A Place of Greater Safety (63 page)
Read A Place of Greater Safety Online
Authors: Hilary Mantel
But all seemed to prepaire for the great catostrophe of the 10th August and many people wished a Change and they talked of people come from Marsielles to attact the Thuilleries; this seemed a projected affaire and the Thuileries was garded by the Suisse gardes and many more in Suisse dress was expecting to take part with the King. The night before we was nearly informed of what was to happen although non could emagine how it was to turn; the evening of the 9 by the fall of a Bottle from the wall which happened to cut my leg and render me lame so that I was forced to sit on our Terrasse which was opposite the Champs Elize and the Thuileries, where I could hear the first coup de Cannon about 9 and then the other firing and tumult continued. I could see the people running to and fro in the Champs Elize and the horror of the misacre increased and as the King left his gardes and went to the Nationalle assembly, so that those poor wretches that had come to defend him being deserted by him was left to be misacred by the rabble, whereas if the King had stopt there was the greatest part of the Sections ready to defend him; but when they found he had gone to the Assembly they all turned to the mesacre of the poor Suisse gardes … . Many of these anthrophages passed in the Street and stoppt to show us parts of the Suisses they had misacred some of whom I knew … every one seemed to glory in what he had done and to show even their fury on the dead body by cutting them or even tearing their clothes as monuments of triumph, so that this seemed as if the people were struck with a sort of Madness … . But it was impossible to describe all the acts of wanten horor that happened this day … .
“C
amille.” A young National Guardsman whom he’d never seen before, pop-eyed with nervousness and expecting to be slapped down. “We have taken a royalist patrol, they were dressed in our uniforms, we have them shut in our guard room at the Cour de Feuillants. Some people are trying to take them off us. Our commander has asked for reinforcements to clear the courtyard but no one has come. We can’t hold them back much longer—can you talk to this rabble, can you talk some sense into them?”
amille.” A young National Guardsman whom he’d never seen before, pop-eyed with nervousness and expecting to be slapped down. “We have taken a royalist patrol, they were dressed in our uniforms, we have them shut in our guard room at the Cour de Feuillants. Some people are trying to take them off us. Our commander has asked for reinforcements to clear the courtyard but no one has come. We can’t hold them back much longer—can you talk to this rabble, can you talk some sense into them?”
“What is the point?” Fréron said.
“People shouldn’t be killed like dogs, Monsieur,” the boy said to Fréron. His mouth trembled.
“I’m coming,” Camille said.
W
hen they reached the courtyard, Fréron pointed: “Théroigne.”
hen they reached the courtyard, Fréron pointed: “Théroigne.”
“Yes,” Camille said calmly. “She’ll get killed.”
Théroigne had taken charge; here was her own, her little Bastille. A hostile, unfocused rabble had a leader now; and already it was too late for the prisoners in the guardroom, for above the shouts, above the woman’s own voice, you could hear the crash of glass and the splinter of wood. She had driven them on, as they stoved in the door and pitted their strength, like goaded beasts in a cage, at the iron bars of the windows. But they were breaking in, not breaking out; confronted by bayonets in a narrow passage, they had dropped back for a moment, but now they were tearing the building apart. They were stone-eating beasts, and it was not meant for a siege; they had pick-axes, and they were using them. Behind the front rank of attackers the courtyard was swarming with their well-wishers, shouting, shaking their fists, waving weapons.
Seeing the Guardsman’s uniform, the tricolor sashes, sections of the crowd gave way to them, letting them pass. But before they reached the front of the crowd, the boy put a hand on Camille’s arm, holding him back. “Nothing you can do now,” he said.
Théroigne wore black; she had a pistol in her belt, a saber in her hand, and her face was incandescent. A cry went up: “The prisoners are coming out.” She had stationed herself before the doorway, and as the first of the prisoners was dragged out she gave the signal to the men beside her and they raised their swords and axes. “Can’t someone stop her?” Camille said. He shrugged off the Guardsman’s restraining hand and began to push forward, yelling at people to get out of his way. Fréron forced a path after him and took him by the shoulder. Camille pushed him violently away. The crowd fell back, diverted by the prospect of two patriotic officials about to take each other apart.
But the few seconds of grace had passed; from the front rank there was an animal scream. Théroigne had dropped her arm, like a public executioner; the axes and swords were at work, and the prisoners were being kicked and hauled, one by one, to the deaths prepared for them.
Camille had made headway; the National Guardsman was at his back. Louis Suleau was the fourth prisoner to emerge. At a shout from Théroigne the crowd held off; they even moved back, and as they did so they crushed the people behind them, so that Camille was helpless, immobile, arms pinioned to his sides, when he saw Théroigne approach Louis Suleau and say to him something that only he could have heard; Louis put up a hand, as if to say, what’s the point of going into all this now? The gesture etched itself into his mind. It was the last gesture. He
saw Théroigne raise her pistol. He did not hear the shot. Within seconds they were surrounded by the dying. Louis’s body—perhaps still breathing, no one could know—was dragged into the crowd, into a vortex of flailing arms and blades. Fréron yelled into the National Guardsman’s face, and the young man, red with anguish and bewilderment, drew his saber and shouted for a way out. Their feet splashed through fresh blood.
saw Théroigne raise her pistol. He did not hear the shot. Within seconds they were surrounded by the dying. Louis’s body—perhaps still breathing, no one could know—was dragged into the crowd, into a vortex of flailing arms and blades. Fréron yelled into the National Guardsman’s face, and the young man, red with anguish and bewilderment, drew his saber and shouted for a way out. Their feet splashed through fresh blood.
“There was nothing you could do,” the young man kept saying. “Please, Camille, I should have come before, they were royalists anyway and there was really nothing you could do.”
L
ucile had been out to buy some bread for breakfast. No point in asking Jeanette to go; with daylight, the woman’s nerve had snapped, and she was running round the apartment, as Lucile said, like a hen without a head.
ucile had been out to buy some bread for breakfast. No point in asking Jeanette to go; with daylight, the woman’s nerve had snapped, and she was running round the apartment, as Lucile said, like a hen without a head.
Lucile put her basket over her arm. She draped a jacket around her, though it was warm, because she wanted to put her little knife into the pocket. No one knew she had this little knife; she hardly allowed herself to know, but she kept it on her person in case of need. Just think, she said to herself. I could be living on the Right Bank. I could be married to a senior clerk at the Treasury. I could be sitting with my feet up, embroidering a linen handkerchief with a rambling-rose design. Instead I’m on the rue des Cordeliers in pursuit of a baguette, with a three-inch blade for comfort.
She looked into the eyes of her familiar neighbors. Who would have thought our Section contained so many royalists? “You murderer’s whore,” a man said to her. She kept a smile on her face, a particularly maddening smile that she had learned from Camille, a smile that taunted and said, all right, just try it. In imagination, she eased the knife’s smooth handle into her palm, pressed its point against yielding flesh. As she was on her way back, and outside her own front door, another man recognized her and spat in her face.
She stopped inside the front door, to wipe the saliva away, then wafted up the stairs, sat down, the bread in her lap. “Are you going to eat that?” Jeanette said, wringing her apron between her hands in a pantomime of anguish.
“Of course I am, since I went to such trouble to get it. Pull yourself together, Jeanette, put some coffee on.”
Louise called from the drawing room “I think Gabrielle is going to faint.”
So possibly she never got her breakfast; afterwards she didn’t remember.
They got Gabrielle onto the bed, loosened her clothes, fanned her. She opened a window, but the noise from the street was agitating Gabrielle even more; so she closed it again, and they endured the heat. Gabrielle dozed; she and Louise took turns at reading to each other, and gossiped and bickered gently, and told each other their life stories. The hours crept on, until Camille and Fréron came home.
They got Gabrielle onto the bed, loosened her clothes, fanned her. She opened a window, but the noise from the street was agitating Gabrielle even more; so she closed it again, and they endured the heat. Gabrielle dozed; she and Louise took turns at reading to each other, and gossiped and bickered gently, and told each other their life stories. The hours crept on, until Camille and Fréron came home.
Fréron flopped into a chair. “There are bodies—” he indicated a height from the ground. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Lucile, but Louis Suleau is dead. Yes, we saw it, we saw it happen, we saw him killed before our eyes.”
He wanted Camille to say, Fréron saved my life; or at least to say, Fréron stopped me doing something very very stupid. But Camille only said, “For the love of Christ, Rabbit, save it for your memoirs. If I hear any more about this morning I’ll do you an injury. And not a trivial one, either.”
At the sight of him, Jeanette pulled herself together. The coffee was produced at last. Gabrielle came staggering from the bedroom doorway, fastening the bodice of her dress. “I haven’t seen François since early morning,” Camille told Louise. His voice was unnaturally flat, without the trace of a stutter. “I haven’t seen Georges-Jacques, but he is signing decrees from City Hall, so clearly he is alive and well. Louis Capet and all his family have deserted the palace and are at the Riding School. The Assembly is in permanent session. I don’t think even the Swiss Guard knows the King has gone and I’m sure the people attacking the palace don’t know. I’m not sure if we’re supposed to tell them.” He stood up, held Lucile in his arms for a moment. “I am going to change my clothes once more, because I have got dried blood on them, and then I am going out again.”
Fréron looked after him gloomily. “I’m afraid the reaction will set in later,” he said. “I know Camille. He’s not cut out for all this.”
“You think not?” Lucile said. “I think he thrives on it.” She wants to ask how Louis Suleau died, how and why. But now is not the time. As Danton had said, she is not a silly girl; no, no, she is the voice of common sense. Maria Stuart, on the wall, approaches the headsman; nubile, shapely, Maria wears a sickly Christian smile. The pink silk cushions are looking the worse for wear, as Camille could have predicted but didn’t; the blue
chaise-longue
has a knowing air, like a piece of furniture that’s seen a lot in its time. Lucile Desmoulins is twenty-two years old, wife, mother, mistress of her house. In the August heat—a fly buzzing against glass, a man whistling in the street, a baby crying on another floor—she feels her soul set into its shape, small and stained
and mortal. Once she might have said the prayers for the dead. Now she thought, what the fuck’s the use, it’s the living I have to worry about.
chaise-longue
has a knowing air, like a piece of furniture that’s seen a lot in its time. Lucile Desmoulins is twenty-two years old, wife, mother, mistress of her house. In the August heat—a fly buzzing against glass, a man whistling in the street, a baby crying on another floor—she feels her soul set into its shape, small and stained
and mortal. Once she might have said the prayers for the dead. Now she thought, what the fuck’s the use, it’s the living I have to worry about.
W
hen Gabrielle felt strong enough, she said that she would like to go back to her own house. The streets were packed and noisy. The porter had panicked and closed the big gate to the Cour du Commerce; Gabrielle hammered and banged and rang the bell, yelling to be let into her own home. “We can go in through the baker’s if he’ll let us,” she said, “in at his front door and out through his back kitchen.”
hen Gabrielle felt strong enough, she said that she would like to go back to her own house. The streets were packed and noisy. The porter had panicked and closed the big gate to the Cour du Commerce; Gabrielle hammered and banged and rang the bell, yelling to be let into her own home. “We can go in through the baker’s if he’ll let us,” she said, “in at his front door and out through his back kitchen.”
But the baker wouldn’t even let them into his shop; he shouted into their faces and pushed Gabrielle in the chest, bruising her and winding her and sending her flying back into the road. Dragging her between them, they retreated to the big gate, huddled against it. As a group of men crowded around them Lucile reached into her pocket and felt that the knife was there and caressed it with her fingertips; she said, “I know you, I know your names, and if you approach one step nearer your heads will be on pikes before nightfall and I will take the greatest pleasure in helping to put them there.”
And then the gate opened for them; hands pulled them inside; bolts slammed home; they were inside the front door, they were on the stairs, they were in the Dantons’ house, and Lucile was saying crossly, “This time we’re staying put.”
Gabrielle was shaking her head—lost, utterly exhausted. From across the river the gunfire was heavy and constant. “Mother of God, I look as if I’ve been three days in the tomb,” Louise Robert said, catching sight of herself as they once again plumped pillows and disposed Gabrielle to the horizontal.
“Why do you think the Dantons have separate beds?” she whispered to Lucile, when she thought they were out of earshot.
Lucile shrugged. Gabrielle said in a drugged voice, “Because he lashes his arms about, dreams he’s fighting—1 don’t know who.”
“His enemies? His creditors? His inclinations?” Lucile said.
Louise Robert raided Gabrielle’s dressing table. She found a pot of rouge, and applied it in round scarlet spots, as they used to do at Court. She offered some to Lucile, but Lucile said, “Come, you minx, you know I am beyond improvement.”
M
idday passed. The streets fell silent. This is what the last hours will be like, Lucile thought; this is what it will be like when the world ends,
and we are waiting for the death of the sun. But the sun did not fail; it beat down, and beat down at last on the blazing tricolor, on the heads of the Marseille men, on the singing victory processions and the loyal lurking Cordeliers who’d had the sense to stay indoors all day and who now poured onto the streets, chanting for the republic, calling for the death of tyrants, calling for their man Danton.
idday passed. The streets fell silent. This is what the last hours will be like, Lucile thought; this is what it will be like when the world ends,
and we are waiting for the death of the sun. But the sun did not fail; it beat down, and beat down at last on the blazing tricolor, on the heads of the Marseille men, on the singing victory processions and the loyal lurking Cordeliers who’d had the sense to stay indoors all day and who now poured onto the streets, chanting for the republic, calling for the death of tyrants, calling for their man Danton.
There was a pounding at the door. Lucile threw it open; nothing could worry her now. A big man stood propping himself in the doorway, swaying a little. He was a man from the streets: “Forgive me, Monsieur,” Louise Robert said, laughing. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
“They’re smashing the mirrors at the palace,” the man said. “The Cordeliers are kings now.” He tossed something to Gabrielle. She caught it awkwardly. It was a hairbrush, heavy, silver-backed. “From the Queen’s dressing table,” the man said.
Gabrielle’s forefinger traced the embossed monogram: “A” for Antoinette. The man lurched forward and caught Lucile around the waist, spinning her off her feet. He smelled of wine, tobacco and blood. He kissed her throat, a sucking, greedy, proletarian kiss; he set her on her feet again, clattered back into the street.
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