shamelessly as Danton’s mistress. And she was involved with Herault. Everyone knows these things.”
“They think they know them.”
“Oh, you only see what you want to see, Robespierre.”
“She has no lovers.”
“How do you account for Dillon then?”
“He is Camille’s close friend.”
“All right then, Dillon is his lover. I’m sure it is all the same to me.”
“My God,” Robespierre says. “You are over-reaching yourself.”
“The Republic must be served,” Saint-Just says passionately. “These sordid private involvements have no interest for me. All I want is to give the Tribunal the means to finish them off.”
“Listen to me,” Robespierre says. “Now that we have begun on this there is no turning back, because if we hesitate they will turn on us, seize the advantage and put us where they are now. Yes—in your elegant phrase, we must finish them off. I will let you do this, but I don’t have to love you for it.” He turns on Saint-Just his cold eyes. “Very well, go to the Convention. You tell them that through the informer Laflotte you have discovered a plot in the prisons. That Lucile Desmoulins, financed by—financed by enemy powers—in concert with General Dillon, has conspired to free the prisoners of the Luxembourg, raise an armed riot outside the Convention and assassinate the Committee. Then ask the Convention to pass a decree to silence the prisoners and bring the trial to a conclusion either today or tomorrow morning.”
“There is a warrant here for Lucile Desmoulins’s arrest. It would add conviction to the business if you were to sign it.”
Robespierre picks up his pen and puts his signature to the paper without looking at it. “It hardly matters,” he says. “She will not want to live. Saint-Just?” The young man turns to look at him sitting behind the table, his hands clasped in front of him, pallid, compact, self-contained. “When this business is over, and Camille is dead, I shall not want to hear your epitaph for him. No one is ever to speak of him again, I absolutely forbid it. When he is dead, I shall want to think about him myself, alone.”
The testimony of Fabricius Paris, Clerk to the Revolutionary Tribunal, given at the trial of Antoine Fouquier-Tinville, 1795:
Even Fouquier and his worthy associate Fleuriot, atrocious as they were, seemed thunderstruck by such men, and the deponent thought they would not have the courage to sacrifice them. He did not know the odious means being employed to this end, and that a conspiracy was being fabricated at the Luxembourg, by means of which … the scruples of the National Convention were overcome and the decree of outlawry was obtained. This fatal decree arrived, brought by Amar and Voulland [of the Police Committee]. The deponent was in the Witnesses’ Hall when they arrived: anger and terror were written on their faces, so much did they seem to fear their victims would escape death; they greeted the deponent. Voulland said to him, “We have them, the scoundrels, they were conspiring at the Luxembourg.” They sent for Fouquier, who was in the courtroom. He appeared at once. Amar said to him, “Here is something to make life easier for you.” Fouquier replied with a smile, “We wanted it badly enough.” He re-entered the courtroom with an air of triumph … .
“They are going to murder my wife.”
Camille’s cry of horror rings over all the noise of the courtroom. He tries to get at Fouquier, and Danton and Lacroix hold him back. He struggles, shouts something at Hermann and collapses into sobs. Vadier and David, of the Police Committee, are whispering to the jury. His eyes averted from the accused, Fouquier begins to read out the decree of the National Convention:
The president shall use evey means that the law allows to make his authority and the authority of the Revolutionary Tribunal respected, and to suppress any attempts by the accused to disturb public order or hinder the course of justice. It is decreed that all persons accused of conspiracy who shall resist or insult the national justice shall be outlawed and shall receive judgement without any further formality.
“For God’s sake,” Fabre whispers. “What does it mean?”
“It means,” Lacroix says dispassionately, “that from now on they dictate absolutely the form of the trial. If we call for our witnesses, ask to be cross-examined, ask to speak at all, they will close the trial immediately. To put it more graphically—the National Convention has assassinated us.”
When he finishes reading, the Public Prosecutor raises his head cautiously to look at Danton. Fabre has folded forwards in his chair. His ribs heave, and fresh blood splashes and flowers onto the towel he now holds before his mouth. From behind him Herault puts a hand on his shoulder, hauling him back to an approximately upright position. The aristocrat’s face is disdainful; he has not chosen his company, but he means to scrape them up to his standards if he can.
“We may need to assist the prisoner,” Fouquier says to an usher. “Desmoulins also seems at the point of collapse.”
“The session is adjourned,” Hermann says.
“The jury,” Lacroix says. “There is still hope.”
“No,” Danton says. “There is no hope now.” He gets to his feet. For the last time that day, his voice echoes through the hall: and even now he seems impossible to kill. “I shall be Danton till my death. Tomorrow I shall sleep in glory.”
Rue Marat: She had written again to Robespierre. When she heard the patrol outside, she shredded the letter in her hands. She moved to the window. They were disposing themselves; she heard the clatter of steel. What do they think, she wondered: that I have my army in here?
By the time they arrived at the door she had picked up her bag, already packed with the few things she might need. Her little diaries were destroyed: the true record of her life expunged. The cat rubbed around her ankles, and she bent and drew her finger along its back. “Quietly,” she said. “No trouble.”
Jeanette cried out when the men held up the warrant. Lucile shook her head at her. “You will have to say good-bye to the baby for me, and to my mother and father, and to Adele. Give my best wishes to Mme. Danton, and tell her I wish her greater good fortune than she has so far enjoyed. I don’t think there is any point in a search,” she said to the men. “You have already taken away everything that could possibly interest the Committee, and much that could not.” She picked up her bag. “Let’s go.”
“Madame, Madame.” Jeanette hung onto the officer’s arm. “Let me tell her just one thing, before you take her.”
“Quickly then.”
“There was a young woman here. From Guise. Look.” She ran to the bureau. “She left this, to show where she was staying. She wanted to see you, but it’s too late now.”
