Read A Place of Greater Safety Online
Authors: Hilary Mantel
A Place of Greater Safety (51 page)
“It’s a formality, isn’t it? I’m polite.”
“Have you any quarrel with the verdict on the facts?”
“No.”
“On the law?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I object to the use of the courts as instruments of the intrusive moralizing state.”
“Really?” The judge leaned forward; he liked to argue generalities. “As you seem to have wiped the church out of the picture, who is going to make men what they ought to be, if the laws do not do it?”
“Who is to say what men ought to be?”
“If the people elect their lawmakers—which, nowadays, they do—don’t they depute that task to them?”
“But if the people and their deputies were formed by a corrupt society, how are they to make good decisions? How are they to form a moral society when they have no experience of one?”
“We really are going to get home late,” the judge said. “We shall be here for six months if we are to do justice to the question. You mean, how are we to become good when we’re bad?”
“We used to do it through the agency of divine grace. But the new constitution doesn’t provide for that.”
“How wrong can you be?” the judge said. “I thought all you fellows were on course for the moral regeneration of humankind. Doesn’t it worry you that you’re out of step with your friends?”
“Since the Revolution you’re allowed to dissent, aren’t you?”
He seemed to be waiting for an answer. The judge was disconcerted.
Danton: His Portrait Made
G
eorges-Jacques Danton: “Reputation is a whore, and people who talk about posterity are hypocrites and fools.”
eorges-Jacques Danton: “Reputation is a whore, and people who talk about posterity are hypocrites and fools.”
N
ow we have a problem. It wasn’t envisaged that he should have part of the narrative. But time is pressing; the issues are multiplying, and in a little over two years he will be dead.
ow we have a problem. It wasn’t envisaged that he should have part of the narrative. But time is pressing; the issues are multiplying, and in a little over two years he will be dead.
Danton did not write. He may have gone into court with a sheaf of notes; we have represented such occasions, fictitious but probable. The records of these cases are lost. He kept no diaries, and wrote few letters: unless perhaps he wrote the kind of letters that are torn up on receipt. He distrusted the commitments he might make on paper, distrusted the permanent snare for his temporary opinions. He could lay down his line at the tricolor-draped committee tables; others kept the minutes. If there were points to press at the Jacobins, patriotic wrath to vent at the Cordeliers, the public would wait till Saturday for recapitulation, and find his invective, a good deal polished up, between the gray paper covers of Camille Desmoulins’s journal. In times of excitement—and there are many such times—extempore editions of the paper are thrown together, to appear twice weekly, sometimes daily. As Danton sees it, the most bizarre aspect of Camille’s character is his desire to scribble over every blank surface; he sees a guileless piece of paper, virgin and harmless, and persecutes it till it is black with words, and then besmirches its sister, and so on, through the quire.
Since the massacre, of course, the paper no longer appears. Camille says he is sick of deadlines and printers’ tantrums and errors; his compulsion
has gone freelance. This is no drawback, as long as he writes, every week, about as many words as Danton speaks. Between now and the end of his career, Danton will make scores of speeches, some of them hours long. He makes them up in his head, as he goes. Perhaps you can hear his voice.
has gone freelance. This is no drawback, as long as he writes, every week, about as many words as Danton speaks. Between now and the end of his career, Danton will make scores of speeches, some of them hours long. He makes them up in his head, as he goes. Perhaps you can hear his voice.
I
came back from England in September. The amnesty was the last act of the old National Assembly. We were supposed to inaugurate the new era in a spirit of reconciliation—or some such sanctimonious twaddle. You will see how that worked out.
came back from England in September. The amnesty was the last act of the old National Assembly. We were supposed to inaugurate the new era in a spirit of reconciliation—or some such sanctimonious twaddle. You will see how that worked out.
The summer’s events had injured the patriots—literally, in many cases—and I returned to a royalist Paris. The King and his wife once more appeared in public, and were cheered. I saw no reason for pique; I am all for amiability. I need not tell you that my strong-minded friends at the Cordeliers felt differently. We have come a long way since ’88, when the only republicans I knew were Billaud-Varennes and my dear irrepressible Camille.
There was some jubilation—premature—about Lafayette’s departure from the capital. (I’m sorry, I can’t get used to calling him Mottié.) Had he emigrated, I would personally have ordained three days of fireworks and free love on our side of the river; but the man is now with the armies, and when we have war, which will be in six or nine months, we shall need to turn him into a national hero again.
In October our fulsome patriot Jérôme Pétion was elected Mayor of Paris. The other candidate was Lafayette. So deeply does the King’s wife detest the general, that she moved heaven and earth to secure Pétion’s election-Pétion, mark you, a republican. I hold it my best example yet of the political ineptitude of women.
It is just possible, of course, that Pétion is on some royalist payroll that I don’t know about. Who can keep track these days? He is still convinced that the King’s sister fell in love with him on their journey back from Varennes. He has made himself ridiculous over that. I am surprised that Robespierre, who countenances no antics, has not reproved him. The new popular slogan, by the way, is “Pétion or death!” Camille earned some filthy looks at the Jacobins by remarking audibly, “Not much of a choice.”
His sudden elevation has made Jérôme quite dizzy, and he erred when he received Robespierre in state and forced him to sit through a banquet. Recently Camille said to Robespierre, “Come to supper, we have this marvelous champagne.” Robespierre replied, “Champagne is the poison of liberty.” What a way to talk to your oldest friend!
My failure to gain election to the new Assembly disappointed me. It occurred—forgive me if I sound like Robespierre—because of the number of people working against me; and because of our failure to amend the restrictive franchise. If I sought a mandate from the man in the street, I could be King if I wanted to.
And I never make claims I can’t substantiate.
I was disappointed for myself, and also for my friends. They had worked hard for me—Camille, of course, and especially Fabre—I am, nowadays, the single channel for the genius that was to inundate our age. Poor Fabre: but he is useful, and able in his way. And dedicated to the advancement of Danton, which is the trait in him I prefer above others.
I wished, in my turn, to obtain office so that I could be of service to them. I mean, by that, that I could help them to fulfill their political ambitions and augment their incomes. Don’t pretend to be shocked, or not more than is necessary for form’s sake. I assure you, as our wives say, it is always done. No one will seek office, unless there are proper rewards.
After the elections I went to Arcis for a while. Gabrielle is expecting her baby in February, and was in need of rest. There is nothing to do in Arcis unless one is fond of agricultural labor, and to my certain knowledge she is not. It seemed a good time to be away. Robespierre was in Arras (recruiting his provincial accent, I presume) and I thought that if he could leave the pot unwatched I could do the same. Paris was not particularly pleasant. Brissot, who has a lot of friends in the new Assembly, was busy collecting support for a policy of war against the European powers—a policy so staggeringly dangerous and inept that I became quite incoherent when I tried to argue with him.
I have now, under my roof at Arcis, my mother and my stepfather, my unmarried sister Pierrette, my old nurse, my great aunt, my sister Anne-Madeleine, her husband Pierre and their five children. The arrangement is a noisy one, but it gives me satisfaction to think that I can provide for my people in this way. I have concluded five purchases of land, including some woodland; I have leased out one of my farms, and bought more livestock. When I am in Arcis, you know, I never want to see Paris again.
Very soon my friends in the city decided that I should seek public office. Precisely, they wanted me to stand for the post of First Deputy Public Prosecutor. It is not that the post is of great intrinsic importance. My candidature is a way of announcing myself: of saying, “
Danton is back
…”
Danton is back
…”
To expound this plan to me, Camille and wife arrived in Arcis, with several weeks’ accumulated gossip and bags overflowing with newspaper
cuttings, letters and pamphlets. Gabrielle greeted Lucile with something less than enthusiasm. She was then six months into her pregnancy, ungainly and easily tired. Lucile’s visit to the country had of course required a whole new wardrobe of very artful simplicity; she is becoming even more beautiful but, as Anne-Madeleine says, oh so thin.
cuttings, letters and pamphlets. Gabrielle greeted Lucile with something less than enthusiasm. She was then six months into her pregnancy, ungainly and easily tired. Lucile’s visit to the country had of course required a whole new wardrobe of very artful simplicity; she is becoming even more beautiful but, as Anne-Madeleine says, oh so thin.
The family, who regard Parisians as something akin to Red Indians, received them with guarded politeness. Then after a day or two, Anne-Madeleine simply added them to the number of her five children, who are fed on sight and conducted through the countryside on forced marches in an effort to subdue their spirits. After dinner one day Lucile remarked in conversation that she thought she might be pregnant. My mother slid her eyes round to Camille and said she would be surprised, very. I thought perhaps it was time to go back to Paris.
“W
hen will you be home again?” Anne-Madeleine asked her brother.
hen will you be home again?” Anne-Madeleine asked her brother.
“A few months—show you the baby.”
“I meant, for good.”
“Well, the state of the country—”
“What has that to do with us?”
“In Paris, you see, I have a certain position.”
“Georges-Jacques, you only told us that you were a lawyer.”
“Essentially, I am.”
“We thought that fees must be very high in Paris. We thought that you must be the top lawyer in the country.”
“Not quite that.”
“No, but you’re an important man. We didn’t realize what you did.”
“What do I do? If you’ve been talking to Camille, he exaggerates.”
“Aren’t you frightened?”
“What should I be frightened of?”
“You had to run away once. What happens next time things go wrong? People like us, we have our day—we might get to the top of the heap for a year or two, but it doesn’t last, it’s not in the nature of things that it should.”
“We are trying, you see, to alter the nature of things.”
“But couldn’t you come home now? You have land, you have what you want. Come back with your wife and let your children grow up with mine, as they ought, and bring that little girl and let her have her baby here—Georges, is it yours?”
“Her baby? Good heavens, no.”
“It’s just the way you look at her. Well, how am I to know what goes on in Paris?”
S
o I stood for election, and was beaten by a man named de Gerville. Within days, this de Gerville was appointed Minister of the Interior, and thus removed from my path. There were fresh elections. My opponent this time was Collot d’Herbois, the none-too-successful playwright, whom I suppose I must regard as a revolutionary comrade. The electors may question my fitness for office, but Collot has all the gravitas of a mad dog. My majority was very large.
o I stood for election, and was beaten by a man named de Gerville. Within days, this de Gerville was appointed Minister of the Interior, and thus removed from my path. There were fresh elections. My opponent this time was Collot d’Herbois, the none-too-successful playwright, whom I suppose I must regard as a revolutionary comrade. The electors may question my fitness for office, but Collot has all the gravitas of a mad dog. My majority was very large.
Make of this what you will. My opponents made much of it, to my discredit. They said that “the Court had a hand in it.” Since Louis Capet retains the prerogative of ministerial appointment, it would be strange if it were otherwise.
Let me spell it out for you: they say I am “in the pay of the Court.” Now that is a very vague allegation, an imprecise charge, and unless you could be more definite about names, dates, amounts, I would not feel obliged to make any statement. But if you ask Robespierre, he will vouch for my integrity. Nowadays that is the highest guarantee; because he is afraid of money, he is known as “the Incorruptible.”
If you feel well disposed to me, regard de Gerville’s removal as a happy coincidence. If not, console yourself that my friend Legendre was recently offered a very large sum to slit my throat. However, he told me of it; he obviously sees some long-term advantage in turning down a good cash offer.
My new salary was useful, and status as a prominent public official does no harm. I thought that now we might be seen to spend a little money without incurring criticism (oh, I was wrong of course) and so I kept Gabrielle busy during the last tedious weeks in choosing carpets, china and silver for our apartment, which we have just had redecorated.
But I suppose you will not want to know about our new dining table—you will want to know who is sitting in the new Assembly. Lawyers, naturally. Propertied men, like myself. On the right, Lafayette’s supporters. In the center, a huge uncommitted many. On the left—now, this is what concerns us. My good friend Hérault de Séchelles is a deputy, and we have a few recruits for the Cordeliers Club. Brissot is amongst those elected for Paris, and many of his friends seem likely to lay claim to the public’s attention.
I must explain something about “Brissot’s friends”; it is a misnomer, as many of them can’t stand him. But to be “one of Brissot’s people” is
a kind of tag, a label, one which we find useful. In the old Assembly, Mirabeau used to point to the Left and shout, “Silence, those thirty voices.” Robespierre said to me one day, it would be convenient if all “Brissot’s people” would sit together in the Jacobin Club, so that we could do the same.
a kind of tag, a label, one which we find useful. In the old Assembly, Mirabeau used to point to the Left and shout, “Silence, those thirty voices.” Robespierre said to me one day, it would be convenient if all “Brissot’s people” would sit together in the Jacobin Club, so that we could do the same.
Do we want them silent? I don’t know. If we could get over this absurd matter of war or peace—and it is a lot to get over—there wouldn’t be much to divide us. They’re just, somehow, not our sort—and don’t they let us know it! There are a number of outstanding men from the Gironde region, amongst them the leading lights of the Bordeaux Bar. Pierre Vergniaud is a polished orator, the best in the House—if you like that antique type of oratory, which is a bit different from the fire-eating style we affect on our side of the river.
“Brissot’s people” are of course outside the Assembly as well as in it. There is Pétion—now mayor, as I said—and Jean-Baptiste Louvet, the novelist, who now writes for the papers—and of course you’ll remember François-Léonard Buzot, the humorless young fellow who sat with Robespierre on the far Left of the old Assembly. They have several newspapers between them, and assorted positions of influence in the Commune and the Jacobin Club. Why they rally round Brissot I can never grasp, unless they need his nervous energy as a driving force. He is here, there, an instant opinion, a lightning analysis, an editorial in the blink of an eye. He is forever setting up a committee, launching a project; he is forever hatching a plan, blazing a trail, putting his machinery in motion. I saw Vergniaud, who is a large, calm man, regarding him from under his thick eyebrows; as Brissot chattered, a small sigh escaped him, and a look of pained exhaustion grew on his face. I understood. Camille can wear me out in the same way. But one thing you must say about Camille—even in the direst circumstances, he can make you laugh. He can even make the Incorruptible laugh. Yes, I have seen it with my own eyes and Fréron says he has seen it too—unseemly tears of mirth streaming down the Incorruptible’s face.
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