brace himself, he put his hands on the rostrum; he found he could not take a grip, because his palms were slippery with sweat.
His quarry’s head was turned to him; but the light struck across his face, so that he was eyeless behind his tinted lenses. He seemed to wear no expression at all. Louvet launched himself forward, physically, as if he were going to jump: “I accuse you of having set yourself up as an object of idolatry: of having allowed people to name you in your presence as the only man who could save the nation—and of having said it yourself. I accuse you of aiming at being the supreme power.”
Whether he had finished, or he had simply paused—whatever the truth, the Mountain were yelling again, redoubling their volume, and he saw Danton shoot upwards from his seat and start forward as if to stride down the hall and settle the matter with his fists; he saw Danton’s friends on their feet, and Fabre holding his chief back in a theatrical parade of restraint. Louvet stepped down from the tribune. His shoulders had bowed, he had developed a sort of consumptive stoop; Robespierre was on his feet lightly, bouncily. He was back at the tribune, indicating by his manner that he’d not detain them; in his cool, even voice, he asked the House for time to prepare his defense. Danton would have strode to the rostrum, struck terror into them, torn the case to pieces, there and then; this was not Robespierre’s method. He made a sign to Danton, an inclination of the head, almost a bow; then left the chamber, a knot of Montagnards clustering about him, his brother Augustin clutching at his arm and saying the Gironde would murder him.
“A bad moment,” Legendre said. “Who would have expected it? I would not.”
Danton was very pale. The scar stood out on his face. “They are baiting me,” he said.
“Baiting
“Yes, me. If they strike at Robespierre they strike at me, if they take him on they must take me on too. Tell them this. Tell Brissot.”
They told Vergniaud, later. “I am not Brissot,” he said. “I am not a Brissotin. At least, I think not. They fling the word about like largesse to the poor. Still—we have not been kind to Danton. We have resented his power in the ministry, we have been rude about his friends. Some of us have allowed our wives to make personal remarks. We have demanded to see his accounts, which naturally makes him nervous. We have, take it all in all, failed to bang our foreheads on the floor. Yet I hardly thought he bore us a grudge. How dangerously naive.” He spread his hands. “But surely, in private, he and Robespierre have an antipathy for each other? Does that matter? Oh yes, it will matter, in the end.”
And Louvet: that was his big moment, and he met it damp with fright, trailing the Duke’s plaudits like a bad memory. He was just Louvet the novelist after all, lightweight, inconsiderable, the little tiger’s practice prey. Now they will be wondering why they let him do it, his friends who are vehement against Robespierre. The Plain saw only how Robespierre stepped aside, how he took his seat, how he signaled silence: no despot, that. But only I, Louvet thought, will know that I ended before I began, at the foot of the tribune—held in a look that turned my stomach above the sweet, encouraging, Judas smile.
“We regard him,” Mme. Duplay said, “as our son.”
“But in point of fact,” Charlotte Robespierre said, “he is my brother. Which is why, I am afraid, my claim on him takes precedence over any that you and your daughters imagine yourself to have.”
Mme. Duplay—mother of so many—could claim that she understood girls. She understood her mortally shy Victoire, her serious and awkward Eleonore and her pretty child-like Babette. She also understood Charlotte Robespierre. But she didn’t know what to do with her.
When Maximilien had said that his brother Augustin would be coming to Paris, he had asked her advice on the matter of his sister. At least, that’s what she thought he had done. He seemed to find it difficult to talk about the girl.
“What is she like?” She had been so curious, naturally. He never talked about his family. “Is she quiet, like you? What shall I expect?”
“Not too much,” he said, looking worried.
Maurice Duplay had insisted that the house had space for them all. And, indeed, there were two rooms unfurnished at present, never used. “Could we let your brother and sister go to strangers?” Maurice said. “No, we should all be together, as one family.”
The day came. They arrived at the gate. Augustin made a good first impression—a pleasant, capable boy, Madame thought, and he clearly couldn’t wait to see his brother. She opened her arms to receive the sweet-faced, lissom young thing that Max’s sister would be. Charlotte’s cold stare stabbed her with deadly equality. Her arms dropped.
“Perhaps we might go straight to our rooms,” Charlotte said. “We’re tired.”
The older woman’s cheeks burned as she led the way. Neither proud nor exacting, she was still used to deference—from her daughters, from her husband’s workmen. Charlotte had taken with her the tone used to an underservant.
She turned on the threshold. “Everything is very simple. Ours is a simple house.”
“So I see,” Charlotte said.
The floor was polished, the curtains were new, dear little Babette had arranged a vase of flowers. Mme. Duplay stood back, allowing Charlotte to walk in before her. “If there is any way in which we can make you more comfortable, please tell me.”
You could make me more comfortable, Charlotte’s face said, by dropping dead.
Maurice Duplay filled his pipe and addressed himself to the aroma of the tobacco. When Citizen Robespierre was in the house, or likely to come home soon, he never smoked, out of respect for his patriotic lungs. However, Augustin didn’t mind.
“Of course,” Duplay said at length, “she’s your sister. I shouldn’t criticize.”
“You can if you want,” Augustin said. “I suppose I ought to try to explain Charlotte to you. Max never will. He’s too good. He’s always trying to avoid thinking ill of people.”
“Is that so?” Duplay was mildly surprised, put it down to a proper fraternal blindness. Citizen Robespierre was open, just, equitable—but charity—no, that was not his strong point.
“I don’t remember our mother at all,” Augustin said. “Max does, but he never seemed to want to talk about
