Lucile took the card. “Citizeness du Tailland,” it said, in a bold angular hand. Underneath, in a hasty bracket: “Rose-Fleur Godard.”
“Madame, she was in a pitiful state. The old man is ill, she had traveled by herself from Guise. She says they have only just heard of the arrests.”
“So she came,” Lucile said softly. “Rose-Fleur. Too late.”
She put her cape over her arm. It was a warm evening, and there was a closed carriage at the door, but perhaps the prison would be cold. You would think a prison would be cold, wouldn’t you? “Good-bye, Jeanette,” she said. “Take care. Forget us.”
A letter to Antoine Fouquier-Tinville:
Reunion-sur-Oise, formerly Guise
15 Germinal, Year II
Citizen and Compatriot,
Camille Desmoulins, my son, is a republican in his heart, in his principles and, as it were, by instinct. He was a republican in heart and in choice before July 14, 1789, and has been so in reality and in deed ever since … .
Citizen, I ask you only one thing: investigate, and cause an examining jury to investigate, the conduct of my son.
Health and fraternity from your compatriot and fellow citizen, who has the honor to be the father of the first and most unhesitating of republicans—
Desmoulins
“Hey, Lacroix. If I left my legs to Couthon, and my balls to Robespierre, the Committee would have a new lease on life.”
Day Four.
The interrogation of the brothers Frei proceeds. Ten, eleven o’clock. Hermann keeps the decree of the Convention under his hand. He watches the prisoners, the prisoners watch him. The signs of the night they have passed are written on their faces. And Hermann has seen the text of a letter to hearten him, from the Committee to the commander of the National Guard:
“Do not—we emphasize, do not—arrest either the Public Prosecutor or the President of the Tribunal.”
As noon approaches, Fouquier addresses Danton and Lacroix. “I have a great number of witnesses available to testify against both of you. However, I shall not be calling them. You will be judged solely on documentary evidence.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Lacroix demands. “What documents? Where are they?”
He receives no answer. Danton stands up.
“Since yesterday, we may no longer expect observance of the proper forms of law. But you promised me that I might resume my defense. That is my right.”
“Your rights, Danton, are in abeyance.” Hermann turns to the jury. “Have you heard enough?”
“Yes: we have heard enough.”
“Then the trial is closed.”
“Closed? What do you mean, closed? You haven’t read our statements. You haven’t called a single one of our witnesses. The trial hasn’t even begun.”
Camille stands up beside him. Herault reaches forward to take hold of him, but he sidesteps and evades his grasp. He takes two paces forward towards the judges. He holds up the papers. “I insist on speaking. Through these whole proceedings you have denied my right to speak. You cannot condemn people without hearing their defense. I demand to read out my statement.”
“You may not read it.”
Camille crumples the papers in his two hands, and throws them with amazing accuracy at the president’s head. Ignominiously, Hermann ducks. Fouquier is on his feet: “The prisoners have insulted the national justice. Under the terms of the decree, they may now be removed from the court. The jury will retire to consider its verdict.”
Behind the barrier, the crowd is already drifting away, to take its place along the death route and by the scaffold. Last night Fouquier issued an order for three tumbrels: three tumbrels, mid-afternoon.
Two officers hurry forward to help Fabre.
“We must take you below, Citizens, while the jury is out.”
“Take your hands off me, please,” Herault says, with a dangerous politeness. “Come, Danton: no point in standing here. Come, Camille—I hope you’ll not make a fuss.”
Camille is going to make as much fuss as he can. An officer of the court stands before him. The man knows—it is an article of faith with him—that the condemned don’t fight back. “Please come with us,” he says. “Please come quietly. No one wants to hurt you, but if you don’t come quietly you’re going to get hurt.”
Danton and Lacroix begin to plead with Camille. He clings desperately to the bench. “I don’t want to hurt you,” the officer says abjectly. A section of the crowd has detached itself and come back to watch. Camille sneers at the officer. The man tries without success to pull him away. Reinforcements arrive. Fouquier’s eyes rest unseeingly on his cousin. “For God’s sake, overpower him, carry him off,” Hermann shouts. He slams a book down in irritation. “Get them all out of here.”
One of the officers puts his hand into Camille’s long hair and jerks his head back violently. They hear the snap of bone and his gasp of pain. A moment later they have knocked him to the floor. Lacroix turns his face away in distaste. “I want Robespierre to know,” Camille says, as they drag him up from the marble floor. “I want him to remember this.”
“Well,” Hermann says to Fouquier, “half the Police Committee are in the jury room, so we may as well join them. If there is any more hesitation, show them the documents from the British Foreign Office.”
Just outside the courtroom, Fabre’s strength almost gives way. “Stop,” he gasps. The two officers assisting him put their hands under his elbows and lean him against the wall. He struggles for breath. Three men pass him,
