of their friends were squashed into a reporters’ box which looked down on the deputies from behind the President’s dais. From mid-afternoon onwards, a constant procession of petitioners and delegates jostled through the corridors and overflowed the debating chamber. The rumors from outside were frightful and bizarre. All the bolsters and mattresses in the palace had been slashed, and the air was thick with flying feathers. Prostitutes were plying their trade on the Queen’s bed: though how this fitted with the earlier story, no one
could say. A man had been seen playing the violin over the corpse of someone whose throat he had cut. A hundred people had been stabbed and clubbed to death in the rue de l‘Échelle. A cook had been cooked. The servants were being dragged from under beds and up chimneys and tossed out of windows to be impaled on pikes. Fires had been started, and there were the usual dubious reports of cannibalism.
could say. A man had been seen playing the violin over the corpse of someone whose throat he had cut. A hundred people had been stabbed and clubbed to death in the rue de l‘Échelle. A cook had been cooked. The servants were being dragged from under beds and up chimneys and tossed out of windows to be impaled on pikes. Fires had been started, and there were the usual dubious reports of cannibalism.
Vergniaud, the current president of the Assembly, had long ago given up trying to distinguish truth from fantasy. Below him, on the floor of the House, he counted rather more invaders than deputies. Every few minutes the doors would burst open to admit begrimed and weary men staggering under the weight of what, if it had not been brought straight to the Riding School, would have been loot. Really, Vergniaud thought, it was going too far to place inlaid night-stools and complete sets of Molière at the feet of the Nation. The place had begun to resemble an auction room. Vergniaud tried unobtrusively to loosen his cravat.
In the cramped, airless reporters’ box, the royal children were falling asleep. The King, who believed in keeping his strength up, was gnawing at the leg of a capon. From time to time he wiped his fingers on his sad purple coat. On the benches below him a deputy put his head in his hands. “Went out for a piss,” he said. “Camille Desmoulins ambushed me. Pushed me against the wall, made me support Danton for Pope. Or something. Seems Danton might stand for God, they haven’t decided yet, but I’m told I’d better vote for him or else I might wake up with my throat cut.”
A few benches away, Brissot conferred with ex-minister Roland. M. Roland was yellower in the face than he used to be; he hugged his dusty hat to his chest, as if it were his last line of defense.
“The Assembly must be dissolved,” Brissot said, “there will have to be fresh elections. Before this session breaks up, we must nominate a new cabinet, a new Council of Ministers. Yes, now, we must do it now—someone must govern the country. You will return to your post as Minister of the Interior.”
“Really? And Servan, Clavière?”
“Yes, indeed,” Brissot said. He thought, this is what I was born to do: shape governments. “Back to the situation as it was in June, except that you won’t have the royal veto to hamper you. And you’ll have Danton for a colleague.”
Roland sighed. “Manon won’t like this.”
“She must make her mind up to it.”
“Which ministry do we want Danton to have?”
“It hardly matters,” Brissot said bleakly, “as long as he has the whip hand.”
“Has it come to that?”
“If you’d been on the streets today, you couldn’t doubt it.”
“Why, have you been on the streets?” Roland rather doubted that.
“I’m informed,” Brissot said. “Very fully informed. I’m told he’s their man. They’re yelling their throats out for him. What do you think of that?”
“I wonder,” Roland said, “whether this is a proper beginning for the republic. Shall we be chivvied by the rabble?”
“Where is Vergniaud going?” Brissot asked.
The president had signaled for his substitute. “Please make way for me,” he was asking pleasantly.
Brissot followed Vergniaud with his eyes. It was entirely possible that alliances, factions, pacts would be proposed, framed, broken—and, if he were not everywhere, party to every conversation—the dreadful possibility arose that he might forfeit his status as the best-informed man in France.
“Danton is a complete crook,” Roland said. “Perhaps we should ask him to take over as Minister of Justice?”
By the door Vergniaud, faced with Camille, had been unable to get into his proper oratorical sweep and stride. One quite sees, he said, and one does appreciate, and one fully understands. For the first time in his three-minute tirade, Camille faltered. “Tell me, Vergniaud,” he said, “am I beginning to repeat myself?”
Vergniaud released his indrawn breath. “A little. But really what you have to say is all so fresh and interesting. Finish what you’ve started, you say. In what way?”
Camille made a sweeping gesture, encompassing both the Riding School and the howling streets outside. “I don’t understand why the King isn’t dead. Plenty of better people are dead. And these superfluous deputies? The royalists they’ve crammed into the prisons?”
“But you can’t kill them all.” The orator’s voice shook.
“We do have the capacity.”
“I said ‘can’t’ but I meant ’ought not to.’ Danton wouldn’t require a superfluity of deaths.”
“Would he not? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for hours. I think he arranged for the Capet family to be brought out of the palace.”
“Yes,” Vergniaud said. “That seems a reasonable supposition. Now, why do you think he did that?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s a humanitarian.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“I’m not even sure if I’m awake.”
“I think you should go home, Camille. You are saying all the wrong things.”
“Am I? You are kind. If you were saying the wrong things I’d be, you know, making mental notes.”
“No,” Vergniaud said reassuringly. “You wouldn’t.”
“Yes,” Camille insisted. “We don’t trust you.”
“So I see. But I doubt you need spend anymore energy frightening people. Did you not think that we might want Danton anyway? Not because of what he might do if he were denied power—which I am sure would be quite as distasteful as you imply—but because of a belief that he’s the only man who can save the country?”
“No,” Camille said. “That never occurred to me.”
“Don’t you believe it?”
“Yes, but I’ve got used to believing it by myself. It’s been such a long time. And the greatest obstacle has been Danton himself.”
“What is he expecting?”
“He isn’t expecting anything. He’s asleep.”
“Now listen. I intend to address the Assembly. It would be an advantage if the rabble were removed.”
“They were the sovereign people until they put you into power this afternoon. Now they’re the rabble.”
“There are petitioners here asking for the suspension of the Monarchy. The Assembly will decree it. And the calling of a National Convention, to draw up a constitution for the republic. I think now you can go and get some sleep.”
“No, not until I hear it for myself. If I went away now everything might fall apart.”
“Life takes on a persecutory aspect,” Vergniaud murmured. “Let us try to remain rational.”
“It isn’t rational.”
“It will be,” Vergniaud said smoothly. “My colleagues intend to remove government from the sphere of chance and prejudice and make it into a reasoned process.”
Camille shook his head.
“I assure you,” Vergniaud said. He broke off. “There’s a horrible smell. What is it?”
“I think—” Camille hesitated—“I think they’re burning the bodies.”
“Long live the republic,” Vergniaud said. He began to walk towards the president’s dais.
Terror is nothing other than justice, prompt, stern and inflexible; it is not so much a particular principle as a consequence of the general principle of democracy applied to the most urgent needs of our country … . The government of the Revolution is the despotism of liberty against the tyrants.
MAXIMILIEN ROBESPIERRE
I
n a word, during these reigns, the natural death of a famous man was so rare that it was gazetted as an event and handed down to posterity by the historians. Under one consulate, says the annalist, there was a Pontiff called Pisonius, who died in his bed; this was regarded as a marvel.
n a word, during these reigns, the natural death of a famous man was so rare that it was gazetted as an event and handed down to posterity by the historians. Under one consulate, says the annalist, there was a Pontiff called Pisonius, who died in his bed; this was regarded as a marvel.
CAMILLE DESMOULINS
Conspirators
“F
ather-in-law!” Camille gives a cry of delight. He points to Claude. “You see,” he invites the company, “never throw anything away. Any object, however outworn and old-fashioned, may prove to have its uses. Now, Citizen Duplessis, tell me, in short simple sentences, or verse, or comic song, how to run a ministry.”
ather-in-law!” Camille gives a cry of delight. He points to Claude. “You see,” he invites the company, “never throw anything away. Any object, however outworn and old-fashioned, may prove to have its uses. Now, Citizen Duplessis, tell me, in short simple sentences, or verse, or comic song, how to run a ministry.”
“This is beyond my nightmares,” Claude says.
“Oh, they haven’t given me my own ministry—not quite yet—there will have to be a few more catastrophes before that happens. The news is this—Danton is Minister of Justice and Keeper of the Seals, and Fabre and I are his secretaries.”
“An actor.” Claude says. “And you. I do not like Danton. But I am sorry for him.”
“Danton is leader of the Provisional Government, so I must try to run the ministry for him, Fabre will not bother. Oh, I must write and tell my father, give me some paper quick. No, wait, I’ll write to him from the ministry, I’ll sit behind my big desk and send it under seal.”
“Claude,” Annette says, “where are your manners? Say congratulations.”
Claude shudders. “One point. A technicality. The Minister of Justice is also Keeper of the Seals, but he is only one person. He has always had the one secretary. Always.”
“Cheeseparing!” Camille says. “Georges-Jacques is above it! We shall be moving to the Place Vendôme! We shall be living in a palace!”
“Dear Father, don’t take it so badly,” Lucile begs.
“No, you don’t understand,” Claude tells her. “He has arrived now, he is the Establishment. Anyone who wants to make a revolution has to make it against him.”
Claude’s sense of dislocation is more acute than on the day the Bastille fell. So is Camille’s, when he thinks about what Claude has said. “No, that’s not true at all. There are plenty of good battles ahead. There’s Brissot’s people.”
“You like a good battle, don’t you?” Claude says. Briefly, he imagines an alternative world; into café conversation he drops the phrase “my son-in-law, the secretary.” The reality is, however, that his life has been wasted; thirty years of diligence have never made him intimate with a secretary, but now he is forced into intimacy by his mad womenfolk and the way they have decided to run their lives. Look at them all, rushing to give the secretary a kiss. He could, he supposes, cross the room and pat the secretary on the head; has he not seen the secretary sit, neck bent, while the minister-elect, discoursing on some patriotic theme, runs distrait strangler’s fingers through his curls? Will the minister do this in front of his civil servants? Claude takes an easy decision against any such display of affection. He glares at his son-in-law. Look at him—couldn’t you just commit violence? There he sits, lashes lowered, eyes on the carpet. What is he thinking? Is it anything a secretary should be thinking, at all?
Camille regards the carpet, but imagines Guise. The letter that he means to write is, in his mind, already written. Invisible, he floats across the Place des Armes. He melts through the closed front door of the narrow white house. He insinuates his presence into his father’s study. There, on the desk, lies the
Encyclopedia of Law
; by now, surely, we are in the lower reaches of the alphabet?
Encyclopedia of Law
; by now, surely, we are in the lower reaches of the alphabet?
Yes, indeed—this is Vol. VI. On top of it lies a letter from Paris. In whose handwriting? In his own! In the handwriting his publishers complain of, in his own inimitable script! The door opens. In comes his father. How does he look? He looks as when Camille last saw him: he looks spare, gray, severe and remote.
He sees the letter. But wait, stop—how did it get there, how did it come to be lying on top of the
Encyclopedia of Law
? Implausible, this—unless he is to imagine a whole scene of the letter’s arrival, his mother or Clement or whoever carrying it up and managing not to slide their fingers and eyes into it.
Encyclopedia of Law
? Implausible, this—unless he is to imagine a whole scene of the letter’s arrival, his mother or Clement or whoever carrying it up and managing not to slide their fingers and eyes into it.
All right, start again.
Jean-Nicolas climbs the stairs. Camille (in ghost form) drifts up behind him. Jean-Nicolas has a letter in his hand. He peers at it; it is the familiar, semi-legible handwriting of his eldest son.
Does he want to read it? No—not especially. But the rest of the household is calling up the stairs, what’s the news from Paris?
He unfolds it. With a little difficulty, he reads—but he will not mind the difficulty, when he comes to the news his son has to impart.
Amazement, glory! My son’s best friend (well, one of his two best friends) is made a Minister! My son is to be his secretary! He is to live in a palace!
Jean-Nicolas clasps the letter to his shirt front—an inch above his waistcoat, and to the left, above his heart. We have misjudged the boy! After all, he was a genius! I will run at once, tell everyone in town—they will be sick with spleen, they will look green, and puke with unadorned jealousy. Rose-Fleur’s father will be ill with grief. Just think, she might now be the secretary’s wife.
But no, no, Camille thinks—this is not at all how it will be. Will Jean-Nicolas seize his pen, dash off his congratulations? Will he toss his hat upon his severe gray locks, and dash out to waylay the neighbors? The hell he will. He’ll stare at the letter—going, oh no, oh no! He’ll think, what unimaginable form of behavior has procured this favor for my son? And pride? He’ll not feel pride. He’ll just feel suspicious, aggrieved. He’ll get a vague nagging pain in his lower back, and take to his bed.
“Camille, what are you thinking?” Lucile says.
Camille looks up. “I was thinking there’s no pleasing some people.”
The women give Claude poison-dart glances, and gather around and adore Camille.
“I
f I had failed,” Danton said, “I would have been treated as a criminal.”
f I had failed,” Danton said, “I would have been treated as a criminal.”
It was twelve hours since Camille and Fabre had woken him up and told him to take charge of the nation. Dragged out of a disjointed dream of rooms and rooms, of doors and doors opening into other rooms, he had clutched Camille in incoherent gratitude—though perhaps it wasn’t the thing, perhaps a touch of
nolo episcopari
was in order? A touch of humility in the face of destiny? No—he was too tired to pretend reluctance. He commanded France, and this was a natural thing.
nolo episcopari
was in order? A touch of humility in the face of destiny? No—he was too tired to pretend reluctance. He commanded France, and this was a natural thing.
Across the river the urgent problem was the disposal of the bodies, both living and dead, of the Swiss Guard. Fires still smoked in the gutted palace.
“Keep the Seals?” Gabrielle had said. “Do you now what you’re doing? Camille couldn’t keep two white rabbits in a coop.”
Here Robespierre sat, very new, as if he had been taken out of a box and placed unruffled in a velvet armchair in Danton’s apartment. Danton
called out to admit no one—“no one but my Secretaries of State”—and prepared to defer to the opinions of this necessary man.
called out to admit no one—“no one but my Secretaries of State”—and prepared to defer to the opinions of this necessary man.
“I hope you’ll help me out?” he said.
“Of course I will, Georges-Jacques.”
Very serious, Robespierre, very attentive; superlatively himself this morning when everyone should have woken up different. “Good,” Georges-Jacques said. “So you’ll take a post at the ministry?”
“Sorry. I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t? I need you. Very well, you’ve got the Jacobins to run, you’ve a seat on the new Commune, but we’ve all got to—” The new minister broke off, and made a consolidating, squeezing gesture with his huge fists.
“If you want a Head of Civil Service, François Robert would do the job very well for you.”
“I’m sure he would.” Did you imagine, Danton thought, that I wanted to make you into a functionary? Of course I didn’t; I wanted to attach you in some highly paid but highly unofficial capacity, as my political adviser, my third eye, my third ear. So what’s the problem? Perhaps you are one of those people who’s made for opposition, not for government. Is that it? Or is it that you don’t want to work under me?
Robespierre looked up; light eyes, just touching his would-be master’s. “Let me off?” He smiled.
“As you wish.” So often he’s aware, these days, of his pseudo-refined barrister’s drawl, of the expressions that go with it; and of his other voice, his street voice, just as much the product of cultivation. Robespierre has only one voice, rather flat, unemphatic, ordinary; he’s never in his life seen the need to pretend. “But now, at the Commune, you’ll be taking hold of things there?” He tried to soften the tone to one of suggestion. “Fabre is a member, you should consider him at your orders.”
Robespierre seemed amused. “I’m not sure I’ve your taste for giving them.”
“Your first problem is the Capet family. Where are you going to keep them?”
Robespierre inspected his fingernails. “There was some suggestion that they should be kept under guard at the Minister of Justice’s palace.”
“Oh yes? And I suppose they’ll give me some attic, or perhaps a broom cupboard, to transact affairs of state from?”
“I said you wouldn’t like it.” Robespierre seemed interested to have his suspicions confirmed.
“They should be shut up in the old Temple tower.”
“Yes, that’s the view of the Commune. It’s a bit grim for the children,
after what they’ve been used to.” Maximilien, Danton thought, were you once a child? “I’m told they’ll be made comfortable. They’ll be able to walk in the gardens. Perhaps the children would like to have a little dog they could take out?”
after what they’ve been used to.” Maximilien, Danton thought, were you once a child? “I’m told they’ll be made comfortable. They’ll be able to walk in the gardens. Perhaps the children would like to have a little dog they could take out?”
“Don’t ask me what they’d like,” Danton said. “How the hell would I know? Anyway, there are more pressing matters than the Capets. We have to put the city on a war footing. We have to take search powers, requisition powers. We have to round up any royalists who are still armed. The prisons are filling up.”
“That’s inevitable. The people who opposed us, this last week—we now define them as criminals, I suppose? They must have some status, we must define them somehow. And if they are defendants, we must offer them a trial—but it is rather puzzling this, because I am not sure what the crime would be.”
“The crime is being left behind by events,” Danton said. “And, of course, I am not some jurisprudential simpleton, I see that the ordinary courts will not do. I favor a special tribunal. You’ll sit as a judge? We’ll settle it later today. Now, we have to let the provinces know what’s happening. Any thoughts?”
“The Jacobins want to issue an agreed—”
“Version?”
“Is that your choice of word? Of course … People need to know what has happened. Camille will write it. The club will publish and distribute it to the nation.”
“Camille is good at versions,” Danton said.
“And then we must think ahead to the new elections. As things stand I don’t see how we can stop Brissot’s people being returned.”
His tone made Danton look up. “You don’t think we can work with them?”
“I think it would be criminal to try. Look, Danton, you must see where their policies tend. They are for the provinces and against Paris—they are federalists. They want to split the nation into little parts. If that happens, if they get their way, what chance have the French people against the rest of Europe?”
“A greatly reduced chance. None.”
“Just so. Therefore their policies tend to the destruction of the nation. They are treasonable. They conduce to the success of the enemy. Perhaps—who knows—perhaps the enemy has inspired them?”
Danton raised a finger. “Stop there. You’re saying, first they start a war, then they make sure we lose it? If you want me to believe that Pétion and Brissot and Vergniaud are agents of the Austrians, you’ll have
to bring me proper proofs, legal proofs.” And even then, he thought, I won’t believe you.
to bring me proper proofs, legal proofs.” And even then, he thought, I won’t believe you.
“I’ll do my best,” Robespierre said: earnest schoolboy, pitting himself at the task. “Meanwhile, what are we going to do about the Duke?”
“Poor old Philippe,” Danton said. “He deserves something, after all his hard work. I think we should encourage the Parisians to elect him to the new Assembly.”
“National Convention,” Robespierre corrected. “Well, if we must.”
“And then there’s Marat.”
“What does he want?”
“Oh, he doesn’t ask anything, not for himself—I simply mean that he’s someone we must come to terms with. He has an enormous following among the people.”
“I accept that,” Robespierre said.
“You will have him with you at the Commune.”
“And the Convention? People will say Marat’s too extreme, Camille, too—but we must have them.”
“Extreme?” Danton said. “The times are extreme. Armies are extreme. This is a crisis point.”
“I don’t doubt it. God is with us. We have that comfort.”
Danton rolled around in his mind this astonishing statement. “Unfortunately,” he said at last, “God has not yet furnished us with any pikes.”
Robespierre turned his face away. It is like playing with a hedgehog, Danton thought, you just touch its nose and in it goes and all you’ve got to negotiate with is spikes. “I didn’t want this war,” Robespierre said.
“Unfortunately, we’ve got it, and we can’t keep insisting it belongs to somebody else.”
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