“One speech,” he said. “To the Jacobins, what’s left of them. Just to lay down our line. Give us some sort of grasp on the situation. Besides, I have to find my wife, and I have to find Robespierre. I’ll be away again before anything goes wrong. I know Marat’s escape routes.”
They looked at him, dumbstruck, jaw-dropped. It is really hard for these people to remember—between crises—that he ever held the police at bay in the Palais-Royal, that he ever waved a pistol about and threatened to shoot himself. Even he finds it hard to comprehend—between crises. But there it is. He is the Lanteme Attorney now. He is locked into a role, he is cast in a part, he won’t stutter if he keeps to the script. Danton said, “A word with you, alone.” He nodded his head towards the door that led to the garden.
“Secrets among the brotherhood?” Freron said archly.
No one answered. Silent, respectful of the gloom, Angelique began to gather the dishes towards her. Gabrielle muttered something and slipped from the room.
“Where will you go?” Camille said.
“Arcis.”
“They’ll come after you.”
“Yes.”
“So then?”
“England. As soon as—” Danton swore softly. “Let’s face it, possibly never. Don’t go back to Paris. Stay here tonight—we’ll have to risk it, because we need the sleep. Write to your father-in-law, tell him to put your affairs in order. Have you made your will?”
“No.”
“Well, make one now, and write to Lucile. Tomorrow at dawn we’ll leave for Arcis. We can hide out for a week or so, until it’s safe to make a dash for the coast.”
“My geography’s not up to much,” Camille said, “but wouldn’t it be better to dash from here?”
“I have things to see to, papers to sign.”
“If you’re not coming back, I can see you would have.”
“Now don’t waste time arguing with me. The women can come after us as soon as is practicable. You can even ship your mother-in-law over if you really feel you can’t do without her.”
“And do you think the English will be glad to see us? Do you think they’ll meet us at Dover with a civic banquet and a military band?”
“We have contacts.”
“So we have, but,” Camille said with mock bitterness, “where is Grace Elliot when you need her?”
“We don’t have to travel under our own names. I have papers already, I can get some for you. We’ll pretend to be businessmen—what I don’t know about cotton spinning isn’t worth knowing. Once in the country we can make contact with our sympathizers, look for somewhere to live—money shouldn’t be a problem—what’s the matter?”
“When did you work this out?”
“On the way here.”
“But it’s all settled in your mind—oh, for God’s sake, this has always been your idea, hasn’t it? Profit from the smooth patches and skip out as soon as it gets rough? Do you want to live in Hampshire as a gentleman-farmer? Is that the latest of your lofty ambitions?”
“What’s the alternative?” Danton had a headache, and Camille was making it worse. I knew you, he wanted to say: I knew you when you were shaking in your shoes.
“I can’t believe”—and Camille’s voice was shaking now—”that you would run away.”
“But if we go to England we can start again. Plan.”
Camille looked at him in sorrow. The expression was more complex than sorrow, but Danton could not analyze it, because he was so mentally weary at the thought of starting again.
“You go then,” Camille said. “I’ll stay. I’ll hide for as long as I have to. When I think it’s safe, I’ll get word to you. Then I hope you’ll come back. I don’t know if you will, but if you say you will I’ll have to believe you. There’s no other way to do it. If you don’t come back, I suppose I’ll come to England. I have no intention of carrying on here without you.”
“I have a wife, and a child, and I—”
“Yes, I know. And another child soon.”
“She told you that?”
“No. Gabrielle and I are not on such terms.”
“Good. Because she didn’t tell me.”
Camille indicated the house. “I’ll go back in now and talk at that lot and make them thoroughly ashamed of themselves. They’ll whimper back to Paris tonight, you may be sure. They can form a diversion—it will give you a chance, and you’re the important one. I quite see that, I shouldn’t have said what I said just then. I’ll get Fabre to take Lucile to Bourg-la-Reine, and he can lurk there out of the way for a week or two.”
“I’m not sure I’d trust my wife to Fabre as an escort.”
“Who then? Rabbit? Our butcher brave and bold?”
They grinned at each other. Their eyes met. “You know what Mirabeau used to say,” Camille said. “‘We live at a time of great events and little men.’”
