A Place of Greater Safety (58 page)
Read A Place of Greater Safety Online
Authors: Hilary Mantel
“Did they hurt you?”
“Oh no. Nothing like that. They were polite, they were … tender. Each day they brought me food, they asked me what I’d like to eat.”
“But what did they want from you, Anne?” She wanted to add, “because you aren’t important.”
“They said I organized the October days, and they wanted to know who paid me to do it. They said I rode to Versailles astride a cannon, and that I led the women into the palace and that I had a sword in my hand. It’s not true, you know. I was there already, in Versailles. I’d rented a room, so I could go to the National Assembly every day and listen to the debates. Yes, I went out and talked to the women, I talked to the National Guard. But when they broke into the palace I was in my bed, asleep.”
“I suppose someone could testify to that,” Lucile said. Théroigne stared at her, uncomprehending. “Never mind,” Lucile said. “I was making a joke. The thing is, Anne—you must have realized by now—since the Bastille fell, it doesn’t matter what you actually did, it’s what people say you did. You can’t pick the past apart in this way, it doesn’t avail you. Once you start to live in the public eye people attribute actions and words to you, and you have to live with that. If they say you rode astride a cannon, then I’m afraid you did.”
Théroigne looked up at her. “Did I? I did.”
“No, I mean—” Oh, curse God, Lucile thought, she’s not very bright, is she? “No, you
didn’t
—oh, can’t you understand?”
didn’t
—oh, can’t you understand?”
Théroigne shook her head. “They asked me about the Jacobin Club. Asked who was paid to say what. I don’t know anything about the Jacobins. But there it is. They didn’t like my answers.”
“Some of us thought, you know, that we would never see you again.”
“People say that I ought to write a book about it. But I’ve no education, Lucile, I could no more write a book than I could land on the moon. Do you think Camille would write it for me?”
“Why did the Austrians let you go, Anne?”
“They took me to Vienna. I saw the chancellor, the Emperor’s chief minister, in his private rooms.”
“Yes, but you are not answering my question.”
“Then they took me back to Liege. To where I was born. I thought I was used to traveling, but they were hell, these journeys—oh, they tried to be kind to me, but I wanted to lie by the roadside and die. When
we got to Liege they gave me some money, they said I could go where I liked. I said, even Paris? They said, yes, of course.”
we got to Liege they gave me some money, they said I could go where I liked. I said, even Paris? They said, yes, of course.”
“We knew this,” Lucile said. “It was reported in
Le Moniteur
, last December. We kept the paper, I have it somewhere. We said, ‘So, she’s on her way home.’ We were surprised. There were rumors, from time to time, that the Austrians had hanged you. But instead of that, they let you go, gave you money, didn’t they? Do you wonder Camille keeps away from you now?”
Le Moniteur
, last December. We kept the paper, I have it somewhere. We said, ‘So, she’s on her way home.’ We were surprised. There were rumors, from time to time, that the Austrians had hanged you. But instead of that, they let you go, gave you money, didn’t they? Do you wonder Camille keeps away from you now?”
A good lawyer, she has closed her case. And yet it is hard to believe that—as everyone thinks but doesn’t say—the girl has agreed to act as a spy. Take away the firearms, strip the scarlet away, and she seems harmless, hopeless, not even quite sane. “Anne,” she said. “You ought to think of getting out of Paris. Somewhere quiet. Till you get your health back.”
Théroigne looked up at her quickly. “You forget, Lucile. I once let the journalists drive me out, I let Louis Suleau kick me out of Paris. Then what happened? I had a room at an inn, Lucile, miles from anywhere, the birds singing, just what you need to recuperate. I ate well, and I slept so soundly, those nights. Then one night I woke up, and there were men in my room, and they were men I didn’t know, and they dragged me out, into the dark.”
“I think you should go now,” Lucile said. Fear touched the base of her throat; fear touched the pit of her stomach, and laid its cold finger on her child.
“L
afayette is in Paris,” Fabre said.
afayette is in Paris,” Fabre said.
“So I hear.”
“You knew, Danton?”
“I know everything, Fabre.”
“So when are you going to tear him in little pieces?”
“Restrain yourself, Fabre.”
“But you said—”
“A bit of bombast has its uses. It encourages others. I am thinking of visiting my in-laws in Fontenay for a day or two.”
“I see.”
“The general has plans. For marching on the Jacobins, closing them down. Reprisals for June 20. He hopes to carry the National Guard with him. In the event, no one can prove that I had anything to do with June 20—”
“Mm,” Camille said.
“—but I prefer to avoid inconvenience. It will come to nothing.”
“But surely this is serious.”
Danton was patient. “It isn’t serious, as we know his plans.”
“How
do
we know?”
do
we know?”
“Pétion told me.”
“Who told Pétion?”
“Antoinette.”
“Dear God.”
“Yes, stupid, aren’t they? When Lafayette is the only person still willing to do anything for them. It makes you wonder about the wisdom of dealing with them at all.”
Camille looked up. “Dealing with them?”
“Dealing with them, child. Grabbing what you can.”
“You don’t mean it. You don’t
deal
with them.”
deal
with them.”
“Fabre, do I mean it?”
“Yes, you mean it.”
“Now, does it worry you, Fabre?”
“Not in the sense of having scruples. I think it frightens me. Worrying about the possible complications.”
“Not in the sense of having scruples,” Danton repeated. “Frightens him. Scruples. What a beautiful concept. Mention this conversation to Robespierre, Camille, and I’m finished with you. My God,” he said. He went away, shaking his head vigorously.
“Mention what?” Camille said.
L
afayette’s plan: a grand review of the National Guard, at which the general will inspect the troops and the King himself will be present to take the salute. The King will withdraw, Lafayette will harangue the battalions; for is he not their first, most glorious commander, does he not have the natural authority to take control again? Then in the name of the constitution, in the name of the monarchy, in the name of public order, General Lafayette will proceed to put the capital to rights. Not that he has the King’s enthusiastic backing; for Louis is afraid of failure, afraid of the consequences of it, and the Queen says coldly that she would rather be murdered than be saved by Lafayette.
afayette’s plan: a grand review of the National Guard, at which the general will inspect the troops and the King himself will be present to take the salute. The King will withdraw, Lafayette will harangue the battalions; for is he not their first, most glorious commander, does he not have the natural authority to take control again? Then in the name of the constitution, in the name of the monarchy, in the name of public order, General Lafayette will proceed to put the capital to rights. Not that he has the King’s enthusiastic backing; for Louis is afraid of failure, afraid of the consequences of it, and the Queen says coldly that she would rather be murdered than be saved by Lafayette.
Pétion can move quickly, when he likes. An hour before the review is due to begin, he simply cancels it: leaving the arrangements to cannon into each other, and relying on natural confusion to undo any larger schemes. The general is left to trail through the streets with his aides, cheered on by patriots of the old-fashioned sort. He is left to assess his
situation; to take the road out of Paris to his army command on the frontier. At the Jacobins, Deputy Couthon is wheeled to the tribune, to denounce the general as a “great scoundrel”; Maximilien Robespierre calls him “an enemy of the Fatherland”; Messieurs Brissot and Desmoulins vie with each other in heaping the hero with abuse. The Cordeliers come back from the short holiday many of them had found it wise to take, and burn the general in effigy, coining slogans for the future above the cracking and spitting of the uniformed doll.
situation; to take the road out of Paris to his army command on the frontier. At the Jacobins, Deputy Couthon is wheeled to the tribune, to denounce the general as a “great scoundrel”; Maximilien Robespierre calls him “an enemy of the Fatherland”; Messieurs Brissot and Desmoulins vie with each other in heaping the hero with abuse. The Cordeliers come back from the short holiday many of them had found it wise to take, and burn the general in effigy, coining slogans for the future above the cracking and spitting of the uniformed doll.
A
nnette said, “If she survives this, will you be good?” July morning, sunshine, a fresh breeze. Camille looked out of the window, saw the rue des Cordeliers, his neighbors busying about, life going on in its achingly usual way; heard the printing presses at work in the Cour du Commerce, saw women stopping to chat on the corner, tried hard to imagine any other kind of life or any kind of death. “I’ve stopped striking bargains with God,” he said. “So don’t you try to wring a bargain from me, Annette.”
nnette said, “If she survives this, will you be good?” July morning, sunshine, a fresh breeze. Camille looked out of the window, saw the rue des Cordeliers, his neighbors busying about, life going on in its achingly usual way; heard the printing presses at work in the Cour du Commerce, saw women stopping to chat on the corner, tried hard to imagine any other kind of life or any kind of death. “I’ve stopped striking bargains with God,” he said. “So don’t you try to wring a bargain from me, Annette.”
He looked, Annette thought, utterly wretched; pale, shaky, quite unable to come to terms with the fact that his wife must give birth and that it was going to hurt her. It’s remarkable, really, how many quite ordinary things Camille can’t or won’t come to terms with. I’ll put the knife in just a bit, Annette thought, just as inch or two; not often that you have him at a disadvantage these days. “You’re just playing at marriage,” she said. “Both of you. This is the bit that isn’t a game.” She waited.
“I would die,” Camille said, “if anything happened to her.”
“Yes.” Annette got up wearily from her chair. She had gone to bed at midnight, but been roused at two o’clock. “Yes, I almost believe you would.”
She would go back to her daughter now. Lucile was still quite cheerful; that was because she didn’t know how bad it was going to get. She thought, could I have saved her from this? Of course she could. She could have followed her inclinations seven years ago; in that case, she would now be remembered by Camille, if he ever thought of her at all, as just a woman in his past, a woman he’d had to work extra hard for; and he would no longer be part of her life, he would be someone she read about in the newspapers. Instead, she had clung to her precious virtue, her daughter was married to the Lanteme Attorney and was now in labor, and she was observing daily—shuttling between the rue Condé and the rue des Cordeliers—the sort of sickeningly destructive love affair
that you only read about in books. Of course, people could call it different things, but she called it a love affair. And she thought she had lived long enough to know what she was talking about.
that you only read about in books. Of course, people could call it different things, but she called it a love affair. And she thought she had lived long enough to know what she was talking about.
“We must have you out of here,” she said. “Go for a walk. Get some fresh air. Why don’t you go and see Max? He’s full of reassuring good sense and homely wisdom.”
“Mm.” Camille looked ill with tension. “Bachelors always are. Send to me immediately, won’t you? The very minute?”
“A
nnette said I must go away, she said I disseminated panic. I hope you don’t mind my arriving at this hour.”
nnette said I must go away, she said I disseminated panic. I hope you don’t mind my arriving at this hour.”
“I expected it,” Robespierre said. “We should be together, you and me. I have to go and get the day under way, but I’ll be back in an hour or two. The family will look after you. Would you like to go down and talk to one of the girls?”
“Oh no,” Camille said. “I’ve given up talking to girls. Look what it leads to.”
It was hard for Robespierre to smile. He reached forward and squeezed Camille’s hand. Odd, that; he usually avoided touching people. Camille divined that some kind of psychic emergency was taking place. “Max,” he said, “you’re almost in a worse state than I am. If I am disseminating panic, you are communicating disaster.”
“It will be all right,” Robespierre said, in a tone deeply unconvinced. “Yes, yes, it will be, I feel it. She’s a healthy girl, she’s strong, there’s no reason to believe, is there, that anything could go wrong?”
“Desperate, isn’t it?” Camille said. “Can’t even
pray
for her.”
pray
for her.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I don’t believe God listens to those sorts of prayers. They’re selfserving, aren’t they?”
“God accepts all kinds of prayers.”
They looked at each other, vaguely alarmed. “We are here under Providence,” Robespierre said. “I am sure of that.”
“I couldn’t say that I’m sure of it. Though I do find the idea consoling.”
“But if we are not under Providence, what is everything for?” Robespierre now looked wildly alarmed. “What is the Revolution for?”
For Georges-Jacques to make money out of, Camille thought. Robespierre answered himself. “Surely it is to bring us to the kind of society that God intends? To bring us to justice and equality, to full humanity?”
Oh good heavens, Camille thought. This Max, he believes every word he says. “I wouldn’t presume to know what kind of society God intends.
It sounds to me as if you’ve gone to a tailor to order your God. Or had him knitted, or something.”
It sounds to me as if you’ve gone to a tailor to order your God. Or had him knitted, or something.”
“A knitted God.” Robespierre shook his head, amazed. “Camille, you are a fount of original notions.” He put his hands on Camille’s shoulders. In a cautious way, they hugged each other. “Under Providence, we shall go on being silly,” Robespierre said. “I will be back in two hours, and then I will sit with you and we will discuss theology and whatever else will while away the time. If
anything happens
, get a message to me.”
anything happens
, get a message to me.”
Camille was left alone. Conversations do take the most amazing turn, he thought. He looked around Robespierre’s room. It was plain, quite small, with an insomniac’s hard bed and a plain whitewood table that served as Robespierre’s very tidy desk. There was only one book on it—a small copy of Rousseau’s
Social Contract
—and he recognized it as the one that Robespierre always carried with him, in the inside pocket of his coat. Today he had forgotten it. His routine was broken; he had been overset.
Social Contract
—and he recognized it as the one that Robespierre always carried with him, in the inside pocket of his coat. Today he had forgotten it. His routine was broken; he had been overset.
He picked up the book and looked at it closely. It had some special magic, which had communicated itself to Robespierre; this volume and no other will do. An idea struck him. He flourished the book before an imaginary audience. He said, In Robespierre’s Artesian accent: “Victim of an assassin’s musket ball, this copy of the
Social Contract
saved my life. Remark, fellow patriots, how the fatal bullet was deflected by the immortal cheap cloth binding of the immortal words of the immortal Jean-Jacques. Under Providence—” He was going to go on to speak about the plots that menaced the nation, plots, plots, plots, plots, plots, but he felt suddenly weak and jittery and knew that he ought to sit down. He pulled up to the table a straw-bottomed chair. It was exactly like the chair he had stood on when he spoke to the mob at the Palais-Royal. I don’t think I could live with such a chair, he thought. It frightens me too much.
Social Contract
saved my life. Remark, fellow patriots, how the fatal bullet was deflected by the immortal cheap cloth binding of the immortal words of the immortal Jean-Jacques. Under Providence—” He was going to go on to speak about the plots that menaced the nation, plots, plots, plots, plots, plots, but he felt suddenly weak and jittery and knew that he ought to sit down. He pulled up to the table a straw-bottomed chair. It was exactly like the chair he had stood on when he spoke to the mob at the Palais-Royal. I don’t think I could live with such a chair, he thought. It frightens me too much.
Other books
The Italian Mission by Champorcher, Alan
Princess Posey and the Next-Door Dog by Stephanie Greene
Just a Kiss by Denise Hunter
Junglecat Honeymoon: Manhattan Ten, Book 3.5 by Lola Dodge
The Perfect World (The Perfect World Series Book 1) by Gerard, Katalina
Dead Man Waltzing by Ella Barrick
Merlyn's Magic by Carole Mortimer
Gently Sinking by Alan Hunter
What Mad Pursuit by Francis Crick