A Place of Greater Safety (85 page)
Read A Place of Greater Safety Online
Authors: Hilary Mantel
COUR DU COMMERCE:
GÉLY: Have pity on us, Monsieur.
DANTON: Pity? What do you want pity for? Personally I’d have thought it was a stroke of good luck for you.
GÉLY: We have only one child.
MME.
LY: He wants to kill her like he killed his first wife.
LY: He wants to kill her like he killed his first wife.GÉLY: Be quiet.
DANTON: Oh, let her say it. Let her get it out of her system.
GÉLY: We don’t understand why you want her.
DANTON: I have a certain feeling for her.
MME. GÉLY: You might at least have the grace to say you love her.
DANTON: It seems to me that’s something you find out about a few years on.
GÉLY: There are more suitable people.
DANTON: That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?
GÉLY: She’s fifteen.
DANTON: I’m thirty-three. Marriages like that are made every day.
GÉLY: We thought you were older than that.
DANTON: She’s not marrying me for my looks.
GÉLY: Why not a widow, someone experienced?
DANTON: Experienced in what? You know, if you think I have this gigantic sexual appetite, it’s just a myth I put about, I’m quite normal really.
MME. GÉLY: Please.
DANTON: Perhaps after all you should send this female out of the room.
GÉLY: I meant experienced in bringing up a family.
DANTON: The children are attached to her. As she is, to them. Ask her. Also, I don’t want a middle-aged woman, I want more children. She knows how to run a household. My wife taught her.
GÉLY: But you entertain, you receive important visitors. She wouldn’t know about all that.
DANTON: Anything I decide on is good enough for them.
MME. GÉLY: You are the most arrogant person alive. It’s beyond belief.
DANTON: Well, if you do feel so sorry for my friends, you can always come down and advise her. If you feel qualified. Look, she can have an army of servants if she wants. We can move to a bigger place, that might be a good thing all round, I don’t know why I stay here, habit I suppose. I’m a rich man. All she has to do is to say what she wants
and she can have it. Her children will inherit from me equally with the children of my first marriage.
and she can have it. Her children will inherit from me equally with the children of my first marriage.
GÉLY: She isn’t for sale.
DANTON: She can have a bloody private chapel and a priest of her own, if she wants. As long as he’s a priest loyal to the constitution.
LOUISE: Monsieur, I’m not marrying you in a civil ceremony. I may as well tell you that now.
DANTON: I beg your pardon, my love?
LOUISE: What I mean is, all right, I’ll go through that silly business at City Hall. But there must be a real marriage, too, with a real priest who hasn’t taken the oath.
DANTON: Why?
LOUISE: It wouldn’t be a proper marriage otherwise. We’d be living in a state of sin, and our children would be illegitimate.
DANTON: Little fool—don’t you know God’s a revolutionary?
LOUISE: A proper priest.
DANTON: Do you know what you’re asking?
LOUISE: Or not at all.
DANTON: You’d better think again.
LOUISE: I’m trying to make you do the right thing.
DANTON: I appreciate that, but when you’re my wife you’ll do as you’re told, and you can begin now.
LOUISE: That’s the only condition I’m making.
DANTON: Louise, I’m not used to having conditions made to me.
LOUISE: This is a good start.
H
aving failed in their offensive against Marat, the Girondist deputies set up a new committee, to investigate those persons who—they say—are prejudicing the authority of the National Convention. This committee arrests Hébert. Pressure from the Sections and the Commune forces his release. May 29, the Central Committee of the Sections goes into “permanent session”—what a fine, crisis-ridden sound it has, that term! May 31, the tocsin rings at three in the morning. The city gates are closed.
aving failed in their offensive against Marat, the Girondist deputies set up a new committee, to investigate those persons who—they say—are prejudicing the authority of the National Convention. This committee arrests Hébert. Pressure from the Sections and the Commune forces his release. May 29, the Central Committee of the Sections goes into “permanent session”—what a fine, crisis-ridden sound it has, that term! May 31, the tocsin rings at three in the morning. The city gates are closed.
Robespierre: “I invite the people to demonstrate in the Convention itself and drive out the corrupt deputies … . I declare that, having received from the people the mission of defending their rights, I regard as my oppressor whoever interrupts me or refuses to let me speak, and I declare I will lead a revolt against the president and all the members who try to silence me. I declare that I will punish traitors myself, and I
promise to look upon every conspirator as my personal enemy … .”
promise to look upon every conspirator as my personal enemy … .”
Isnard, a Girondist, president of the Convention: “If there should be any attack made on the representatives of the nation, then I declare to you in the name of the whole country that Paris would be utterly destroyed—people would be searching along the banks of the Seine to find out whether Paris had ever existed.”
“F
or the last few days people haven’t been sleeping at home,” Buzot said. “It isn’t safe. Have you thought of leaving now?”
or the last few days people haven’t been sleeping at home,” Buzot said. “It isn’t safe. Have you thought of leaving now?”
“No,” Manon said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You have a child.”
She put her head back against a cushion, stretching her smooth white throat for him to notice. “That”—she closed her eyes—“can’t be allowed to influence my actions.”
“It would, for most women.”
“I’m not most women. You know that.” She opened her eyes. “Do you think I’m without feeling? That’s not it. But there is more at stake here than my feelings. I am not leaving Paris.”
“The Sections are in insurrection.”
“Are you afraid?”
“I am ashamed. That it should come to this. After all we’ve worked and hoped for.”
The moment of languor was gone; she sat up, her face alight. “Don’t give up! Why should you talk like this? We have the majority in the Convention. What does Robespierre think he can do against our numbers?”
“You should never underestimate what Robespierre can do.”
“To think that I offered him the shelter of my house, at the time of the Champs-de-Mars! I esteemed him. I thought him the citadel of everything that was logical and reasonable and decent.”
“You aren’t the only person whose judgement he’s led astray,” he said. “Robespierre has never forgiven his friends the injuries he has done them, nor the kindnesses he has received from them, nor the talents some of them possess that he doesn’t. You made the wrong choice, my love, you should have held out your hand to Danton.”
“That blackguard repels me.”
“I did not mean in the literal sense.”
“Shall I tell you what Danton thinks? None of you seems to know. In his eyes you, my husband, Brissot, all of you—you’re a collection of mild-mannered, played-out intellectuals. The men for him are cynics
with strong stomachs, flatterers, carnivores—men who destroy for the love of destruction. That is why he treats you with contempt.”
with strong stomachs, flatterers, carnivores—men who destroy for the love of destruction. That is why he treats you with contempt.”
“No, Manon, that’s not true. He offered to negotiate. He offered a truce. We turned him down.”
“So you say, but in fact you know it is not possible to negotiate with him. He lays down terms, and he expects you to fall in with them. In the end, he always gets his way.”
“Yes, possibly you’re right. So there’s not much left, is there? And us, Manon—we’ve had nothing.”
“The thing about nothing,” she said, “is that Danton can’t take it away.”
A
rmed demonstrations outside the Convention. Inside, delegates from the Sections with the list of deputies they wanted ejected and proscribed. Still the majority wouldn’t crack. Robespierre was as white as the sheet of paper that slipped once from his hand; he clung for support to the tribune, and between each sentence there was a labored pause. Vergniaud called out, “Finish, then!” Robespierre’s head snapped back. “Yes, I’ll finish you.”
rmed demonstrations outside the Convention. Inside, delegates from the Sections with the list of deputies they wanted ejected and proscribed. Still the majority wouldn’t crack. Robespierre was as white as the sheet of paper that slipped once from his hand; he clung for support to the tribune, and between each sentence there was a labored pause. Vergniaud called out, “Finish, then!” Robespierre’s head snapped back. “Yes, I’ll finish you.”
Two days later, the Convention was surrounded by an immense crowd, mostly armed, which rapid estimates put at eighty thousand strong; in the front ranks were National Guardsmen, with fixed bayonets and cannon. The people’s demand was for the expulsion of twenty-nine deputies. Among them were Buzot, Vergniaud, Pétion, Louvet, Brissot. It seemed the Guardsmen and the sansculottes intended to imprison the deputies till they agreed. Hérault de Séchelles, who was president that day, led a crococile of deputies from the hall into the open air; this gesture, it was hoped, would defuse the mutual hostility. The gunners stood by their cannon. Their commandant glared down from his horse and harangued the president of the Convention. He was to understand that he, Hérault, was regarded as a patriot; but he was to understand that the people would not be thwarted.
Hérault smiled, an abstracted smile. He and his colleagues were putting the final touch to the republican constitution, the document that would give France freedom forever: and here—“One perfectly grasps the situation,” he remarked, scarcely audible. Walking before the long procession, he led the trapped men back into the chamber. A number of good sansculottes were now lounging on the benches, exchanging compliments with those deputies of the Mountain who knew exactly what was going on and who had not troubled to stir.
Deputy Couthon, the saint in the wheelchair, had the floor: “Citizens, all members of the Convention should now be assured of their liberty. You have marched out to the People. You have found them everywhere good, generous and incapable of threatening the security of their delegates—but indignant against conspirators who wish to enslave them. Now that you recognize that you are free in your deliberations, I move a decree of accusation against the denounced members.”
Robespierre put his head in his hands. Given the unlikely nonsense that the saint had just spouted, perhaps he was laughing? Or perhaps he was feeling ill again? No one dared to ask. Each bout of sickness left him perversely strengthened, it seemed.
M
anon Roland spent a day in the president’s antechamber, waiting, a black shawl over her head. Vergniaud brought her the bad news hour by hour. She had written an address to the Convention which she wished to read out, but each time the door opened a terrifying riot of noise washed over her. Vergniaud said, “You can see for yourself what the situation is. No one can address the deputies while the present tumult continues. You might, as a woman, receive a little more respect, but frankly—”He shook his head.
anon Roland spent a day in the president’s antechamber, waiting, a black shawl over her head. Vergniaud brought her the bad news hour by hour. She had written an address to the Convention which she wished to read out, but each time the door opened a terrifying riot of noise washed over her. Vergniaud said, “You can see for yourself what the situation is. No one can address the deputies while the present tumult continues. You might, as a woman, receive a little more respect, but frankly—”He shook his head.
She waited. The next time he came in, he said, “An hour and a half, maybe, but I can’t promise that. Nor can I promise what sort of reception you’ll get.”
An hour and a half? She had already been away from home too long. She did not know where her husband was. Still—she had waited all day, she would stay a little longer, go through with it. “I’m not afraid, Vergniaud. Perhaps I can say things that you can’t say. Warn our friends,” she said. “Tell them to be ready to support me.”
“Most of them are not here, Manon.”
She gaped at him. “Where then?”
He shrugged. “Our friends have spirit. But I’m afraid they have no stamina.”
She left, took a cab to Louvet’s house. He wasn’t there. Another cab—home. The streets were crowded, the carriage moved at a walking pace. She called out to the driver to stop. She climbed down, paid him. She began to walk rapidly, then breathlessly, the dark cloth pulled about her face, like a guilty woman in a novel running to meet her lover.
At the gate of her house, the concierge took her by the arm; Monsieur has locked up and gone, he went to the landlord’s apartment, there at the back. She beat on the door. Roland had already left, they said.
Where? A house down the street. “Madame, rest just a little, he is safe, take a glass of wine.”
Where? A house down the street. “Madame, rest just a little, he is safe, take a glass of wine.”
She sat down before the empty grate; it was June after all, and the night was fine, still, warm. They brought her a glass of wine. “Not so strong,” she said. “Cut it with water.” All the same, her head swam.
He was not at the next house; but she found him at the one after that. She found him pacing the floor. She was surprised; she had imagined his long bony frame folded into a chair, coughing, coughing. “Manon,” he said to her, “we must go. Look, I have friends, I have plans. We leave this damn city tonight.”
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