In October our fulsome patriot Jerome Petion was elected Mayor of Paris. The other candidate was Lafayette. So deeply does the King’s wife detest the general, that she moved heaven and earth to secure Petion’s election- Petion, mark you, a republican. I hold it my best example yet of the political ineptitude of women.
It is just possible, of course, that Petion is on some royalist payroll that I don’t know about. Who can keep track these days? He is still convinced that the King’s sister fell in love with him on their journey back from Varennes. He has made himself ridiculous over that. I am surprised that Robespierre, who countenances no antics, has not reproved him. The new popular slogan, by the way, is “Petion or death!” Camille earned some filthy looks at the Jacobins by remarking audibly, “Not much of a choice.”
His sudden elevation has made Jerome quite dizzy, and he erred when he received Robespierre in state and forced him to sit through a banquet. Recently Camille said to Robespierre, “Come to supper, we have this marvelous champagne.” Robespierre replied, “Champagne is the poison of liberty.” What a way to talk to your oldest friend!
My failure to gain election to the new Assembly disappointed me. It occurred—forgive me if I sound like Robespierre—because of the number of people working against me; and because of our failure to amend the restrictive franchise. If I sought a mandate from the man in the street, I could be King if I wanted to.
And I never make claims I can’t substantiate.
I was disappointed for myself, and also for my friends. They had worked hard for me—Camille, of course, and especially Fabre—I am, nowadays, the single channel for the genius that was to inundate our age. Poor Fabre: but he is useful, and able in his way. And dedicated to the advancement of Danton, which is the trait in him I prefer above others.
I wished, in my turn, to obtain office so that I could be of service to them. I mean, by that, that I could help them to fulfill their political ambitions and augment their incomes. Don’t pretend to be shocked, or not more than is necessary for form’s sake. I assure you, as our wives say, it is always done. No one will seek office, unless there are proper rewards.
After the elections I went to Arcis for a while. Gabrielle is expecting her baby in February, and was in need of rest. There is nothing to do in Arcis unless one is fond of agricultural labor, and to my certain knowledge she is not. It seemed a good time to be away. Robespierre was in Arras (recruiting his provincial accent, I presume) and I thought that if he could leave the pot unwatched I could do the same. Paris was not particularly pleasant. Brissot, who has a lot of friends in the new Assembly, was busy collecting support for a policy of war against the European powers—a policy so staggeringly dangerous and inept that I became quite incoherent when I tried to argue with him.
I have now, under my roof at Arcis, my mother and my stepfather, my unmarried sister Pierrette, my old nurse, my great aunt, my sister Anne-Madeleine, her husband Pierre and their five children. The arrangement is a noisy one, but it gives me satisfaction to think that I can provide for my people in this way. I have concluded five purchases of land, including some woodland; I have leased out one of my farms, and bought more livestock. When I am in Arcis, you know, I never want to see Paris again.
Very soon my friends in the city decided that I should seek public office. Precisely, they wanted me to stand for the post of First Deputy Public Prosecutor. It is not that the post is of great intrinsic importance. My candidature is a way of announcing myself: of saying, “
To expound this plan to me, Camille and wife arrived in Arcis, with several weeks’ accumulated gossip and bags overflowing with newspaper cuttings, letters and pamphlets. Gabrielle greeted Lucile with something less than enthusiasm. She was then six months into her pregnancy, ungainly and easily tired. Lucile’s visit to the country had of course required a whole new wardrobe of very artful simplicity; she is becoming even more beautiful but, as Anne-Madeleine says, oh so thin.
The family, who regard Parisians as something akin to Red Indians, received them with guarded politeness. Then after a day or two, Anne-Madeleine simply added them to the number of her five children, who are fed on sight and conducted through the countryside on forced marches in an effort to subdue their spirits. After dinner one day Lucile remarked in conversation that she thought she might be pregnant. My mother slid her eyes round to Camille and said she would be surprised, very. I thought perhaps it was time to go back to Paris.
“When will you be home again?” Anne-Madeleine asked her brother.
“A few months—show you the baby.”
“I meant, for good.”
“Well, the state of the country—”
“What has that to do with us?”
“In Paris, you see, I have a certain position.”
“Georges-Jacques, you only told us that you were a lawyer.”
“Essentially, I am.”
“We thought that fees must be very high in Paris. We thought that you must be the top lawyer in the country.”
“Not quite that.”
“No, but you’re an important man. We didn’t realize what you did.”
“What do I do? If you’ve been talking to Camille, he exaggerates.”
“Aren’t you frightened?”
“What should I be frightened of?”
“You had to run away once. What happens next time things go wrong? People like us, we have our day—we might get to the top of the heap for a year or two, but it doesn’t last, it’s not in the nature of things that it should.”
“We are trying, you see, to alter the nature of things.”
“But couldn’t you come home now? You have land, you have what you want. Come back with your wife and let your children grow up with mine, as they ought, and bring that little girl and let her have her baby here—Georges, is
