Fabre’s hand unclenches from the arm of his chair.
Sometimes Hermann tries to interrupt him at crucial points; Danton overbears him, contemptuously. At each of the court’s defeats, the crowds cheer and whistle and shout derisive comments. The theaters are empty; it is the only show in town. And that is what it is—a show, and he knows it. They are behind him now—but if Robespierre were to walk in, wouldn’t they cheer him to the echo? Pere Duchesne was their hero, but they laughed and catcalled when his creator begged for mercy in the tumbrel.
After the first hour his voice is as strong as ever. At this stage the physical effort is nothing. Like an athlete’s, his lungs do what he has trained them to do. But now he is not clinching an argument or forcing a debating point, he is talking to save his life. This is what he has planned and waited and hoped for, the final confrontation; but as the day wears on he finds himself talking over an inner voice that says, they are allowing this confrontation because the issue is decided already: you are a dead man. A question from Fouquier brings him to a pitch of boiling rage: “Bring me my accusers,” he shouts. “Bring me a proof, part proof, the flimsiest shadow of a proof. I challenge my accusers to come before me, to meet me face to face. Produce these men, and I will thrust them back into the obscurity from which they should never have emerged. Come out, you filthy imposters, and I will rip the masks from your faces, and deliver you up to the vengeance of the people.”
And another hour. He wants a glass of water, but he dares not stop to ask for one. Hermann sits hunched over his law books, watching him, his mouth slightly ajar. Danton feels as if all the dust of his province has got into his throat, all the choking yellow country beyond Arcis.
Hermann passes a note to Fouquier. “IN HALF AN HOUR I SHALL SUSPEND DANTON’S DEFENSE.”
Finally, denying it while he can, he knows his voice is losing its power. And there is still tomorrow’s fight; he cannot afford to become hoarse. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead. Hermann springs.
“The witness is exhausted. We will adjourn until tomorrow.”
Danton swallows, raises his voice for a last effort. “And then I resume my defense.”
Hermann nods sympathetically.
“And then tomorrow, we have our witnesses.”
“Tomorrow.”
“You have the lists of the people we wish to call.”
“We have your lists.”
The applause of the crowd is solid. He looks back at them. He sees Fabre’s lips move, and bends to catch the words. “Go on speaking, Georges. If you stop now they will never let you speak again. Go on, now—it’s our only chance.”
“I can’t. My voice must recover.” He sits down, staring straight ahead of him. He wrenches off his cravat. “The day is over.”
14 Germinal, evening, the Tuileries: “You’ll probably agree with me,” Robespierre said, “that you’ve not got very far.”
“The riot has to be heard to be believed.” Fouquier paced the room. “We are afraid the crowd will tear them out of our hands.”
“I think you can put your mind at rest on that score. It has never happened yet. And the people have no particular affection for Danton.”
“With respect, Citizen Robespierre—”
“I know that, because they have no particular affection for anyone, these days. I have the experience, I know how to judge these things. They like the spectacle. That’s all.”
“It remains impossible to make progress. During his defense Danton constantly appeals to the crowd.”
“It was a mistake. It was a cross-examination that was needed. Hermann should not have allowed this speech.”
“Make sure he doesn’t continue it,” Collot said.
Fouquier inclined his head. He remembered a phrase of Danton’s: ‘the three or four criminals’ who are ruining Robespierre.” “Yes, yes, naturally,” he said to them.
“If things go no better tomorrow,” Robespiere said, “send a note to us. We’ll see what we can do to help.”
“Well—what could you do?”
“After Brissot’s trial we brought in the three-day rule. But it was too late to be helpful. There is no reason why you shouldn’t have new procedures when you need them, Fouquier. We don’t want this to take much longer.”
Ruined, corrupted, Fouquier thought, a savior bled dry: they have broken his heart. “Yes, Citizen Robespierre,” he said. “Thank you, Citizen Robespierre.”
“The Desmoulins woman has been making a lot of trouble,” Saint-Just said suddenly.
Fouquier looked up. “What kind of trouble could little Lucile make?”
“She has money. She knows a lot of people. She’s been about town since the arrests. She seems to be desperate.”
“Start at eight tomorrow,” Robespierre said. “You might foil the crowds.”
Camille Desmoulins to Lucile Desmoulins:
I have walked for five years along the precipices of the Revolution without falling, and I am still living. I dreamt of a republic which the world would have adored; I could never have believed that men could be so ferocious and so unjust.
“On a day like this, one year ago, I founded the Revolutionary Tribunal. I ask pardon of God and man.”
Day Three.
