A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

“But it is fashionable to know him, you see.”

“What has that to do with anything?”

“After all,” Petion said, “one has standards.”

Brissot chuckled. “Madame doesn’t find much to commend in Danton’s clique.”

“She’s not alone.” Petion spoke for Roland’s benefit. “Danton has some qualities, but there is a certain lack of scruple in evidence—he is careless with money, extravagant, and of course one wonders at its source. Fabre’s antecedents are dubious in the extreme. Camille—well, he’s clever, I grant you, and he’s popular, but he’ll never stay the course.”

“I suggest,” Brissot continued, “that Madame open her apartment to the patriots between the close of business in the Assembly—about four o’clock on a normal day—and the meeting of the Jacobins at six.” (She can open her legs to the patriots a little later, Petion thought.) “People will come and go, it will be pleasant.”

“And useful,” she added.

“I think, gentlemen,” Roland said, “that you will congratulate yourselves on this initiative. As you see, my wife is a woman of culture and sensibility.” He looked down at her, gratified, as if she were an infant daughter taking her first steps.

Her face glowed with excitement. “To be here—at last,” she said. “For years I’ve watched, studied, fulminated, argued—with myself, of course; I’ve waited, longed, if I had any faith I would have prayed; all my concern has been that a republic should be established in France. Now here I am—in Paris—and it is going to happen.” She smiled at the three men, showing her even white teeth, of which she was very proud. “And soon.”

Danton saw Mirabeau at City Hall. It was three o’clock, an afternoon in late March. The Comte was leaning against the wall, his mouth slightly ajar as if he were recovering from some exertion. Danton stopped. He saw that the Comte had changed since their last meeting—and he was not one to notice such things. “Mirabeau—”

Mirabeau smiled dolefully. “You must not call me that. Riquetti is my name now. Titles of nobility have been abolished by the Assembly. The decree was supported by Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Mottie, ci-devant Marquis de Lafayette, and opposed by the Abbe Maury, who is the son of a shoemaker.”

“Are you quite well?”

“Yes,” Mirabeau said. “No. No, to tell the truth, Danton, I am ill. I have a pain—here—and my eyesight is failing.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Several. They speak of my choleric disposition, and advise compresses. Do you know what I think of, Danton, these days?” There was agitation in his face.

“You should rest, at least find yourself a chair.” Danton heard himself speak, unwittingly, as if to a child or an old man.

“I don’t need a chair, just listen to me.” He put a hand on Danton’s arm. “I think about the old King’s death. When he died, they tell me”—he passed the other hand across his face—“they couldn’t find anyone willing to shroud the corpse. The stench was so atrocious, it was so horrible to look at—none of the family dared risk contagion, and the servants just plain refused. In the end they brought in some poor laboring men, paid them I don’t know what—and they put it in the coffin. That’s how a king ends. They say one of the men died. I don’t know if that’s true. When they were taking the coffin to the crypt the people stood by the roadside spitting and shouting obscenities. ‘There goes Lady’s Pleasure! ’ they said.” He raised his outraged face to Danton. “Dear God, and they think they are invulnerable. Because they reign by the grace of God they think they have God in their pockets. They ignore my advice, my honest, considered, well-meant advice; I want to save them, and I am the only man who can do it. They think they can ignore all common sense, common humanity.” Mirabeau looked old; his pitted face had reddened with emotion, but beneath the blush it was like clay. “And I feel so mortally tired. The time has all got used up. Danton, if I believed in slow poisons I should say that someone has poisoned me, because I feel as if I am dying by degrees.” He blinked. There was a tear in his eye. He seemed to shake himself like a big dog. “My regards to your dear wife. And to that poor little Camille. Work,” he said to himself. “Get back to work.”

On March 27 the ci-devant Comte de Mirabeau collapsed suddenly in great pain and was taken to his house on the rue Chaussee-de-l’Antin. He died in a coma on April 2, at 8:30 in the morning.

Lately Camille had retreated to the blue chaise-longue, fenced in by books, his long legs curled up beneath him as if to disassociate himself from Lucile’s taste in carpets. It was late afternoon. The light was failing, and the street was almost deserted. Today the shops were shut, as a mark of respect. The funeral was tonight, by torchlight.

He had been to Mirabeau’s house. He’s in great pain, they said, he can’t see you. He had begged: just for a moment, please, please. Put your name in the book of well-wishers, they said. There, by the door.

Then a Genevan, in passing, too late: “Mirabeau asked for you, at the last. But we had to say you were not there.”

The Court had sent twice a day to inquire: time was, when Mirabeau could have helped them, that they did not send at all. All forget now, the distrust, the evasions, the pride: the grasping egotist’s hand on the nation’s future, rifling through circumstance as through a greasy sheaf of promissory notes. Strangers stop each other in the streets, to commiserate and express dread of the future.

On Camille’s desk, a scribbled-over sheet, almost illegible. Danton picked it up. “‘Go then, witless people, and prostrate yourself before the tomb of this god’—what does it say then?”

“‘This god of liars and thieves.’”

Danton put down the paper, appalled. “You can’t write that. Every newspaper in the country is given over to panegyrics. Barnave, who was his staunch opponent, has pronounced his eulogy at the Jacobins. Tonight the Commune and the whole Assembly will walk in his funeral procession. His most obdurate enemies are praising him. Camille, if you write that, you may be torn to pieces the next time you appear in public. I mean, literally.”

“I can write what I like,” he snapped. “Opinion is free. If the rest of the world are hypocrites and self-deluders, does it therefore follow—am I bound to alter my views because the man is dead?”