A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

there. I know the building, you see. I went by a back way, and I found—forgive me—a keyhole—”

“I forgive you,” Danton said. “And you put your eye to the keyhole, and then your ear, and you saw and heard Saint-Just denouncing me.”

“How do you know?”

“It is logical.”

“Danton, they were sitting in silence, listening to every lie he uttered.”

“What exactly has he in mind? Do you know? Was there a warrant?”

“I didn’t see one. He was talking about denouncing you before the Convention, in your presence.”

“Couldn’t be better,” Danton said. “He wants to match his oratory against mine, does he? And his experience? And his name in the Revolution?” He turned to his wife. “It’s perfect. It is exactly as I wanted. The imbecile has chosen to meet me on my own ground. Paris, it couldn’t be better.”

Paris looked incredulous. “You wanted it forced to this point?”

“I shall crucify that smug young bastard, and I shall take the greatest pleasure in driving in the nails.”

“You will sit up and write your speech, I suppose,” Louise said. Danton laughed. “My wife doesn’t know my methods yet. But you do, Paris? I don’t need a speech, my love. I get it all out of my head.”

“Well, at least go and get the report of it written in advance for the newspapers. Complete with ‘tumultuous applause,’ and so on.”

“You’re learning,” he said. “Paris, did Saint-Just mention Camille?”

“I didn’t wait, as soon as I caught the drift I got around here. I suppose he’s not in danger.”

“I went to the Convention this afternoon. Didn’t stay. He and Robespierre were deep in conversation.”

“So I heard. I was told they appeared very friendly. Is it possible then …?” He hesitated. How to ask someone if his best friend has reneged on him?

“In the Convention tomorrow I shall put him up to confront Saint-Just. Imagine it. Our man the picture of starched rectitude, and looking as if he has just devoured a beefsteak; and Camille making a joke or two at our man’s expense and then talking about ’89. A cheap trick, but the galleries will cheer. This will make Saint-Just lose his temper-not easy, since he cultivates this Greek statue manner of his—but I guarantee that Camille can do it. As soon as our man begins to bawl and roar, Camille will fold up and look helpless. That will get Robespierre on his feet, and we will all generate one of these huge emotional scenes. I always win those. I shall go round now—no, I won’t, we’ll plan this in the morning. I ought to leave Camille alone. Bad news from home. A death in the family.”

“Not the precious father?”

“His mother.”

“I’m sorry,” Paris said. “Bad timing. He may not be so keen to play games. Danton—I suppose you wouldn’t consider any less risky course of action?”

Rue Marat, 9:30 p.m.: “I could have gone home,” Camille said. “Why didn’t he tell me she was ill? He was here. He sat in the chair where you sit now. He didn’t say a word.”

“Perhaps he wanted to spare your feelings. Perhaps they thought she’d get better.”

One day at the end of last year, a stranger had come to the door: a distinguished man of sixty or so, spare, remote, with an impressive head of iron-gray hair. It had taken her a long moment to work out who he was.

“My father has never spared my feelings,” Camille said. “He has never understood the concept of sparing feelings. In fact, he has never understood the concept of feelings at all.”

It had been a brief visit—a day or two. Jean-Nicolas came because he had seen the “Old Cordelier.” He wanted to tell his son how much he admired it, how much he felt that he had done the right thing at last; how much, perhaps, he missed him, and wanted him to come home sometimes.

But when he tried to do this, a kind of hideous embarrassment swept over him, like the socially disabling blush of a girl of thirteen. His voice had strangled in his throat, and he had confronted, speechless, the son who usually preferred not to speak anyway.

It had been, Lucile thought, one of the worst half-hours in her life. Fabre had been there, bemoaning his lot as usual; but at the sight of the elder Desmoulins in such straits, he had actually found tears in his eyes. She had seen him dab them away; Camille had seen it too. Better that they had cried, Fabre said later; haven’t they a lot to cry for? When Jean-Nicolas gave up the effort at speech, father and son had embraced, in a minimal and chilly fashion. The man has some defect, Fabre had said later: I think there’s something wrong with his heart.

There was, of course, another aspect to the visit. Even Fabre wouldn’t mention it. It was the Will you survive this? aspect. They couldn’t either, mention it tonight. Camille said, “When you think of Georges-Jacques and his mother, it’s odd. She may be a tedious old witch, but they’re always on some sort of terms, they’re always connected. And you, and your mother.”

“Practically the same person,” Lucile said, acidly.

“Yes, but think of me—it’s hard to believe I’m related to my mother at all, perhaps Jean-Nicolas found me under a bush. I’ve spent my whole life trying to please him, and I’ve never succeeded, and I’ve never given up. Here I am, Father, I am ten years old, I can read Aristophanes as my sisters read nursery rhymes. Yes, but why did God give us a child with a speech impediment? Look, Father, I have passed every examination known to man—are you pleased? Yes, but when will you make some money? See, Father, you know that revolution you’ve been talking about for twenty years? I’ve just started it. Oh yes, very nice—but not quite what we had in mind for you, and what will the neighbors say?” Camille shook his head. “When I think, of the years of my life that I’ve spent, if you add it up, writing letters to that man. I could have learned Aramaic, instead. Done something useful. Put my head together with Marat, and worked on his roulette system.”

“He had one, did he?”

“So he said. It was just that he was so generally deplorable as a person that the gaming houses wouldn’t let