than justice, prompt, stern and inflexible; it is not so much a particular principle as a consequence of the general principle of democracy applied to the most urgent needs of our country … . The government of the Revolution is the despotism of liberty against the tyrants.
MAXIMILIEN ROBESPIERRE
In a word, during these reigns, the natural death of a famous man was so rare that it was gazetted as an event and handed down to posterity by the historians. Under one consulate, says the annalist, there was a Pontiff called Pisonius, who died in his bed; this was regarded as a marvel.
CAMILLE DESMOULINS
CHAPTER 1
“Father-in-law!” Camille gives a cry of delight. He points to Claude. “You see,” he invites the company, “never throw anything away. Any object, however outworn and old-fashioned, may prove to have its uses. Now, Citizen Duplessis, tell me, in short simple sentences, or verse, or comic song, how to run a ministry.”
“This is beyond my nightmares,” Claude says.
“Oh, they haven’t given me my own ministry—not quite yet—there will have to be a few more catastrophes before that happens. The news is this—Danton is Minister of Justice and Keeper of the Seals, and Fabre and I are his secretaries.”
“An actor.” Claude says. “And you. I do not like Danton. But I am sorry for him.”
“Danton is leader of the Provisional Government, so I must try to run the ministry for him, Fabre will not bother. Oh, I must write and tell my father, give me some paper quick. No, wait, I’ll write to him from the ministry, I’ll sit behind my big desk and send it under seal.”
“Claude,” Annette says, “where are your manners? Say congratulations.”
Claude shudders. “One point. A technicality. The Minister of Justice is also Keeper of the Seals, but he is only one person. He has always had the one secretary. Always.”
“Cheeseparing!” Camille says. “Georges-Jacques is above it! We shall be moving to the Place Vendome! We shall be living in a palace!”
“Dear Father, don’t take it so badly,” Lucile begs.
“No, you don’t understand,” Claude tells her. “He has arrived now, he is the Establishment. Anyone who wants to make a revolution has to make it against him.”
Claude’s sense of dislocation is more acute than on the day the Bastille fell. So is Camille’s, when he thinks about what Claude has said. “No, that’s not true at all. There are plenty of good battles ahead. There’s Brissot’s people.”
“You like a good battle, don’t you?” Claude says. Briefly, he imagines an alternative world; into cafe conversation he drops the phrase “my son-in-law, the secretary.” The reality is, however, that his life has been wasted; thirty years of diligence have never made him intimate with a secretary, but now he is forced into intimacy by his mad womenfolk and the way they have decided to run their lives. Look at them all, rushing to give the secretary a kiss. He could, he supposes, cross the room and pat the secretary on the head; has he not seen the secretary sit, neck bent, while the minister-elect, discoursing on some patriotic theme, runs distrait strangler’s fingers through his curls? Will the minister do this in front of his civil servants? Claude takes an easy decision against any such display of affection. He glares at his son-in-law. Look at him—couldn’t you just commit violence? There he sits, lashes lowered, eyes on the carpet. What is he thinking? Is it anything a secretary should be thinking, at all?
Camille regards the carpet, but imagines Guise. The letter that he means to write is, in his mind, already written. Invisible, he floats across the Place des Armes. He melts through the closed front door of the narrow white house. He insinuates his presence into his father’s study. There, on the desk, lies the
Yes, indeed—this is Vol. VI. On top of it lies a letter from Paris. In whose handwriting? In his own! In the handwriting his publishers complain of, in his own inimitable script! The door opens. In comes his father. How does he look? He looks as when Camille last saw him: he looks spare, gray, severe and remote.
He sees the letter. But wait, stop—how did it get there, how did it come to be lying on top of the
All right, start again.
Jean-Nicolas climbs the stairs. Camille (in ghost form) drifts up behind him. Jean-Nicolas has a letter in his hand. He peers at it; it is the familiar, semi-legible handwriting of his eldest son.
Does he want to read it? No—not especially. But the rest of the household is calling up the stairs, what’s the news from Paris?
He unfolds it. With a little difficulty, he reads—but he will not mind the difficulty, when he comes to the news his son has to impart.
Amazement, glory! My son’s best friend (well, one of his two best friends) is made a Minister! My son is to be his secretary! He is to live in a palace!
Jean-Nicolas clasps the letter to his shirt front—an inch above his waistcoat, and to the left, above his heart. We have misjudged the boy! After all, he was a genius! I will run at once, tell everyone in town—they will be sick with spleen, they will look green, and puke with unadorned jealousy. Rose-Fleur’s father will be ill with grief. Just think, she might now be the secretary’s wife.
But no, no, Camille thinks—this is not at all how it will be. Will Jean-Nicolas seize his pen, dash off his congratulations? Will he toss his hat upon his severe gray locks, and dash out to waylay the neighbors? The hell he will. He’ll stare at the letter—going, oh no, oh no! He’ll think, what unimaginable form of behavior has procured this favor for my son? And pride? He’ll not feel pride. He’ll just feel suspicious, aggrieved. He’ll get a vague nagging pain
