A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

“Him?” said Liendon, pointing.

“Oh no, no. He is fond of reasoning, and we don’t want people who reason. No, I’m afraid we’ll have to go ahead with a jury of seven. Oh well, they’re hardly in a position to argue. You see, I’ve been talking as if there were some sort of contest. But we aren’t, here, playing any game we can lose. See you in court at eleven o’clock.”

“My name is Danton. It is a name tolerably well known in the Revolution. I am a lawyer by profession, and I was born at Arcis, in the Aube country. In a few days’ time, my abode will be oblivion. My place of residence will be History.”

Day One.

“That sounds distinctly pessimistic,” Lacroix says to Philippeaux. “Who are all these people?”

“Fabre of course you know, this is Chabot—delighted to see you looking so well, Citizen—Diedrichsen, this is Philippeaux—this is Emmanuel Frei, Junius Frei—you are supposed to have conspired with them.”

“Delighted to meet you, Deputy Philippeaux,” one of the Frei brothers says. “What did you do?”

“I criticized the Committee.”

“Ah.”

Philippeaux is counting heads. “There are fourteen of us. They’re going to try the whole East India fraud. If there were any justice, that would take a court three months. We have three days.”

Camille Desmoulins is on his feet. “Challenge,” he says, indicating the jury. He is being as brief as possible in the hope that he can avoid stuttering.

“Route it through your counsel,” Hermann says shortly.

“I am defending myself,” Desmoulins snaps back. “I object to Renaudin.”

“On what grounds?”

“He has threatened my life. I could call several hundred witnesses.”

“That is a frivolous objection.”

The report of the Police Committee is read out, relating to the East India affair. Two hours. The indictments are read. One hour more. Behind the waist-high barriers at the back of the court, the spectators stand packed to the doors: out of the doors, and along the street. “They say the line of people stretches as far as the Mint,” Fabre whispers.

Lacroix turns his head in the direction of the forgers. “How ironic,” he mumurs.

Fabre passes a hand over his face. He is slumped in the armchair which is normally reserved for the chief person accused. Last night when the prisoners were transferred to the Conciergerie he was hardly able to walk, and two guards had assisted him into the closed carriage. Occasionally one of his fits of coughing drowns out the voice of Fabricius Paris, and the Clerk of the Court seizes the opportunity to pause for breath; his eyes travel again and again to the impassive face of his patron, Danton. Fabre takes out a handkerchief and holds it to his mouth. His skin looks damp and bloodless. Sometimes Danton turns to look into his face; another few minutes, and he will turn to watch Camille. From above the jury, corrosive shafts of sunlight scour the black-and-white marble. Afternoon wears on, and an unmerited halo forms above the head of Tenth-of-August Leroy. In the Palais-Royal, the lilac trees are in bloom.

Danton: “This must stop. I demand to be heard now. I demand permission to write to the Convention. I demand to have a commission appointed. Camille Desmoulins and myself wish to denounce dictatorial practices in the Committee of Public—”

The roar of applause drowns him. They call his name; they clap their hands, stamp their feet and sing the “Marseillaise.” The riot travels backwards into the street, and the tumult becomes so great that the president’s bell is inaudible; in frenetic dumb show, he shakes the bell at the accused, and Lacroix shakes his fist back at the president. Don’t panic, don’t panic, Fouquier mouths: and when Hermann makes his voice heard, it is to adjourn the session. The prisoners are led below to their cells. “Bastards,” Danton says succinctly. “I’ll make mincemeat out of them tomorrow.”

“Sold? I, sold? There is not a price high enough for a man like me.”

Day Two.

“Who is this?”

“Oh, not another,” Philippeaux says. “Who is this man?”

Danton looks over his shoulder. “That is Citizen Lhuillier. He is the Attorney—General-or used to be. Citizen, what are you doing here?”

Lhuillier takes his place with the accused. He does not speak, and he looks stunned.

“Fouquier, what do you say this man’s done?”

Fouquier looks up to glare at the accused, and then back to the list he holds in his hand. He confers with his deputies in a furious whisper. “But you said so—” Fleuriot insists.

“I said subpoena him, I didn’t say arrest him. Do everything your bloody self!”

“He doesn’t know what he’s done,” Philippeaux says. “He doesn’t know. But he’ll soon think of something.”

“Camille,” Herault says, “I do believe your cousin’s incompetent. He’s a disgrace to the criminal Bar.”

“Fouquier,” his cousin asks him, “how did you get this job in the first place?”

The Public Prosecutor rummages among his papers. “What the hell,” he mutters. He approaches the judge’s table. “A fuck-up,” he tells Hermann. “But don’t let them know. They’ll make us a laughing-stock.”

Hermann sighs. “We are all under a great deal of pressure. I wish you would employ more seemly language. Leave him there, and on the last day I’ll direct the jury that there’s insufficient evidence and they must acquit.”

Vice President Dumas reeks of spirits. The crowd at the back moves, restive and dangerous, bored by the delays. Another prisoner is brought in. “God in Heaven,” Lacroix says, “Westermann.”

General Westermann, victor of the Vendee, places his belligerent bulk before the accused. “Who the hell are all