A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

He opened his eyes. “And?”

“Chabot took me aside. He said, ‘I’ve burned everything, you know.’ I imagine that was a message I was meant to pass on to you.”

Danton hunched his body forward. Attention broke into his eyes: like the shattering of glass. “Fabre?”

“Fabre has been panicking.”

“Fabre has an excitable temperament.”

“So have I, Georges-Jacques, so have 1. What am I expected to do? I think Fabre has committed a forgery. When the East India Company was liquidated, I think certain documents were falsified in the company’s interests. These documents were decrees of the Convention, and only a deputy would be able to do it. Chabot is involved, perhaps half a dozen other people. They themselves don’t know, I think, who did the actual falsification. Julien might blame Chabot, Chabot might blame Julien. They have secrets, one from the other.”

“But Fabre has confessed to you?”

“He’s tried. I won’t let him. I tell him I mustn’t know. What I am telling you is just what I have been able to work out. It will take longer for the police to come to their conclusions. And to collect evidence, that will take longer still.”

Danton closed his eyes. “The harvest will be in,” he said. “We have nothing to do but to keep ourselves warm for the winter.”

“There are other things you should know.”

“Get them over with.”

“Francois Robert is in trouble. Does she tell you nothing?”

“She wouldn’t know that was important, either. He isn’t involved in this?”

“No—it’s the most ridiculous thing—he’s been accused of dealing on the black market. Eight barrels of rum. For his shop.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Danton said. He hit the arm of his chair. “You offer them a chance to make history, and they prefer to remain grocers.”

Louise ran in. “You were not to upset him!”

“I line their pockets. I don’t ask them to exert themselves. I raise them to office and I accede to their little whims. All I ask is their vote, an occasional speech—and that if they choose to become petty criminals they leave me out of it.”

“The rum is petty. The East India Company is not. But still, Francois Robert is our associate. It reflects on us. Will you send your wife away, please?”

“You were told to keep calm,” she said mutinously.

“You can leave us, Louise. I’ll be calm. I promise. I’m quite calm now.”

“What are you trying to keep from me?”

“No one is keeping anything from you,” Camille said. “It is not worth the trouble.”

“She’s a child. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know who these people are.”

“It was our own Section, the Cordeliers, who denounced Francois. The Convention agreed with you that it was petty. They refused to lift his immunity. Otherwise—the penalties are severe. He and Louise will have to creep away now and try to be forgotten.”

“What a way to end up,” Danton said. His expression was morose. “I think back to those days after the Bastille fell, the Mercure Nationale run from the back of the shop, that little Louise sticking her well-bred nose in the air and flouncing off to bawl out their printer—and you know, he was a good lad, Francois. I’d say, ‘Go and do this, this, this, go and tie some bricks to your boots and jump in the Seine,’ and he‘d”—Danton touched an imaginary forelock—‘right away, Georges-Jacques, and do you need any shopping while I’m out?’ Jesus, what a way to end up. When you see him, tell him I’d be obliged if he forgets he knows me.

“I don’t see him,” Camille said.

“Our own Section, Camille. Oh, I should have left the Jacobins to Robespierre, and stayed on my own side of the river. I should have hung on to power in my own district. Who runs it now? Hebert. We old Cordeliers should have stuck together.”

They were silent for a moment. We old Cordeliers … It’s four years since the Bastille fell, four years and three months. It feels like twenty. Danton sits here, overweight, his brow permanently furrowed, God knows what going on amid his internal organs. Robespierre’s asthma is worse, and one can’t help noticing that his hairline is receding. Herault’s fresh complexion is not so fresh as it used to be, and the double chin on which Lucile passed a damning judgement promises a jowly, disappointing middle age. Fabre has developed breathing difficulties; as for Camille, his headaches are worse, and he can hardly keep any flesh on his small bones. He looks up at Danton now: “Georges-Jacques, do you know a man called Comte? Just tell me yes or no.”

“Yes. I employed him as an agent in Normandy, on government business. Why?”

“Because he has turned up here in Paris and made a certain allegation. That you were in league with Brissot’s people, to put the Duke of York on our throne.”

“The Duke of York? Lord,” Danton said bitterly, “I thought only Robespierre could dream up anything so wholly fantastic as the Duke of York.”

“Robespierre was deeply disturbed.”

Danton looked up slowly. “He gave it credence?”

“No, of course not. He said it was a conspiracy to discredit a patriot. It is a good thing that we still have Herault on the Committee, though. He had Comte arrested before he could do anymore damage. It was because of this that David called on you, on behalf of the Police Committee. Just a formality.”