A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

the hall of the Convention was a dull roar, punctuated by the occasional scream. “You get hold of it.” His fingers made a motion of folding themselves around something: a throat? “As a September murderer, I have never felt so popular.”

Robespierre began to say something.

“You’ll have to speak up,” Danton said.

They were in one of the little rooms, bare and dusty, entered from the warren of dark passages that led from the debating chamber. They were alone, but they did not feel it, because of the tumult and close press of the mob; it was almost possible to smell them. Camille and Fabre effaced themselves against the dank far wall. September 5, 1793: the sansculottes are holding among their representatives a demonstration, or riot.

“I said, Danton, why are you leaning against the door?”

“To stop Saint-Just getting in,” Danton said swiftly. Never explain. Robespierre opened his mouth. “Now be quiet,” Danton said. “Hebert and Chaumette organized this.”

Robespierre shook his head.

“Oh well,” Danton said, “there may be a measure of truth in that. Maybe the sansculottes organized themselves, and that is a precedent I dislike. So make sure we stay ahead of events. Wrap up their demands in one package and give them back as a present from the Mountain. Economic controls, price maximums—very well. Arrest of suspects, very well. Then we stop there—no interference with private property. Yes, Fabre, I know what the businessmen will think of the economic controls, but this is an emergency, we have to give way, and why should I justify myself to you?”

“We have to present a moving target to Europe,” Robespierre said quietly.

“What did you say?”

Nothing: Robespierre waved it away, tense and out of patience.

“You have come around to the idea of interning suspects—Camille, the definition must wait. Yes, I know it is the heart of it, but I need a piece of paper for framing legislation. Will you keep quiet? I won’t listen to you now.”

“Will you listen to me?” Robespierre shouted at him. Danton stopped. He looked at Robespierre warily.

“All right. Go on.”

“Tomorrow the Committee is due for re-election. We want to add to it Collot d’Herbois and Billaud-Varennes. They are giving us a lot of trouble, criticizing us all the time. We can’t think of any other way of keeping them quiet. Yes, I know it is a craven policy. We need our spines stiffening, don’t we? The Committee wants you back.”

“No.”

“Please, Danton,” Fabre said.

“I’ll give you all the support you need. I’ll press for extension of your powers. Just tell me what you want from the Convention and I’ll fix it. But I won’t sit with you. The business wears me down. God blast it, can’t you see? I’m not the type for committees. I like to work on my own, I have an instinct and I like to act on it, I hate your bloody agenda and your minutes and your procedures.”

“Your attitude is extremely exasperating,” Robespierre yelled at him.

The noise from outside increased. Danton nodded his head in its direction. “Let me handle this for you. I’m probably the only one who can make his voice heard out there.”

“I resent you—” Robespierre said. His words were lost. “The People,” he shouted, “are everywhere good, and if they obstruct the Revolution—even, for example, at Toulon—we must blame their leaders.”

“What are you going on about this for?” Danton asked him.

Fabre launched himself from the wall. “He is trying to enunciate a doctrine,” he shrieked. “He thinks the time has come for a bloody sermon.

“If only,” Robespierre yelled, “there were more vertu.”

“More what?”

“Vertu. Love of one’s country. Self-sacrifice. Civic spirit.”

“One appreciates your sense of humor, of course.” Danton jerked his thumb in the direction of the noise. “The only vertu those bastards understand is the kind I demonstrate every night to my wife.”

Robespierre’s face crumpled, like a child’s on the verge of tears. He followed Danton out into the dark passage.

“You wish he hadn’t said that, don’t you?” Fabre inquired. He gently prized Camille from the wall.

Maximilien Robespierre, private notebooks: “Danton laughed at the idea of vertu, comparing it to what he did every night with his wife.”

When Danton began to speak, the demonstrators cheered; the deputies stood up and applauded. It was some moments before he could continue. Shock and gratification chased each other across his face; now what have I done right? Once again he exhorted, conceded, unified, endorsed—saved the day. The day following, when he was elected once more to the Committee, Robespierre called at his house. Stiff- featured, he sat on the very edge of his chair and refused refreshment. “I have come to urge you to see your duty,” he said. “If the word retains any meaning for you.”

Danton was in a good humor. “Don’t run away, Louise. You’ve never met Citizen Robespierre face-to-face, have you?”

“I am sick of this taunting,” Robespierre said. He choked the words out, and at the same time his left eyelid began to jump in spasm. He took off his spectacles and pressed his fingers to it.

“You’ll have to calm down,” Danton said. “Think of Camille, living all his life with a stutter. Though I confess Camille’s stutter has considerably more charm.”