A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

“Take care, then,” Danton said. “Oh, and do make your will anyway. And Camille, leave me your wife.”

Camille laughed. Danton turned his back. He didn’t want to see him go.

Robespierre had been crushed against a barrier when the fighting started. The shock had been greater than the pain. He had seen dead bodies; after the troops had pulled back, he had watched as the wounded were carried away, and he had noted the absurd detritus of the civilian battlefield: flowered hats, single shoes, dolls and spinning tops.

He began walking. Perhaps he had walked for hours. He was not sure of the route he had taken, but it seemed to him necessary to get back to the rue Saint-Honore, to the Jacobins, to take possession of the ground. He had almost made it. But now someone was blocking his path.

He looked up. The man had a shirt torn open at the neck, a dusty bonnet and the remnants of a National Guardsman’s uniform.

What was strangest, he was laughing: his teeth were bared, like a dog’s.

He had a saber in his hand. There was a tricolor ribbon tied around the hilt.

Behind him were three other men. Two had bayonets.

Robespierre stood quite still. He had never carried a pistol, despite the number of times Camille had told him to. “Camille,” he’d said, “I’d never use it anyway. I’d never shoot anybody.”

Well, that was true. And it was too late now.

Would he die quickly or slowly? That was a question for someone else to decide; he could not influence it. His efforts were over.

In a moment, he thought, I shall rest. In a moment I shall sleep.

The dreadful calm in his heart invaded his face.

With a leisurely movement, the dog-man reached out. He took him by the front of his coat.

“Down on your knees,” he said.

Someone pushed him from behind. He was jerked off his feet.

He closed his eyes.

Like this, he thought.

In the public street.

Then he heard his name called: not across eternity, but in his very physical and temporal ear.

Two pairs of hands hauled him to his feet.

He heard the cloth of his coat tear. Then oaths, a scream, the contact of a fist with the precarious arrangements of the human face. But when he opened his eyes he saw the dog-man, blood streaming from his nose, and a woman, as tall as dog-man, with blood running from her mouth. She said, “Attack women, would you? Come on then, sonny, let’s see what I can cut off with these.” From her skirts she produced what looked like a pair of tailor’s shears. Another woman, behind her, had the kind of little axe you use for splitting kindling.

By the time he had drawn breath, a dozen more women had swarmed out of a doorway. One had a crowbar, one a pikestaff, and they all had knives. They were shouting “Robespierre” and people were running out of the shops and houses to see.

The men with bayonets had been beaten away. Dog-man spat; blood and saliva hit the face of the woman general, “Spit, aristocrat,” she yelled. “Show me Lafayette, I’ll slit his belly and have him stuffed with chestnuts. Robespierre,” she yelled. “If we’ve got to have a King, we’ll have him.”

“King Robespierre,” the women yelled. “King Robespierre.”

The man was tall and balding, with a clean calico apron and a hammer in his hand. He was flailing with his other arm as he forced himself through the crowd. “I’m for you,” he bawled. “My house is here.” The women dropped back: “The carpenter Duplay,” one said, “a good patriot, a good master.”

Duplay shook the hammer at the Guardsmen and the women cheered: “Scum,” he said to the men. “Get back, scum.” He took Robespierre by the arm. “My house is here,” he repeated, “here, good citizen, quickly. This way.”

The women parted their ranks, reaching out, touching Robespierre as he passed. He followed Duplay, stooping through a little door cut in a high solid gate. Bolts slammed home.

In the yard, workmen stood in a knot. Another minute, it was clear, and they would have joined their master in the street. “Back to work, my good lads,” Duplay said. “And put your shirts on. I’m not sure that you show respect.”

“Oh no.” He tried to catch Duplay’s eye. They must not alter things because he had come. A thrush sang in a scrubby bush by the gate. The air smelt sweetly of new wood. Over there was the house. He knew what he would find behind that door. The carpenter Duplay put out a hand. It gripped his shoulder. “You’re safe now, boy,” Duplay said. He did not pull away.

A tall, plain woman in a dark dress came out of the side door. “Father,” she said, “what is the matter, we heard shouting, is there some trouble in the street?”

“Eleonore,” he said, “go in, and tell your mother that Citizen Robespierre has come to stay with us at last.”

On July 18, a detachment of police marched down the rue des Cordeliers, with orders to close down the Revolutions de France. They did not find the editor, but they found an assistant of his, who produced a gun. Shots were exchanged. The editor’s assistant was overpowered, beaten up and thrown into prison.

When the police arrived at the Charpentiers’ house at Fontenay-sous-Bois, they found only one man who—being the right age—might have been Georges-Jacques Danton. He was Victor Charpentier, Gabrielle’s brother. He was lying injured in a pool of blood by the time they discovered their mistake, but these were not the days to stand on niceties of conduct. Warrants were issued for the arrest of one Danton, advocate; Desmoulins, journalist; Freron, journalist; Legendre, master butcher.