eye, and smiled.
Another love affair, then, in the intervals of bloodletting. One finds time, one finds time.
When the Minister of War went to Belgium to investigate the situation there, Dumouriez arrested him, along with four of the Convention’s official representatives, and handed them over to the Austrians. Soon afterwards he put out a manifesto, announcing that he would march his armies on Paris to restore stability and the rule of law. His troops mutinied, and fired on him. With young General Egalite—Louis- Philippe, the Duke’s son—he crossed the Austrian lines. An hour later they were both prisoners of war.
Robespierre to the Convention: “I demand that all members of the Orleans family, known as Egalite, be brought before the Revolutionary Tribunal … . And that the Tribunal be made responsible for proceeding against all Dumouriez’s other accomplices … . Shall I name such distinguished patriots as Messieurs Vergniaud, Brissot? I rely on the wisdom of the Convention.”
You wouldn’t have thought the Convention had much wisdom, considering the scenes that followed. The Gironde had an arsenal of charges against Danton: lying, skulking, misappropriating funds. As he strode to the rostrum the Right screamed their favorite insult:
Robespierre looked down from the Mountain; his face was horrified. Danton gained the tribune, leaving a trail of casualties in his wake; he seemed stimulated by the disorder: “Daylight holds no fears for me!” he bawled across the benches of the Right. Philippe Egalite was aware that the colleagues on either side of him had slid further away, as if he were Marat. And here is Marat, limping towards the tribune as Danton stepped down.
He brushed past Danton; there was a flicker of contact between their eyes. He put his hand to the pistol in his belt, as if he were easing it for use. Turning his body almost sideways, he stretched one arm along the ledge of the tribune and surveyed his audience from behind it. Perhaps, Philippe Egalite thought, I shall never again see him do that.
Marat tilted his head back. He looked around the hall. Then, after a long-drawn, exquisite pause—he laughed.
“This man makes my blood run cold,” Deputy Lebas whispered to Robespierre. “It’s like meeting something in a graveyard.”
“Shh,” said Robespierre. “Listen.”
Marat reached up, pulled once at the red kerchief wrapped around his neck; this was the signal that the joke was over. He stretched out his arm again, fearfully leisured. When he spoke he sounded calm, dispassionate. His proposal was simply this: that the Convention abolish the deputies’ immunity from prosecution, so that they could put each other on trial. The Right and the Left glared at each other, each deputy imagining for his personal enemies a procession to Dr. Guillotin’s beheading machine. Two deputies of the Mountain, sitting a few feet apart, turned and looked at each other; their eyes met, then darted away in shock. No one looked Philippe in the face. Marat’s motion was carried, supported from all sides.
Citizens Danton and Desmoulins left the Convention together, applauded by a crowd that had gathered outside. They walked home. It was a clear, chilly April evening. “I could wish myself elsewhere,” Danton said.
“What are we going to do about Philippe? We can’t just throw him to Marat.”
“We might find some comfortable provincial fortress to put him in for the while. He’ll be safer in gaol than he will be at large in Paris.”
They were in their own district by now, the republic of the Cordeliers. The streets were quiet; news of the scenes in the Convention would soon leak out, and news of the Convention’s fearful decree. Elsewhere, deputies were limping home to nurse their contusions and sprains. Did everyone go slightly mad this afternoon, perhaps? Citizen Danton did have the air of a man who had been in a fight; but then he often had that air.
They stopped outside the Cour du Commerce. “Coming up for a glass of blood, Georges-Jacques? Or shall I open the burgundy?”
They went up, decided on the burgundy, sat on till after midnight. Camille scribbled down the salient points of the pamphlet he was planning to write. Salient points were not enough though; each word must be a little knife, and it would take him a few weeks yet to sharpen them.
Manon Roland was back in her old cramped apartment on the rue de la Harpe. “Good morning, good morning,” Fabre d’Eglantine said.
“We did not invite you here.”
“Ah, no.” Fabre seated himself, crossing his legs. “Citizen Roland not at home?”
“He is taking a short walk. For the state of his health.”
“How is his health?” Fabre inquired.
“Not good, I’m afraid. We hope the summer may not be too hot.”
“Ah,” Fabre said. “Warm weather, cold weather, they all have their demerits for the invalid, don’t they? We feared as much. When one noticed that Citizen Roland’s letter of resignation from the Ministry was in your hand, one said to Danton, it must be that Citizen Roland is unwell. Danton said—but never mind.”
“Perhaps you have a message to leave for my husband.”
“No, for I didn’t come specifically, you see, to talk to Citizen Roland—but merely for a few minutes of your charming company. And to find Citizen Buzot here with you is an added pleasure. You are often together, aren’t you? You must be careful, or you will be suspected of”—he chuckled—“conspiracy. But then, I think a friendship between a young man and an older woman can be a very beautiful thing. So Citizen Desmoulins always says.”
“Unless you state your business very soon,” Buzot said, “I may throw you out.”
“Really?” Fabre said. “I was hardly aware that we had reached that pitch of hostility. Do sit down, Citizen Buzot, there’s no need to be so physical.”
“As president of the Jacobin Club,” she said, “Marat has presented to the Convention a petition for the proscription of certain deputies. One is Citizen Buzot, whom you see here. Another is my husband. They want us in front of your Tribunal. Ninety six people have signed this. What pitch of hostility is that?”
