A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

firearms—you can get sent in. Only be careful what you say. At least half the people here are informers.”

In what Herault described as “our salon,” the inmates inspected the newcomers. A ci- devant looked over Lacroix’s sturdy frame: “That fellow would make a fine coachman,” he remarked.

General Dillon had been drinking. He was apologetic about it. “Who are you?” he said to Philippeaux. “I don’t know you, do I? What did you do?”

“I criticized the Committee.”

“Ah.”

“Oh,” Philippeaux said, realizing. “You’re Lucile’s—Oh Christ, I’m sorry, General.”

“That’s all right. I don’t mind what you think.” The general swayed across the room. He draped his arms around Camille. “Now that you’re all here, I’ll stay sober, I swear it. I warned you. Didn’t I warn you? My poor Camille.”

“Do you know what?” Herault said. “The thieving Arts Commission have laid their paws on all my first editions.”

“He says,” said the general, pointing to Herault, “that against the charges they will bring he disdains to defend himself. What sort of attitude is that? He thinks it is suitable, because he is an aristocrat. So am I. And also, my love, I am a soldier. Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he said to Camille. “We’re going to get out of here.”

Rue Honore: “So you see,” Babette said, “there are a great many patriots with him, and he can’t be disturbed.”

Lucile laid a letter down on the table. “In common humanity, Elisabeth, you will see that this is put into his hand.”

“It won’t do any good.” She smiled. “He’s made his mind up.”

At the top of the house Robespierre sat alone, waiting for the women to go. As they stepped into the street the sun burst from behind a cloud, and they walked down to the river in heady green spring air.

From the Luxembourg prison, Camille Desmoulins to Lucile Desmoulins:

I have discovered a crack in the wall of my room. I put my ear to it and heard someone groaning. I risked a few words and then I heard the voice of a sick man in pain. He asked my name. I told him, and when he heard it he cried out, “Oh my God,” and fell back on the bed from which he had raised himself. I knew then it was Fabre d’Eglantine’s voice. “Yes, I am Fabre,” he said, “but what are you doing here? Has the counterrevolution come?”

Preliminary examination at the Luxembourg:

L. Camille Desmoulins, barrister-at-law, journalist, deputy to the National Convention, age thirty-four, resident rue Marat. In the presence of F.-J. Denisot, supplementary judge of the Revolutionary Tribunal; F. Girard, Deputy Registrar of the Revolutionary Tribunal; A. Fouquier-Tinville, and G. Liendon, Deputy Public Prosecutor.

Minutes of the examination:

Q. Had he conspired against the French nation by wishing to restore the monarchy, by destroying national representation and republican government?

A. No.

Q. Had he counsel?

A. No.

We nominate, therefore, Chauveau-Lagarde.

Lucile and Annette go to the Luxembourg Gardens. They stand with their faces raised to the facade, eyes hopelessly searching. The child in his mother’s arms cries; he wants to go home. Somewhere at one of the windows Camille stands. In the half-lit room behind him is the table where he has sat for most of the day, drafting a defense to charges of which he has not yet been notified. The raw April breeze rips through Lucile’s hair, snaking it away from her head like the hair of a woman drowned. Her head turns; eyes still searching. He can see her; she can’t see him.

Camille Desmoulins to Lucile Desmoulins:

Yesterday, when the citizen who brought you my letter came back, “Well, have you seen her?” I said, just as I used to say to the Abbe Laudreville; and I caught myself looking at him as if something of you lingered about his person or his clothes … .

The cell door closed. “He said he knew I’d come.” Robespierre leaned back against the wall. He closed his eyes. His hair, unpowdered, glinted red in the torchlight. “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come. But I wanted … I couldn’t prevent myself.”

“No deal then,” Fouquier said. His face expressed impatience, some derision; it was impossible to say at whom it was directed.

“No deal. He says Danton gives us three months.” In the dimness, his blue-green eyes sought Fouquier’s, inquiringly.

“It is just something they say.”

“I think that, for a minute, he thought I’d come to offer him the chance to escape before the trial.”

“Really?” Fouquier said. “You’re not that sort of person. He should know that.”

“Yes, he should, shouldn’t he?” He straightened up from the wall, then put his hand out, let his fingers brush the plaster. “Good-bye,” he whispered. They walked away in silence. Suddenly Robespierre stopped dead. “Listen.” From behind a closed door they heard the murmur of voices, and over the top of them a huge, unforced laugh. “Danton,” Robespierre whispered. His face was awestruck.

“Come,” Fouquier said: but Robespierre stood and listened.

“How can he? How can he laugh?”

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Fouquier demanded. With the Incorruptible he had always been warily correct, but where was the Incorruptible now? Sneaking around the prisons with deals and offers and promises. Fouquier saw an undergrown young man, numb and shaking with misery, his sandy lashes wet. “Move Danton’s mob to the Conciergerie,” Fouquier said, over his shoulder. “Look,” he said, turning back, “you’ll get over him.”

He took the Candle of Arras by the arm, and hustled him out into the night.