He could be himself now … that is to say, as different from Hebert as one could imagine. He need make no concession to street language, he need not rant, he need not present himself as Marat’s heir; though still he thought of Simone’s plump body slumped in his arms, and of the fashion plate who killed his friend. Forget Marat, and the black distress he bred; he’s going to create a new, Ultima Thule atmosphere, very plain, very bright, every word translucent, smooth. The air of Paris is like dried blood; he will (with Robespierre’s permission and approval) make us feel that we breathe ice, silk and wine.
“By the way,” Deputy Philippeaux said, “did you know that de Sade has been arrested?”
“Deputy Philippeaux, Deputy Philipeaux,” Robespierre said. “Returning from mission, he attacks the conduct of the war. The commanders in the Vendee,” he flicked open Philippeaux’s little publication, “are the commanders who Hebert has in his pocket, and legitimate objects of suspicion. If we except Westermann, who is Danton’s friend. Unfortunately,” he reached for his pen, “Deputy Philippeaux doesn’t stop there.” He bent his head, began to underline certain phrases. “He levels accusations at the Committee, as the Committee has ultimate responsibility for the war. He seems to say that it would have been over a lot sooner, if it hadn’t been kept going to line people’s pockets.”
“Philippeaux has been a great deal with Danton and Camille,” the committeeman said. “I only mention it.”
“It’s the kind of thesis that would appeal to Camille,” Robespierre said. “Do you believe it? Oh, I don’t know.”
“You question the good faith of your colleagues on the Committee?”
“Yes, actually,” Robespierre said. “Yet I’m quite persuaded of the need to keep the Committee functioning. Stories are coming back from Lyon about the doings of our friend Collot. They say that he has taken his orders to punish rebels as meaning he should massacre the populace.”
“Oh, they say.”
Robespierre put his fingertips together. “Collot is an actor, isn’t he, a theatrical producer? Once he would have had to satisfy himself by putting on plays about earthquakes and multiple murders. Now he can enact what he dreams. Four years of Revolution, Citizen … and everywhere the same greed, pettiness and egoism, the same brutal indifference to the suffering of others and the same diabolic thirst for blood. I simply can’t fathom the depth of people.” He rested his forehead on his hand. His colleague stared at him, stunned. “Meanwhile,” he said, “what is Danton doing? Can he be encouraging Deputy Philippeaux?”
“He would do it—if he saw some temporary advantage. The Committee must silence Philippeaux.”
“No need.” He stabbed his pen at the printed page. “You see he attacks Hebert? Hebert will do it for us. Let him make himself useful, for once.”
“But you allow Camille to attack Hebert, here in his second issue. Oh,” the committeeman said. “Both ends against the middle? You are clever, aren’t you?”
Decree of the National Convention:
The Executive Council, the ministers, generals and all constituted bodies, are placed under the supervision of the Committee of Public Safety.
CAMILLE: I don’t see why I should expect any plaudits for the third issue. Anyone could have done it. It’s a kind of translation. I was reading Tacitus, on the reign of the Emperor Tiberius. I said to de Sade that it was the same, and I checked it, and it was. Our lives now are what the annalist describes: whole families wiped out by the executioner, men committing suicide to save themselves from being dragged through the streets like common criminals; men denouncing their friends to save their own skins; the corruption of all human feeling, the degradation of pity to a crime. I remember when I first read it, years and years ago; and Robespierre will remember when he first read it too.
There didn’t seem much to add—it was enough to bring the text to the public’s attention. Take out the names of these Romans, and substitute instead—in your own mind—the names of Frenchmen and women, the names of people you know, people who live on your street, people whose fate you have seen and whose fate you may soon share.
Of course I have had to rearrange the text a bit—bugger about with it, as Hebert would say. I didn’t show it to Robespierre. Yes, I imagine it will be a shock to him. But a salutary one, don’t you think? I mean, if he recognizes this state of affairs, he will have to think of his own part in creating it. It seems ridiculous to say that Robespierre is a Tiberius, and of course that isn’t what I’m saying; but with a certain sort of man about him—yes indeed, I do mean Saint-Just—I don’t know what he might become.
There is a description in Tacitus of the Emperor “without pity, without anger, resolutely closing himself against the inroad of emotion.”
This seemed familiar.
The “Old Cordelier,” No. 3:
As soon as words had become crimes against the state, it was only a small step to transform into offenses mere glances, sorrow, compassion, sighs, even silence … .
It was a crime against the state that Libonius Drusus asked the fortune tellers if he would ever be rich … . It was a crime against the state that one of Cassius’ descendants had a portrait of his ancestor in his house. Mamercus Scaurus committed a crime by writing a tragedy in which certain verses were capable of a double meaning. It was a crime against the state that the mother of the consul Furius Geminus mourned for the death of her son … . It was necessary to rejoice at the death of a friend or relative, if one wished to escape death oneself.
Was a citizen popular? He might start a faction. Suspect.
Did he try instead to retreat from public life? Suspect.
Are you rich? Suspect.
Are you—to all appearances—poor? You must be hiding something. Suspect.
Are you melancholy? The state of the nation must upset you. Suspect.
Are you cheerful? You must be rejoicing at national calamities. Suspect.
Are you a philosopher, an orator or a poet? Suspect.
“You didn’t show me this,” Robespierre said. His voice was toneless. The breeze whipped the last of the year’s dead leaves past his face. He caught one, and held it up between finger and thumb so that its veins were sharply exposed against the afternoon light. It had been a fine day; sunset was liquid and crimson; the last rays touched the river in a manner more sinister than picturesque.
“Like blood,” Camille said. “Well, that is what it would suggest. I didn’t keep anything from you. You probably have Tacitus on your bookshelves.”
“You are being disingenuous.”
