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.
“We will proceed,” Fouquier says, “to the examination of Emmanuel Frei.”
“Where are my witnesses?”
Fouquier affects surprise. “The matter of witnesses is with the Committee, Danton.”
“With the Committee? What business has the Committee with it? This is my legal right. If you have not got my witnesses ready, I demand to resume my defense.”
“But your co-accused must be heard.”
“Must they?” Danton looks at them. Fabre, he thinks, is dying. It is a moot point whether the guillotine will slice his neck through before something ruptures inside his chest and drowns him in his own blood. Philippeaux did not sleep last night. He talked for hours about his three-year-old son: the thought of the child paralyzes him. Herault’s expression makes it clear that they should regard him as hors de combat; he will have no dealings with this court. Camille is in a state of emotional collapse. He insists that Robespierre came to see him in his cell and offered him his life to testify for the prosecution: his life, his freedom and his political rehabilitation. No one else saw him: but Danton is willing to believe that it could be so.
“Right, Lacroix,” he says. “Go on, man.”
Lacroix is on his feet instantly. He has the tense and exhilarated air of a participant in a dangerous sport. “Three days ago I handed in a list of my witnesses. Not one of them has been called. I ask the Public Prosecutor to explain, in the presence of the people, who see my efforts to clear my name, why my lawful request has been refused.”
Calm and cool, Fouquier says to himself. “It is nothing to do with me,” he says innocently. “I have no objection to your witnesses being called.”
“Then order that they be called. It is not enough for me to know that you have no objection.”
Suddenly violence is in the air. Cousin Camille is standing beside Lacroix, one hand on his shoulder for support, bracing himself as though standing against the wind. “I have put Robespierre on my list of witnesses.” His voice shakes. “Will you call him? Will you call him, Fouquier?”
Without speaking or moving from his place, Fouquier conveys the impression that he is about to cross the courtroom and knock his cousin to the ground: and this would surprise no one. With a gasp, Camille subsides back into his place. But Hermann is panicking again. Hermann, Fouquier thinks, is a rubbish lawyer. If this is all the Artois Bar has to offer, then he, Fouquier, could have got to the very very top. But then, he supposes, he is at the top.
With a click of impatience, he crosses to the judges.
“The crowds are worse than yesterday,” Hermann says. “The prisoners are worse than yesterday. We shall get no further.”
Fouquier addresses the accused. “It is time this wrangling ceased. It is a scandal, both to the Tribunal and the public. I am going to send to the Convention for directions as to how this trial shall proceed, and we shall follow its advice to the letter.”
Danton leans over to Lacroix. “This may be the turning point. When they hear about this travesty, they may recover their wits and give us a hearing. I have friends in the Convention, many friends.”
“You think so?” Philippeaux says. “You mean there are people who owe you favors. Another few hours of this, and they won’t be obliged to repay you. And how do we know he will tell them the truth? Or what else Saint-Just will find to scare them with?
Antoine Fouquier-Tinville to the National Convention:
We have had an extremely stormy session from the moment we started. The accused are insisting, in the most violent manner, on having witnesses examined for the defense. They are calling on the public to witness what they term the refusal of their just claims. Despite the firm stand taken by the president and the entire Tribunal, their reiterated demands are holding up the case. Furthermore, they openly declare that until their witnesses are called they will persist in such interruptions. We therefore appeal to you for an authoritative ruling on what our response to their request for witnesses should be, since the law does not allow us any legitimate excuse for refusing it.
The Tuileries: Robespierre’s nervous fingers tap the table. He is not pleased with the situation. “Get out,” he tel
ls the informer Laflotte.
As soon as the door closes, Saint-Just says, “I think it will do.” Robespierre stares down at Fouquier’s letter, but his eyes are not taking it in. When Saint-Just speaks again, the eagerness in his tone makes Robespierre look up sharply. “I shall go to the Convention and tell them that a dangerous conspiracy has been thwarted.”
“Do you believe that?” Robespierre says.
“What?”
“A dangerous conspiracy. You see, I don’t understand about Lucile. Is it something that is being said in the prison? Is it true? Is it something Laflotte thought of as he came upstairs? Or … did you put into his mouth what you wanted to hear?”
“Informers always tell you what you want to hear. Look,” Saint-Just says impatiently, “it will do. We need it, it’s just what we need.”
“But is it true?” Robespierre persists.
“We’ll know when we put her on trial. Meanwhile, circumstances force us to act on it. I must say, the whole thing sounds plausible to me. She’s been seen about the city since the morning of the arrests, as if she had something in hand. She’s no fool, is she? And after all, Dillon is her lover.”
“No.”
“No?”
“She has no lovers.”
Saint-Just laughs. “The woman is notorious.”
“It is ill-founded gossip.”
“But everyone speaks of it.” The same exuberant tone. “When they were at the Place des Piques, she lived shamelessly as Danton’s mistress. And she was involved with Hérault. 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 Hérault 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 Adèle. 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.”
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:
Réunion-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.”