cravat; or they will jettison these marks of the polite man, when the temperature rises. They affect the style of men who begin their mornings with a splash under a backyard pump, and who stop off at their street-corner bar for a nip of spirits on their way to ten hours’ manual labor. Citizen Robespierre, however, is a breathing rebuke to these men; he retains his buckled shoes, his striped coat of olive green. Can it be the same coat that he wore in the first year of the Revolution? He is not profligate with coats. While Citizen Danton tears off the starched linen that fretted his thick neck, Citizen Saint-Just’s cravat grows ever higher, stiffer, more wonderful to behold. He affects a single earring, but he resembles less a corsair than a slightly deranged merchant banker.
The Section committees sit in disused churches. Republican slogans are scrawled in black paint on the walls. From these committees you obtain your card of citizenship, with a note of your address, employment, age and appearance: a copy is forwarded to City Hall.
Women hawkers go from door to door, with big baskets of linen for sale; under the linen are fresh eggs and butter, which are far more desirable. The men in the wood yards are always on strike for more pay, and firewood costs twice what it did in ’89. Poultry may be obtained, at midnight and for a price, in an alley at the back of the Cafe du Foy.
A child passed by the market, carrying a loaf; a woman who had the tricolor cockade in her hat threw him down, seized the bread, tore it into pieces and threw it away, saying that, since she had none, she did not want others to have any. The citizenesses of the market pointed out to her the stupidity of such an act; she screamed abuse at them, telling them that they were all aristocrats, and soon all women over thirty years of age would be guillotined.
Robespierre sat propped up on four pillows. Convalescent now, he looked young again. His curly red-brown hair was unpowdered. There were papers all over the bed. The room smelt faintly of orange peel.
“Dr. Souberbielle says, no, no, you must not eat oranges, Citizen. But I can’t eat anything else. He says, your addiction to citrus fruits is such that I cannot be responsible for you. Marat sent me a note—Cornelia, my dear, could you get me some more cold water? But very cold, I mean?”
“Of course.” She reached for the jug, bustled out.
“Well done,” Camille said.
“Yes, but I have to keep thinking of increasingly difficult things I want. I always told you that women were nothing but a damned nuisance.”
“Yes, but your experience was only academic then.”
“Bring your chair over here. I can’t raise my voice much. I don’t know what we’re going to do in the new hall, I know it was a theater but it’s no better. The only people we’ll be able to hear are Georges-Jacques and Legendre. It was bad enough at Versailles, and then the Riding School, and now this—I’ve had a sore throat for four years.”
“Don’t talk about it. I have to speak at the Jacobins tonight.”
His pamphlet against Brissot was already in the press, and the club—tonight—would vote to reprint and distribute it. But they wanted to see and hear him. Robespierre understood: one must be seen and heard. “I can’t afford to be ill,” he said. “What about Brissot, has he been seen around much?”
“No.”
“Vergniaud?”
“No.”
“If they’re so quiet they must be plotting something.”
“There’s your sister Charlotte arriving downstairs. Why can I hear everything today?”
“Maurice has stopped the men working. He thinks I have a headache. That’s good, anyway. Eleonore will have to stay downstairs to see that Charlotte doesn’t come up.”
“Poor Charlotte.”
“Yes, but poor Eleonore, too, I suppose. While I think about it, you might ask Danton not to be so rude about her. I know she’s rather plain, but every girl has a right to conceal that fact from people who haven’t seen her. Danton keeps telling people. Ask him not to talk about her.”
“Send another messenger.”
“Tell me,” Robespierre said irritably, “why doesn’t he come to see me? Danton, I mean. Tell him from me that he’s got to make this Committee work. They’re all patriots, he must mobilize them. The only thing that will save us now is a strong central authority—the ministers are ciphers, the Convention is factious, so it must be the Committee.”
“Hush,” Camille said. “Think of your throat.”
“The Gironde are trying to make the country ungovernable by stirring up the provinces against us, and the Committee must keep a close watch—tell him the ministers mustn’t do anything without the Committee’s say-so. He must have a written report every day from every
“Max, I know you’re frustrated because you want to make a speech—but you’re supposed to be taking a complete rest, aren’t you? Of course one doesn’t mind the Committee having such power, if it’s run by Danton. But the Committee is elective, isn’t it?”
“If he wants to stay elected, then he will. How is he, by the way? I mean, in himself?”
“Brooding.”
“He will think of marrying again, I suppose.”
Maurice Duplay opened the door. “Your water,” he whispered. “Sorry. Eleonore—I mean Cornelia—is downstairs entertaining your sister. You don’t want to see her, do you? No, of course you don’t. How’s your head?”
“I haven’t got a headache,” Robespierre said loudly.
“Shh. We have to get him back on his feet,” Duplay hissed at Camille. “It’s a pity he’ll miss hearing you tonight. I’ll be there.” Camille put his hands over his face. Duplay patted him on the shoulder and tiptoed out. “Don’t make him laugh,” he mouthed from the doorway.
