child’s writing—the ancient, wavering hand—had given Citizen Fouquier a moment’s disquiet. “One has children oneself,” he murmured. Citizen Robespierre had done more than murmur. “That fool Hebert!” he said, enraged. “Has any more unlikely allegation come before a court in our lifetime? Depend on it—he’ll save the woman yet.”
I wonder, Fouquier thought, what sort of a lawyer was Citizen Robespierre, when he practiced? A bleeding heart, I’ll be bound.
He was turning back to his cousin when President Hermann appeared, crossing the hall from the darkness into the pool of candlelight that bathed the lawyers, the prisoner’s chair and the empty place where the witnesses stood. The president held up one finger for Fouquier to follow him.
“Have a word with Chauveau-Lagarde,” Fouquier said. “Poor devil, he defended the Marat girl too. I doubt his career will ever recover.”
Lagarde looked up. “Camille—what are you doing here? I wouldn’t be here if I could be anywhere else.” Still, he was glad to see him. He was tired of trying to talk to his client. She was not forthcoming.
“Where else should I be? Some of us have waited a long time for this day.”
“Yes—well, if it suits you.”
“I should think it suits us all to see treason punished.”
“You’re pre-judging. The jury is still out.”
“There’s no chance the Republic will lose this case,” Camille said. He smiled. “They do give you all the best jobs, don’t they?”
“No lawyer in Paris has more experience of impossible defenses.” Lagarde was twenty-eight years old; he tried to put the best face on things. “I asked for mercy,” he said. “What else could I do? She was accused of being what she was. She was charged with having existed. There was no defense to the charges. Even if there had been—they gave me the indictment on Sunday night, and said you’re in court tomorrow morning. I asked your cousin for three days. No chance. When her husband was tried, those were more leisurely times. And when she goes to her death, she’ll go in a cart.”
“The closed carriage was somewhat undemocratic, I feel. This is something the people have a right to see.”
Lagarde looked at him sideways. “Hard bastards they breed in your part of the country.” Yet one could understand them, he thought, one could find them—it was a sign of the times—quite reassuring: deadpan Fouquier, lawyer’s lawyer, and his volatile, highly placed relative who had got him the job. One could find them preferable to some of the Republic’s servants—preferable to Hebert, with his obscene mouthings, his maggot whiteness. There had been times during yesterday’s session when he had felt physically sick.
“I know who you’re thinking of,” Camille said. “That expression commonly crosses people’s faces. I suspect that Hebert has laid his paws on War Office money, and if I find the proof he’ll be one of your next big clients.”
Fouquier hurried over. “The jury is returning,” he said. “My commiserations in advance, Lagarde.”
The prisoner was helped across the hall to her chair. One moment she was in darkness; the next moment, light struck her lined and shattered face.
“She seems old,” Camille said. “She seems hardly able to see where she’s going. I didn’t know her eyesight was so poor.”
“I can hardly be blamed for that,” the Public Prosecutor said. “Though no doubt,” he added with foresight, “when I am dead, people will blame me for it. Excuse me, cousin, please.”
The verdict was unanimous. Leaning forward, Hermann asked the prisoner if she had anything to say. The former Queen of France shook her head. Her fingers moved impatiently on the arm of her chair. Hermann pronounced the death sentence.
The court rose. Guards moved forward to take the prisoner out. Fouquier didn’t watch her go. His cousin hurried to help him with his pile of papers. “Easy day tomorrow,” Fouquier said. “Here, take these. Somehow you’d think that the Public Prosecutor would have a clerk available.”
Hermann nodded civilly to Camille, and Fouquier bade the president good night. Camille’s eyes were on the widow Capet’s shuffling withdrawal. “It hardly seems much, really, to be the summit of our ambitions. Cutting some dreary woman’s head off.”
“I swear you are changeable, Camille. I’ve never known you to give the Austrian a good word. Come. I usually preserve my dignity in my official carriage, but I need some air. Unless you are reporting to Robespierre?”
He was always proud of his cousin, when they were together in public. Especially when he saw him with Danton—he noted those private allusions they shared, the jokes, the sidelong glances, and he saw, as often as not, Danton’s beefy arm draped around his cousin, or his cousin in some late-night public assembly close his dangerous eyes and lean comfortably against Danton’s shoulder. With Robespierre, of course, it was not like that. Robespierre almost never touched anyone. His face was distant, aloof. But Camille could conjure onto it an expression of lively amiability; they shared memories, and possibly too they shared private jokes. People said—though this felt like a heresy—that they had seen Camille make Robespierre laugh.
Now his cousin shook his head. “Robespierre will be asleep now. Unless the committee is still sitting. It’s not as if there was any chance of your losing, is it?”
“God forbid.” Fouquier put his arm into his cousin’s, and they stepped out into the frosty early hours. A policeman saluted them. “The next big one is Brissot—and all of that crew we’ve managed to lay hold of. I base my prosecution on your writings—your ‘Secret History,’ and the other article you wrote about Brissot after you had that row about your gambling case. Good stuff: I’ll lift some of your phrases if you don’t mind. I hope you’ll be in court to take the credit.”
Think now of those post-Bastille days: Brissot in Camille’s office, perched on the desk. Theroigne swishing in and planting a big kiss on his dry cheek. He was my friend, Camille thinks; then along came the gambling case, and we were suddenly on opposite sides, he made it personal, and
“Come now,” the Prosecutor said. He did not understand in the least what his cousin was talking about, but
