A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

CHAPTER 5

Burning the Bodies

August 7: “Gone?” Fabre said. “Danton’s gone?”

Catherine Motin rolled her eyes. “Listen to me once more, Monsieur. Mme. Danton has gone to Fontenay to her parents, and M. Danton has gone to Arcis. If you don’t believe me you can step around the corner and ask M. Desmoulins. Because I’ve already had the same conversation with him.”

Fabre tore out of the street door and through the Cour du Commerce and onto the rue des Cordeliers, then into the other door of the same building and up the stairs. He thought, why don’t Georges-Jacques and Camille knock a hole through the wall? Really, it would be easier if we lived under one roof.

Lucile was sitting with her feet up, reading a novel and eating an orange. “Here you are,” she said, offering him a segment.

“Where is he?” Fabre demanded.

“Georges-Jacques? Gone to Arcis.”

“But why, why, why? Mother of God! Where’s Camille?”

“He’s lying on our bed. I think he’s crying.”

Fabre burst into the bedroom, stuffing the segment of orange into his mouth. He hurled himself at the bed and Camille. “No, please, don’t, please,” Camille said. He covered his head with his hands. “Don’t beat me up, Fabre, I feel ill. I can’t take this.”

“What’s Danton up to? Come on, you must know.”

“He’s gone to see his mother. His mother. I didn’t know till this morning. No message, no letter, nothing. I can’t cope.”

“The fat bastard,” Fabre said. “I bet he’s planning to stay away.”

“I’m going to kill myself,” Camille said.

Fabre rolled from the bed. He propelled himself back into the drawing room. “I can’t get any sense out of him. He says he’s going to kill himself. What shall we do?”

Lucile inserted her bookmark and laid her novel aside. It was clear that she would get no further with it. “Georges told me he would be back, and I have no reason to disbelieve him—but perhaps you’d like to sit down here and write him a letter? Tell him you can’t manage the thing without him, which is true. Tell him Robespierre says he can’t get along without him. And when you’re done, you might go and find Robespierre and ask him to call. He is such a steadying influence when Camille is killing himself.”

Sure enough, August 9, 9 a.m., Danton is back. “No point in being in a temper with me. A man must settle his affairs. It’s a dangerous business, this.”

“Your affairs have been settled more times than I can count,” Fabre said.

“Well, you see, I keep on getting richer.”

He kissed his wife on top of her head. “Will you unpack for me, Gabrielle?”

“You have got that right?” Fabre said. “Unpack, not pack?”

Camille said, “We thought you’d run out on us again.”

“What do you mean, again?” He grabbed Camille by the wrist and pulled him across the room, scooped up his small son Antoine in one arm. “Oh, I have missed you, my loves,” he said. “It’s been all of two days. Why are you here, hm?” he asked the child. “You should be out of town.”

“He cried to come home,” Gabrielle said. “I couldn’t settle him last night till I promised he’d see you today. My mother is coming to fetch him this afternoon.”

“Splendid woman, splendid. Child-minding in the cannon’s mouth.”

“Will you stop being so bloody hearty?” Camille asked. “You make me feel sick.”

“Country air,” Danton said. “Got lots of energy now. You should get out of Paris more often. Poor Camille.” Danton pulled Camille’s head into his shoulder and stroked his hair. “He’s scared, scared, scared.”

Twelve noon. “Only twelve hours now,” Danton said. “I give you my word.”

Two p.m. Marat came. He looked dirtier than ever. As if in sympathy with his work, his skin had taken on the color of poor-quality newsprint.

“There are other places we could have met,” Danton said. “I didn’t ask you here. I don’t want my wife and child given nightmares.”

“You will be pleased to invite me, afterwards. Besides, who knows—I might clean myself up under the republic. Now,” he said briskly. (He always allowed a certain amount of time for personal abuse.) “Now. I suspect the Brissotins of trying to make a deal with the Court. They have been talking to Antoinette, and this I can prove. Nothing they do at this stage can harm us, but the question arises of what we do with them afterwards.”

This word keeps intruding into conversations: afterwards.

Danton shook his head. “I find it hard to believe. Roland’s wife wouldn’t be party to a deal. She got them kicked out of office, remember? I can’t see her talking to Antoinette.”

“Lying, am I?” Marat said.

“I admit that some of them would be willing to negotiate. They want their positions back. It just goes to show that there’s no such thing as a Brissotin.”