A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

Danton was walking by, in pursuit of the city’s business; he turned, raised an eyebrow, removed his hat and passed them with a laconic, “Good morning, Mme. Revolutionary, Messieurs.”

“Good heavens. Who was that?”

“That was M. Danton,” Petion said smoothly. “One of the curiosities of the capital.”

“Indeed.” Reluctantly she dragged her eyes from Danton’s retreating back. “How did he come by those scars?”

“No one cares to speculate,” Brissot said.

“What a brute he looks!”

Petion smiled. “He is a man of culture,” he said, “a barrister by profession, and a very staunch patriot. One of the City Administrators, in fact. His exterior belies him.”

“I should hope it does.”

“Whom did Madame see at the Jacobins?” Brissot asked. “Which of our friends has she met?”

“She has met the Marquis de Condorcet—I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t say Marquis—and Deputy Buzot—oh, Madame, do you recall that little fellow at the Jacobins that you took such a dislike to?”

How rude, Brissot thought: I am a little fellow myself, which is better than you, who are running to fat.

“That vain, sarcastic man, who looked at the company through a lorgnette?”

“Yes. Now he is Fabre d’Eglantine, a great friend of Danton.”

“What an odd pair they must make.” She turned. “Ah, here is my husband at last.” She made the introductions. Petion and Brissot stared at M. Roland in ill-concealed bewilderment, taking in his bald dome, his grave face with its yellow aging skin, his tall, spare, dessicated body. He could have been her father, each thought: and exchanged glances to that effect.

“Well, my dear,” Roland said, “I hope you’ve been amusing yourself?”

“I have prepared the abstracts you asked for. The figures are all checked, and I have drafted several possibilities for your deposition to the Assembly. It is up to you to tell me which you prefer, and then I will cast it in its final form. Everything is in order.”

“My little secretary.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Gentlemen—see how lucky I am. I’d be lost without her.”

“So, Madame,” Brissot said, “perhaps you would like to have a little salon? No, don’t blush, you are not unqualified. We who debate the great questions of the hour need to do so under some gentle feminine influence.” (Pompous arsehole, Petion thought.) “To lighten the tone, perhaps a few gentlemen from the world of the arts?”

“No.” Brissot was surprised by the firmness of tone. “No artists, no poets, no actors—not for their own sake. We must establish our seriousness of purpose. If they were also patriots, of course they would be welcome.”

“You are penetrating, as always,” Petion said. (You’d be penetrating if you could, Brissot thought.) “You should ask Deputy Buzot—you liked him, didn’t you?”

“Yes. He seemed to me to be a young man of singular integrity, a most valuable patriot. He has moral force.”

(And such a handsome, pensive face, Petion thought, which no doubt has something to do with his appeal; God help poor plain Mme. Buzot if this determined little piece sinks her claws into Francois-Leonard.)

“And shall I bring Louvet?”

“I’m not sure of Louvet. Has he not written an improper book?” Petion looked down at her pityingly. “You are laughing at me because I am a provincial,” she said. “But one has standards.”

“Of course. But Faublas was really a very harmless book.” He smiled involuntarily, as people always did when they tried to imagine wheyfaced Jean-Baptiste writing a risque bestseller. It was all autobiographical, people said.

“And Robespierre?” Brissot persisted.

“Yes, bring Robespierre. He interests me. So reserved. I should like to draw him out.”

Who knows, Petion thought, perhaps you’re the girl who will? “Robespierre’s always busy. He has no time for a social life.”

“My salon will not form part of anyone’s social life,” she corrected sweetly. “It will be a forum for serious discussion of the issues confronting patriots and republicans.”

I wish she would not talk so much about the republic, Brissot thought. That’s an issue to be tiptoed around. I will teach her a lesson, he thought. “If you wish republicans, I shall bring Camille.”

“Who is that?”

“Camille Desmoulins—did nobody point him out at the Jacobins?”

“Dark, sulky boy with long hair,” Petion said. “Has a stutter—but no, he didn’t speak, did he?” He looked at Brissot. “He sat next to Fabre, whispering.”

“Thick as thieves,” Brissot said. “Great patriots, of course, but not what you’d call examples of the civic virtues. Camille’s only been married for weeks, and already—”

“Gentlemen,” Roland interposed, “is this fit for the ears of my wife?” They had forgotten he was there—so vague and gray a presence beside his blithe vivacious spouse. He turned to her: “M. Desmoulins, my dear, is a clever and scandalous young journalist who is sometimes known as the Lanterne Attorney.”

A faint blush again on the soft, fresh skin: how quickly the smile could vanish, leaving her mouth a hard, decisive line. “I see no need to meet him.”