didn’t matter where his sentences began and ended, because he was talking to himself—who else could he trust? He glanced up once to a mirror, to the thin, fair face and receding hairline that the Cordeliers’ pamphleteers found so risible; then, sighing, walked out of the empty room.
The Comte de Mirabeau to the Comte de la Marck:
Yesterday, late, I saw Lafayette. He spoke of the place and the pay; I refused; I should prefer a written promise of the first major embassy; a part of the pay is to be advanced to me tomorrow. Lafayette is very anxious about the Duke of Orleans … . If a thousand louis seems to you indiscreet, do not ask for it, but that is the amount I urgently need … .
Orleans left for London, with a sulky expression and Laclos. “A diplomatic mission,” the official announcement said. Camille was with Mirabeau when the bad news came. The Comte strode about, he said, swearing.
And another disappointment for the Comte: early November, the Assembly passed a motion debarring deputies from office as ministers.
“They unite to ostracize me,” Mirabeau howled. “This is Lafayette’s doing, Lafayette’s.”
“We fear for your health,” said the slave Claviere, “when you get into these rages.”
“That’s right, slight me, sneer, abandon me,” the Comte roared. “Place-seekers. Fair-weather friends. Toadying swine.”
“The measure was aimed at you, there is no doubt.”
“I’ll break that bastard. Who does he think he is? Cromwell?”
December 3, 1789: Maitre G.-J. Danton paid over to Maitre Huet de Paisy and Mlle. Francoise Duhauttoir the sum of 12,000 livres, with 1,500 livres interest.
He thought he’d tell his father-in-law; it would be a weight off his mind. “But that’s sixteen months early!” Charpentier said. He was adding up in his head, calculating income and expenditure. He smiled, swallowed. “Well, you’ll feel more settled,” he said.
Privately, he thought: it’s impossible. What in God’s name is Georges-Jacques up to?
CHAPTER 2
“Our characters make our destiny,” Felicite de Genlis says. “Ordinary people for that reason do not have destinies, they belong to chance. A pretty, intelligent woman who has original ideas should have a life full of extraordinary events.”
We are now in 1790. Certain events befall Gabrielle—a few of them extraordinary.
In May this year, I gave my husband a son. We called him Antoine. He seems strong; but so did my first baby. We never talk about our first son now. Sometimes, though, I know that Georges thinks about him. Tears come into his eyes.
I will tell you what else has happened, in the larger world. In January my husband was elected to the Commune, along with Legendre, our butcher. I did not say so—I never say anything now—but I was surprised that he put himself up for office, because he criticizes the Commune all the time, and Mayor Bailly most of all.
Just before he went to take his seat, there was the business of Dr. Marat. Marat insulted the authorities so much that an order was put out for his arrest. He was staying at the Hotel de la Fautriere, within our district. They sent four officers to arrest him, but a woman ran to warn him, and he got away.
I didn’t understand why Georges should be so concerned about Marat. He usually brings Dr. Marat’s paper into the house, then in the middle of reading it cries, “Scum, scum, scum!” and throws it across the room, or into the fire if he happens to be standing near it. But anyway, he said it was a matter of principle. He told the District Assembly that no one was going to be arrested in our district without his permission. “My writ runs here,” he said.
Dr. Marat went into hiding. I thought, that will be the end of the newspaper for a while, we shall have some peace. But Camille said, “Well, I think we should help each other, I’m sure I can get the next issue out on time.” The next issue of the paper insulted the people at City Hall still worse.
On January 21, M. Villette, who is our battalion commander now, came round and asked to see Georges urgently. Georges came out of his office. M. Villette waved a piece of paper and said, “Order from Lafayette. Arrest Marat, top priority. What do I do?”
Georges said, “Put a cordon round the Hotel de la Fautriere.”
The next thing that happened was that the sheriff’s officers came again with the warrant—and a thousand men.
Georges was in a fury. He said it was an invasion by foreign troops. The whole district turned out. Georges found the commander and walked up to him and said, “What the hell is the use of these troops, do you think? I’ll ring the tocsin, I’ll have Saint-Antoine out. I can put twenty thousand armed men on the streets, just like
“Put your head out of the window,” Marat said. “See if you can hear what Danton is saying. I’d put my own head out, but somebody might shoot it off.”
“He is saying, where is that fucking battalion commander.”
“I wrote to Mirabeau and Barnave.” Marat turned to Camille his tired, gold-flecked eyes. “I thought they needed enlightenment.”
“I expect they didn’t reply.”
“No.” He thought. “I renounce moderation,” he said.
“Moderation renounces you.”
“That’s all right.”
“Danton is sticking his neck out for you.”
“What an expression,” Marat said.
“Yes, I don’t know where I pick them up.”
