CÉLIE FOLLOWED MENOU INTO the kitchen where the rest of the family were about to begin a late meal. Each one stared at Menou as he came in, the question in their eyes.
‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘I did not find the knife. I don’t know what he did with it.’
‘Does it matter now?’ Monsieur Lacoste asked, breaking his bread on to his plate. There was only that for the meal, together with a couple of onions and a little cheese. Amandine was too shattered by grief and dismay to have cooked anything, and even Marie-Jeanne could not collect her emotions sufficiently to care about it. She sat at the table now with her two elder children on either side of her, and the baby asleep in what had once been the wood-basket and now, lined with a blanket, served as an excellent crib.
Menou’s answer was prevented by a knock on the back door. He strode over and yanked it open. A middle-aged man stood on the step. He was not very tall, a little heavy-set. His white hair was ragged about his face and his skin was very pale. He had a long nose and faded blue eyes. His clothes were well cut, and had once been good, but time and constant wear had reduced them to a threadbare state.
Everyone turned to stare at him, especially Virginie, her eyes growing wider and wider.
‘Excuse me,’ the man said politely to Menou. ‘Is Citizeness Laurent at home?’
‘Who are you?’ Menou demanded a trifle abruptly.
A ghost of humour passed across the man’s face and vanished. ‘Citizen Lejeune, but she may not know my name. Is it permitted to speak with her?’
Menou hesitated. He had no reason to deny it, and perhaps not any authority, now that St Felix was dead, but he was suspicious.
Célie had no idea who the man was or what he could want of her, but she did not wish to leave him standing in the rain. He looked tired and there were lines of strain in his face, as if he were ill. She moved forward, beside Menou.
‘Come in, Citizen,’ she invited him. ‘At least stand inside in the warm while Citizen Menou considers.’
‘Thank you, Citizeness,’ he accepted, stepping past Menou with a determination that surprised Célie. He had seemed so diffident, so willing to be denied. He was dressed as if he had once been a merchant or lawyer, but had fallen on hard times and was reduced to begging. However, there was a dignity about him which marked him out from most men, even here in the kitchen waiting for a National Guardsman to grant, or refuse, him permission to speak to a laundress. He must surely have been a gentleman once, perhaps even an aristocrat. Maybe he had been a friend of Bernave’s, but the name Lejeune meant nothing to her. She could not recall having heard it before.
‘I am Citizeness Laurent,’ she said to him. ‘You look cold. May we offer you something? We have only bread and onion and a little hot coffee.’
‘Thank you, Citizeness.’ He inclined his head and she noticed again how pale he was. ‘I offer you all my condolences on the death of Citizen Bernave,’ he went on. ‘I was most sorry to hear of it by chance in the street.’
Virginie was still staring at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted.
‘What is it you want with Citizeness Laurent?’ Menou asked sharply. ‘There has been another death in this household and this is not the time to trouble them over unimportant things.’
‘Another death?’ Lejeune said softly, his voice lifting with surprise. ‘I am sorry to hear it. I grieve for you.’
Virginie leaned a little closer to her mother.
Fernand glanced at her, then at Lejeune.
Célie went to the stove to pour a cup of coffee for Lejeune. It was weak, with little flavour or colour, but at least it was hot. She brought it back and gave it to him.
He took it with a smile, warming his hands on it. She noticed they were blue with cold. He turned back to Menou.
‘Citizen Bernave requested the services of a tailor to alter a coat for a gentleman who is to leave Paris shortly ... to change his style of life ...’
‘You asked to speak with Citizeness Laurent,’ Menou pointed out.
‘And you said you knew Bernave was dead!’ Fernand added.
‘Citizeness Laurent is the laundress, is she not?’ Lejeune asked mildly. ‘I imagined she would be in charge of such things.’
‘I suppose so,’ Menou conceded. ‘But you said it was Bernave who asked for it, and he cannot need it now.’
Fernand was also staring at the man, his eyes narrow, puzzled.
‘It was not for himself,’ Lejeune said steadily, obviously uncomfortable, but refusing to back away. ‘I wished to know if the gentleman was still requiring the alteration.’ His face was very white and he looked exhausted, as if he might have walked for miles in the cold, and eaten little.
Perhaps he needed the work. Célie felt a rush of pity for him. If Bernave had offered him the job, she should see that wish honoured. The poor soul looked as if he were close to desperation. But how could she accept on Bernave’s behalf? She had no idea what he was talking about, or who the man was who wished a coat altered. She tried to remember if there had been any note of it among Bernave’s papers. But why should there be if it were merely a service for a friend?
‘What was the gentleman’s name?’ she asked.
Menou looked at her, then at Lejeune, waiting.
Lejeune hesitated. He seemed curiously undecided.
‘What was his name?’ Fernand repeated more sharply. ‘There may be something in Citizen Bernave’s papers, if we look.’
Lejeune’s hands clasped the cup so tightly his knuckles shone white.
‘I have looked through the papers,’ Madame Lacoste interrupted, moving a step forward. ‘It must have been a private arrangement, a kindness for a friend. There is no note of having a coat altered, or who it might be for. But I dare say the gentleman will turn up and ask.’ She looked at Lejeune. ‘Perhaps in view of Citizen Bernave’s death he is leaving a decent space of time before coming.’
‘I ... I thought the matter was of some ... urgency,’ Lejeune said haltingly. ‘Possibly I misunderstood.’ He looked at Célie as if imploring her to help, but she had no idea how to. She had no money even to offer him any other task. She sewed her own clothes; it was part of her job. And no one else in the house could afford a tailor, or had need for one.
‘I’m ... sorry, Citizen ...’
‘Of course.’ He bowed his head very slightly. It was a gracious, old-fashioned gesture. ‘I understand. People die unexpectedly, and plans have to be changed.’ He put the coffee cup down on the table and turned to leave, his shoulders stooped in defeat.
His words rang in her head: ‘plans have to be changed.’ He was middle-aged, thick-set, not very tall. She had looked at his eyes rather than his nose or mouth, the heavy jaw. Could it be ...
‘Citizen Lejeune!’
He turned back slowly.
How much dare she risk? Georges had said he had found someone else, not excellent, but better than no one. She was staring at the perfect man now. Everything might depend on it. She gulped, her heart beating wildly. She recalled the name on the passes she had found in Bernave’s desk.
‘Citizen Bernave mentioned something to me. Could it be ...’ she could hardly get her breath, ‘for a Citizen Briard?’
They were all watching her, even Menou, but she saw no start of recognition, no flash of understanding.
Lejeune looked at her very steadily, his blue eyes clear and bright again. ‘Yes, Citizeness. I do believe that was the name. Does Citizen Briard still plan to leave the city, do you know?’
‘Yes,’ she said, more firmly than she had intended. ‘I ... believe so.’ She prayed he would understand why she was now equivocating. She dared not appear to know more about it than she could explain. They were all looking at her. She could feel them listening, weighing what she said and thinking what she meant.
‘You know who this Briard is?’ Fernand asked, frowning at her.
She was caught. If she said ‘no,’ she would appear to be lying, because she had just said she remembered. If she said ‘yes,’ one of them would ask her, and she knew nothing at all. If she invented it Madame, at least, would know, and be suspicious.
They were waiting, watching.
Menou was frowning now also.
‘I ... I heard Citizen Bernave speak of him,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I don’t know what it was about, except it seemed important to him.’
‘But you just said he still plans to leave the city,’ Fernand pointed out. The suspicion was bright in his eyes.
Célie wished someone would rescue her, say something—anything! But Amandine was ashen-faced, too absorbed by grief even to think, let alone help. And St Felix was dead.
She must look to her own resources now. At least she had managed to effect Georges’ escape. Perhaps, when it no longer mattered at all, when her own fulfilment meant nothing, she had at last become as charming, as quick-witted and as brave as Madame de Staël.
She turned and smiled directly at Fernand. ‘Why would he change his plans, if he had somewhere to go? I only know that it mattered to Citizen Bernave, and he was a loyal man to all that the revolution stands for, for equality between people, for the freedom for all to pursue their talents and improve their lives, and for equal justice for everyone. He wanted to end hunger and fear and all unnecessary pain. Isn’t that right, Citizen Menou?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Menou agreed, the anxiety smoothing out his face. ‘He was a great man. If this Citizen Briard is a friend of his, and he wishes to help him, then we should honour his intention. You have acted well, Citizeness.’ There was a trace of admiration in Menou’s voice.
But then he could not possibly imagine the irony of the situation. ‘Thank you,’ she said demurely, not meeting his eyes. She turned to Lejeune. ‘I shall find out more about the coat, and ... and Citizen Briard, and I shall let you know exactly what is needed. Where may I leave a message for you?’
‘I come and go,’ he replied. ‘I do not have a shop any more. There is a woman who sells coffee on the corner of the Rue Mazarine and the Rue Dauphine. If you leave word with her, she will tell me.’
‘I’ll do that.’
He smiled and turned again to leave.
‘Citizen!’ she said quickly.
He turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Thank you ... for coming.’ How absurd. He was going to give his life for his people, not even at the guillotine, but to be torn apart by an enraged mob, and she said ‘thank you for coming’ as if he had performed no more than a courtesy. But what else could she say, in front of them all?
‘It was nothing,’ he said softly, and opened the door to the courtyard, and the rain. Menou followed a few moments after.
When he was gone they resumed their meal. Fernand was very quiet; he barely spoke to anyone. Monsieur Lacoste mentioned odd items of news he had heard, and what a relief it would be now that they were free to come and go as they pleased.
‘I’m sorry about St Felix,’ he added, and there was a sincerity in his voice Célie could not disbelieve.
No one answered.
Célie was aching to go to St Felix’s room and look for the passes. He had had them, and without them, even finding Briard, or Lejeune, whatever his name really was, did not help. She had watched Menou search for the knife through the entire house, and not find it. Most particularly she had followed every move in St Felix’s chest, under the bed, the shelf with the books. But Menou had not looked through the leaves of the books, where a pass could be hidden, but not a knife.
She glanced across the table at Amandine. She looked like a ghost, almost as if the spirit had gone from the body and there was nothing left but a shell animated by will, but without heart or hope. Célie longed to be able to comfort her, but what was there to say? Perhaps later, after tomorrow, when there was no more need for care or courage, she could tell her what Renoir had said of Bernave? Then she would understand why St Felix might have thrust the knife into Bernave’s back, in spite of the King, and all there was to lose. It was not noble, or wise, or brave ... but it was understandable. Amandine, of all people, was compassionate. She would be quick to understand, and to forgive.
Célie could not sit still any longer. She stood up, excused herself, and went upstairs to St Felix’s room. She closed the door and stood, trying to think, in which book he would have hidden the passes. He must have known how close Menou was to arresting him. That was why he had run. Had he had time to think about the passes? Had there been anything but terror in his mind? But Menou had been likely to search any time before that. He would have kept the passes somewhere safe right from the beginning.
She looked around at the bare room. It had held so little of the essence of the man. She remembered thinking that when Menou was here. Nothing personal except books.
There were only a dozen. She was on the second to last one and growing desperate when she heard a sound in the doorway and froze.
It was Amandine, her eyes accusing.
‘I’m looking for the passes!’ Célie whispered fiercely. ‘None of it’s any good without them!’
‘Oh ...’ Amandine’s shoulders relaxed. ‘I see. Have you found them?’
‘No!’ She shook the book she was holding. Nothing fell out. She put it back and took the last one, the translation of Dante, and fingered through it, then held it by the ends of the spine and shook it. Nothing. Despair welled up inside her. He must have taken them with him! He could not know he was going to be shot.
Reluctantly, tears stung in her eyes.
‘They aren’t here.’ She swallowed and put the book back, hiding her face for a moment. She wiped her hand across her cheeks. It would do Amandine no good to see her weep. ‘I’ll have to go and tell Georges. He might be able to do something. I don’t know what.’
‘I’ll tell Madame you’ve gone for something,’ Amandine said flatly. ‘Cheese ... I don’t know ...’
‘Thank you.’ Célie turned back to face Amandine, and tried to force herself to smile for a moment. ‘Thank you. I’ll even see if I can find some ... or soap ... or onions ... or anything!’
It had stopped raining. The sky was full of patches of blue, and shafts of sunlight lit the pavement and danced in the puddles. But there was still a hard edge to the wind, and there was every excuse to hurry along the street, looking to neither right nor left. There was not enough of her face showing for anyone to have recognised Célie as she turned into an alley, unless they caught sight of her pale hair. It was far too cold to stand around, and in a short while the light would fade. Tomorrow morning the King would die. Tonight everyone had something to think about, to fear or to celebrate. The cafés were full. People talked, drank, made wild gestures and predictions, promises and threats. The smell of fear was in the air.
The sun was gold on the rooftops and the shadows black when Célie reached the alley. She went up the stairs, feeling her way in the gloom, and at the top she knocked sharply.
Georges opened the door, a candle burning so low on the table behind him she knew him only by the outline of his head.
‘Célie?’ his voice lifted in surprise, and both pleasure and alarm. ‘What is it?’ He stepped back for her to come into the room.
She closed the door behind her. ‘Briard came to the house this afternoon!’
He stopped, then turned slowly, eyes wide.
She watched him intently, the slightest change in expression or inclination of his body.
‘Just after you left,’ she went on. ‘He was very discreet, and it was ages before I realised who he was. But he really looked like the King. He would be perfect.’ She hesitated.
‘What?’ he demanded, his voice cracking with an emotion she could not read, but so intense it shook his body. She could not see his features in the dim light.
‘I liked him,’ she answered quietly. ‘It was stupid. I spoke with him for just a few moments, but it hurts to think what will happen to him. And of course he knows.’ She needed Georges to understand.
He said nothing. There was no possible answer.
‘But we don’t have the passes,’ she hurried on, before he could hope, crushed by having to tell him. ‘I searched St Felix’s room everywhere, even after Menou went, but they’re not there. He must have taken them with him in case they were found. We’ve got to have papers to get the King out of Paris, past the section leaders, if there are any still on duty. They’ll send men out in every direction after him.’
‘I know about the passes. St Felix took them when he ran. They were destroyed.’ Now his voice was different. There was excitement, even a rush of joy in it he could not conceal. ‘We might get by in the panic, but I doubt it,’ he went on, gathering emphasis. ‘Somebody’s head will have to fill the basket, and it will take a lot of them to replace the King’s. Everyone leaving Paris will be suspect, especially fat, elderly gentlemen who look ill and terrified.’
It seemed hopeless. Célie was cold in this grim room with the last of the winter daylight fading over the rooftops, and now barely reaching the windows. There was no sound up here but the creaking of the wood settling and a faint thread of the wind. They seemed removed from the bustle and the anger of the streets, but not from the desperation, and certainly not from the hunger.
‘Who can we get new papers from?’ she asked quietly. ‘Dare we forge them ourselves? Will they look that closely?’
His answer was immediately, and touched with a glint of humour. ‘Yes, they will. It’s the first thing they’d think of. They need to be real, and with a signature no one will argue with.’
‘Well, we can’t ask Robespierre!’ she said drily. ‘He’s suspicious of everyone. He’d want to know all the details, ask endless questions, and then refuse.’ She remembered the venomous little face and the consuming passion in it. ‘He’s obsessed with purifying everything. He’ll go on until there’s nobody left, unless someone stops him. He’s always talking about the “Virtue of the People,” but I sometimes wonder if he sees real people at all, if he knows they have feelings and can be hurt or deceived, and it matters!’ She felt a sudden anger so sharp it twisted inside her as she saw Monsieur Lacoste’s face in her mind’s eye, and his blind belief, all the hope he had invested in a man who did not see him, or anyone like him, as real, with flesh to bleed and dreams to be betrayed.
‘And don’t even think of asking Marat!’ she added. ‘All he can think of is blood—rivers of it—seas of it. The only people he cares about are the Communards—and all they can think of are their empty plates.’
‘Who can blame them, poor devils,’ Georges answered with sudden gentleness. ‘It has to be Danton. He is still the sanest, the most like an ordinary man. He’s reachable, and that makes the difference. And he’s a patriot, not in love with dreams, but with reality. That’s what’s wrong with all the rest of them.’ He gestured to the chair and she sat down on it. He folded up on the mattress opposite her. A sharp twist of humour touched his lips. ‘Have you read any of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Célie?’
She hesitated. Should she be honest? Her parents had quoted him as if he were a prophet of the new light, and she had turned from him in disgust, holding his endless ideas responsible for their obsessions. Even though Madame de Staël and her friends had spoken of him often, with respect, it had not softened her resolve never to read him herself.
She knew they all praised the breadth, sensitivity and originality of his ideas. Even those who did not agree were thoroughly familiar with his work. Half the dreams of the revolution had been fired by idealism such as his, the belief in a better world founded on the innately noble nature of man, if educated rightly and freed from oppression and injustice. She had heard that Robespierre admired him passionately, as had so many of the leading revolutionaries, except Danton.
Georges would not admire her childish stubbornness, and his disapproval would wrench inside her like a sprain. She had proved her courage, loyalty, imagination, quickness of thought. But it did not free her from the pain of caring, to which she could see no end. The pain would only become deeper if he found her ignorant or silly, or knew that she was trying too hard.
‘You haven’t.’ His voice cut across her thoughts.
The colour burned up her face. She should have been honest. She was furious with herself. How stupid!
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I was just thinking of what I had heard people say of him. I suppose it is something I should read, in order to understand what is happening, but I always thought I would dislike it.’
‘I’m sure you would!’ he said with a sudden grin, laughter flaring up in his eyes in desperate relief for an instant of triviality far from the real.
‘You have far too much knowledge of life to be taken in by people who wander around falling in love with each other’s spirits,’ he went on, his voice edged with derision. ‘Weeping and arguing and sympathising together, but never reaching anything so natural as touching one another.’
That was not what she thought of as falling in love. Love was a joy that welled up uncontrollably, making your heart almost choke you, the thought of it unreturned was another name for hell. It was what gave you courage to do the impossible, lit the most pedestrian things with magic, and made another person so precious the thought of them in danger made you weak with terror. Above all it was touching, even if only in dreams.
But she did not want him to know that!
He was watching her face. ‘Everyone in his works is discontented, without knowing why,’ he continued, his voice charged with amazement and derision. ‘They are all starving in the soul, but no one has the wit or the physical instinct to know that love, with its power and laughter, its pain and sweetness—and absurdity—is the answer.’
It was the first time she had heard him speak of love. She was afraid of what he might say, but she could not let go. She needed to know—whatever it was. The impression she had of Rousseau was of an emotion she did not understand, and certainly could not share.
‘I thought they were all in love?’ she questioned, trying to keep her voice level, the urgency and the emotion out of her eyes.
He dismissed it with a jerk of his hand, contemptuously. ‘Not real love, not love that can give and take, and find any fulfilment, only anguish that is always travelling but never arrives.’ He was still watching her just as intently. ‘Anyway, every time they are on the brink of actually doing anything, they stop and philosophise for pages!’
‘Isn’t that because he’s a philosopher?’ she asked, feeling a warmth begin to open up inside her. She recalled an ardent admirer in Madame’s salon talking about the purity of Rousseau’s characters, their nobility and chastity. Did Georges see that in them? Was that what he admired?
‘In treatises, yes,’ he answered, meeting her eyes. ‘Not in life. What is the use of knowing everything, if you never actually practise it? They are forever cooking and never eating.’
‘Oh ... I see.’
‘Do you?’ He touched her lightly, so lightly she barely felt more than the brush of his hand on her arm. ‘You would if you read Rousseau.’ His voice was soft. ‘But please don’t waste your time.’
Her mind raced away with thoughts she dared not entertain, imagination not of Rousseau’s dreamers’ love, but of Georges,’ urgent, intimate and real.
There was no time for it. It would be too precious, too consuming. She forced it away.
‘Can we really ask Danton?’ She brought them back to the immediacy of the present. They had barely twelve hours, and Georges was right: without passes they could not succeed. Briard would have sacrificed himself for nothing. ‘I suppose there’s no way without telling him the truth?’ she asked.
He looked at her steadily, weighing his answer.
‘None at all,’ he said at last. ‘There’s no one else. And he’ll guess anyway. Wiser not to look as if we are trying to deceive him. I’ll go ... now.’ He straightened up.
‘No!’ she said sharply, instinctively reaching out and grasping his wrist. ‘Better I go. Danton’ll know who you are. You could even be stopped before you’ve had a chance to tell him the whole story ... the reasons ... the truth.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
She was standing beside him now.
‘Of course I do! Everyone knows where Danton lives!’
He winced, his lips tightening. He hated sending her on a dangerous errand yet again. In getting him out of the house on the Boulevard St-Germain she had proved her nerve, shown that she could be as clever and as brave as she wished to be, but it had undone nothing as far as his freedom was concerned.
She turned to the door. She must give him no time to argue the issue, or herself to weaken.
‘If I get them, I’ll come back.’
‘Be careful!’ he urged her, fear sharp in him.
She knew from his voice, the quick intake of breath, what he was going to say now. She did not want to hear it. It would make it harder. She opened the door. ‘I’m always careful.’ She smiled at him quickly and went out.
It was a little after nine o’clock by the time Célie reached the Cour du Commerce towards Danton’s house. The night was crisp, thin moonlight on the rime of frost, freezing roofs gleaming in its pallor, black shadows below. Her heart was beating so hard her breath caught in her throat, and her stomach was churning around, making her feel slightly sick. She was frightened of Danton, the immense power of him. It was like facing a violent force of nature, unpredictable, capable of destroying everything. If she misjudged it, she could be seized and go to the guillotine the same morning as the King!
And if she told Danton too much he might forestall the plan, and all of them would be taken: Briard, the crowd who mobbed the King’s carriage ... Georges.
She was at Danton’s doorway. She was shaking so badly her own breathing all but choked her. This was the moment of decision. Once she had knocked, it was too late. Forward—to see Danton to ask him to sign a pass for the King to escape, to risk her own life if it went wrong. It would be immediate, right here in Danton’s house. No one would be able to help her. No one would even know, until it was too late.
She would not see them again—not Amandine, nor Madame Lacoste. She was surprised to think how much she liked Madame. And she would not see Georges again. It was not enough to have proved she could be as brave as Madame de Staël. She had thought it would be, but it was barely a beginning. She wanted so much more than that! She wanted to love with all her heart and mind and passion, to feel everything there was, all the joy, even all the pain.
Even if Georges never saw her that way—never as more than a friend, an ally in the cause—to try, and fail, would have been better than not to have tried at all—far better! She thought of the tumbrels and the guillotine. Would it be quick? Would she be able to face it with courage, as other people had? Or would she humiliate herself by having to be carried?
She stood shivering on the step.
Did she believe in God? Was there anything after the blinding pain, except oblivion? Would she cease to exist? Was all the passion and the hope and the love nothingness in the end? Had all humanity down the ages been deluded by dreams? Or was there some heaven where she and Georges might meet again, and even Jean-Pierre ... and all this great, impossible plan would have been worth it?
Bernave had believed. She remembered his saying that he wanted the King back because one day he wanted the Church as well—the return of the sacraments, the mercy and the hope that the belief in holiness could give.
But then so much of what he said might have been lies! What about the girl in Vincennes?
If she turned and ran away now, what was there worth having? Nothing. Cowardice was a kind of betrayal of herself, which she would have to live with for the rest of her life, every day, every night.
She knocked on the door, and then instantly wished she had not.
It was too late to run. The door was opened almost immediately by a woman roughly her own age, with a gentle, pretty face shadowed as if some deep tragedy threatened her. She looked at Célie enquiringly.
There was still time to escape, invent a lie. However, Célie said a little hoarsely, ‘I have a favour to ask of Citizen Danton. It is terribly important to me, and it is urgent, or I would not interrupt you at home.’ She tried to smile, but it felt stiff in her face.
Gabrielle Danton smiled at her. ‘You’re lucky, Citizeness. He is at home. Please come in.’ She held the door wide.
Célie stepped inside and was immediately aware of the warmth of the house, the kind of brightness that is created by a woman who loves her home and her family and whose joy it is to care for them. There were ornaments, simple but pleasing to the eye, embroidered cushions, a painted jug. The aroma of herbs and vegetables filled the air and she could hear the sound of children laughing in the next room. It was as Georges had said, an island of startling sanity in a world of madness.
She followed Gabrielle into the next room where there was a fire blazing in the hearth. Danton sprawled at ease in the largest chair, his knees apart, a smile on his huge, grotesque face. She had never been this close to him before. He was younger than she had thought, little over thirty. He had a shock of hair, his skin was pock-marked and had the scars of all manner of farmyard encounters from his childhood. He was so large he seemed about to burst out of his clothes, and yet there was nothing threatening about him. He was at home here, and his happiness in it pervaded the air.
‘The Citizeness wishes to ask a favour of you,’ Gabrielle said to him. ‘She says it is urgent, and matters to her very much.’
‘Come in, Citizeness,’ Danton said expansively, rising and gesturing to the other chair for her to sit. He thanked his wife, smiling at her with a softness in his expression sweeter than words.
Gabrielle flashed him an answering smile, then excused herself and went back to the kitchen, humming softly, tucking a loose lock of hair back into its pins.
Célie sat down near the fire. The thought of war, of foreign soldiers tramping through here, stealing and destroying, was obscene. Any price at all would be cheap to preserve this decency of life.
Danton was waiting, looking at her curiously. She must begin. This was the moment of risk, to win or lose it all. She had gone over and over it in her mind, imagining the scene—what she would say, what he would answer, all the arguments she would use. None of it seemed adequate. But she must speak.
‘I have been listening much to what people have been saying lately.’ Her voice was hoarse, squeaking at points, she was so afraid. She knotted her hands together in her lap to stop them shaking, digging her nails into her palms. ‘In the Convention, and the Jacobin Club, and in the streets.’
He was staring at her, waiting for her to get to the point.
She swallowed, looking up to meet his eyes. In that instant she knew she must be honest. Otherwise she would lose him completely.
‘I am afraid of war, Citizen Danton. If we are invaded by the monarchist countries around us, we shall lose all that we have gained in the revolution. Everything will be swept away and the old opinions will be back, perhaps even worse—and foreign as well! Not even French.’
He leaned forward. ‘I know that, Citizeness. I am aware of the dangers, believe me! I love France as much as anyone.’ There was a passion in his face as he said it, a gentleness and an urgency which made doubt impossible. ‘We will fight to defend her ... and die if we need to. There is no more anyone can do.’
‘Yes, there is!’ she plunged in. Surprisingly, she did not even want to hesitate. ‘If we wait until we are stronger before we execute the King—then ...’
A shadow of sadness crossed his face. ‘I cannot change that, Citizeness. If there had been any chance of reversing the decision, I would have tried. You said you had listened to people in the Convention; surely you know that for yourself?’
‘It couldn’t be reversed by persuasion,’ she agreed.
His eyes widened, but he did not interrupt, waiting for her to complete the thought.
Now was the moment. It was too late to retreat. She drew in her breath.
‘If the King did not reach the scaffold ... if he disappeared from the carriage between prison and the Place de la Revolution ...’ She saw the amazement in his face, the dawning incredulity. Was he going to arrest her now? She spoke a little more clearly and more forcefully. ‘It could be done! Then England and Spain would have no provocation to go to war against us.’ She leaned towards him, speaking softly. ‘It would give us time to establish peace and show the world that we can govern ourselves without a king or a Church, and that we can do it better! We can administer justice, keep order, feed the people just as well as any other land. But they won’t believe it until they see it!’ She stopped abruptly, her heart pounding, watching Danton’s face for rage—or understanding.
‘You have courage, Citizeness—I’ll say that for you.’ His voice was low, full of surprise. ‘What makes you think such a thing is possible?’
It was the question she dreaded. And yet she would have thought him a fool if he had not asked.
‘Many people see the dangers just as I do,’ she replied. ‘They will risk their lives, some though they know there is no chance of their survival, even if they succeed.’ She thought of Briard and went on with a sudden catch in her throat. ‘They love France. They love our people—and they want all the gains of the revolution preserved, everything so many have already died to achieve. They don’t want our homes invaded by Austrian soldiers, or English; our land, our fields and streets trodden by other countries’ armies who have no love for them and no care.’
Danton winced, and she knew she had struck a nerve in him. She did not add anything further. Let him answer what she had said. She saw in his eyes the struggle of emotion in him.
‘You risk a great deal in telling me this, Citizeness,’ he said quietly. ‘You must want something of me you cannot do without. What is it?’
‘A pass for Citizen Briard to leave Paris and travel in whatever direction he wishes.’
‘Briard?’ he repeated, watching her face. ‘That’s all? Just a pass for Citizen Briard?’
‘Yes. Joseph Briard.’
‘Is he wanted by the Commune?’
‘No. He is just an ordinary man, who is ill, and wishes to leave Paris and travel.’
He breathed out very slowly. ‘I see. And you think this Joseph Briard might be stopped, and my name on the pass would prevent that?’
‘Yes. No one would question a genuine signature of Citizen Danton.’ She said it with certainty. She was daring to hope. It almost suffocated her, as if she were poised between life and death, darkness and light.
Now it was time for him to make the great decision. He looked at her with a slight smile. ‘I suppose Citizen Briard is an ordinary sort of merchant, a middle-aged man who trades between the city and the country in something or other?’ His eyes were very steady. ‘The sort of thing the King should have done—if fortune had put him in the right place, instead of on the throne of France.’
She swallowed, and nodded.
There was silence in the room except for the crackling of the fire. In the kitchen Gabrielle replaced a pot lid, and the heavy chink of it carried through the motionless air.
‘If Citizen Briard is unable to leave,’ Célie said in a voice barely above a whisper, ‘then the pass will be destroyed—in case it should fall into the wrong hands.’ She watched his face.
‘I have as much courage as you do, Citizeness,’ he answered softly, ‘and I love France as much. I’ll sign your pass.’
She felt the heat rise through her as if she had turned to the fire. The relief was like a tide, engulfing everything.
‘Thank you, Citizen Danton,’ she answered. ‘Few people will ever know what we owe you.’
Although his smile was dazzling, it made his face look like a gargoyle. ‘God—I hope not! There’s nowhere to go but forward, Citizeness! Let’s do it with heart! To hell with our enemies.’
‘To hell with them!’ she agreed, in spite of herself, tears spilling down her cheeks.
She took the pass and put it down her bodice. Then she went immediately to the Rue Mazarine to find the woman who sold coffee, and she asked for Citizen Briard. Ten minutes later she was standing in a tiny room off a courtyard and Briard, looking even paler than before, was accepting the pass with profound respect.
‘You are very brave, Citizeness,’ he said gravely. ‘Citizen Bernave spoke well of you, but your courage would have surprised even him, I believe. May God be with you.’
She found the wish surprisingly sweet. A day ago, even an hour ago she would have dismissed the idea. Now it was exactly the right thing to have said. They were on a wild venture, desperate. She needed to believe in a power greater than her own, one with a higher justice, and a kinder mercy.
‘And you, Citizen,’ she replied, and meant it passionately.
Jean-Paul Marat left his house on the Rue de l’École-de-Médecine, crossed the courtyard past the wall and went under the archway into the street. He was joined almost immediately by two men clothed in rags as torn and filthy as those he wore himself. They accompanied him to watch his back, safeguard him against attack. They had the hollow-eyed, copper-skinned faces of the workers in the tanneries of the Faubourg St-Antoine. Years of harsh acids and alkali had burned them; hunger and disease had made them wolfish of heart as well as of feature.
They fell into step beside Marat in silence. There was no need to exchange greetings as if they did not understand each other and share a common purpose in all things. Appearance was nothing. Perhaps the red bandannas all three wore mattered. Presumably that alone had meaning, as a sign of loyalty to the Commune, but the rest was irrelevant. They did not notice the smell of dirt—it was part of their lives, like daylight and darkness. The sour odour of decay that was peculiar to Marat, the rotting of his flesh with his terrible disease, they were either too tactful to appear to notice, or too frightened. Or perhaps they were too accustomed to the raw stench of the tanneries to notice any other smells.
Tomorrow morning Louis Capet would go to his death, and it would be the beginning of a new age. Of course the Girondins would have to be got rid of afterwards. They were nothing but a nuisance, a bunch of posturing idiots who got in the way. Marat himself was the brain and the core of the Commune. Whatever happened that was of importance would centre on him. Soon he would be able to do anything he liked.
The street was windy and cold. It had stopped raining. A few stars glittered thinly above and there was a skin of ice forming on the cobbles, making it even more difficult to walk. He was obliged to move in an extraordinary, sideways gait, half shuffling, half hopping, like some gigantic frog, because the suppurating tetters that covered his body also ran agonisingly between his legs. Sometimes it was all he could do not to scream with the pain. Vinegar baths eased it a little, but only temporarily.
He thought perhaps someone was following him. He was aware of footsteps, the same rhythm as his own all the time, always a dozen yards behind him. He was not afraid, only interested. No one could harm him. And if they tried, the men beside him would dispatch them rapidly enough.
He was heading across the river towards the Rue St-Honoré and the Convention. There was plenty of light in the street from windows of houses and shops, the occasional torch flare and groups of soldiers, or now and then a carriage with lamps. If he turned he could see who it was following, but he refused to do that. Probably it was just somebody going the same way. Lots of people were out tonight. There was an excitement in the air, a nervy sort of edge, a prickling, as if everyone were counting the hours to daylight, and the last great act to end tyranny.
They were crossing the river. The water ran dark and noisy under the spans of the bridge. He could hear it sucking at the stone, folding in and burying under the ice cold, shiny currents, reflecting together torchlight from the further bank, red fire dancing on molten lead.
The dead black mass of the Louvre shut out the paler night sky. Marat and his companions turned left. Half a dozen National Guardsmen carrying torches passed by.
‘Good evening, Citizen Marat!’ the leader called, tipping his hat.
Marat waved in answer, acknowledging them almost casually, and continued on.
They passed a group of well-dressed men, prosperous and plump. They too recognised him. Even if they had not seen his face in the torch flame, his agonised, crab-like gait was unmistakable.
One of them kept talking, as if he had not noticed, averting his eyes.
Marat stiffened. He had been insulted so often in his years in the wilderness of rejection, he was quick to see it. He knew it far too well to misunderstand.
The men drew a little closer together. In his anxiety to avoid Marat, one of them almost scraped the wall of the house they were passing, careless of bruising himself. Another laughed nervously, ending with a cough.
The man who had been talking changed his mind. He forced himself to smile, too widely, showing all his teeth in the gloom.
‘Good evening, Citizen Marat!’ he said loudly, his voice jerking up at the end.
Marat did not reply but he stood still.
‘A cold night,’ the man went on.
Marat stared at him.
The man’s nostrils flared at the smell. Marat could see the fear. He was breathing rapidly and he all but choked on his own saliva. ‘Long live ... the Republic!’ He swivelled away and ran along the street, swinging round the corner into an alley and disappearing. Marat knew it was not the way he had intended to go. It led nowhere. His companions fled after him.
Marat resumed his way with as much of a swagger as he could manage, but there was contempt in it. He knew their words were driven by fear, not honesty, and he despised them for it.
He had seen that kind of tension in people’s faces before: the artificial praise, the hollow agreement, the eyes that were loath to meet his, and at the same time dare not look away. There were times when he wondered if anything anyone said to him was true. It was exhausting, living amongst so much terror and lies, evasions, a constant state of near-hysteria.
That was why he loved his mistress, Simone Evrard. She had no political ambitions or opinions. She saw the human and precious in him, not the doctor, the writer, the avenger of the oppressed, the political demagogue or the terror of the Girondins, but a man of passions and frailties like any other.
They were close to the Convention now and there was more noise in the street. Smoke was blowing in the wind from half a dozen torches, and there was a sharp, tarry smell that caught in the throat, but was not unpleasant.
Marat turned and went in through the doorway of the Convention. His two companions stayed close behind, although he was safe now. It was almost all deputies in here, arguing, drunk with the sound of their own voices, as usual, and absorbed in the struggle for power within their individual factions.
The man from the street had entered behind him, tentatively, uncertain if he should be here or not. That meant he was following Marat!
Why should he? But there was no reason to suspect anything amiss. He was probably just another citizen eager to hear the debate, and share in the moment of history.
A plump man with thinning hair approached Marat earnestly, his eyes glittering in the reflected torchlight.
‘Citizen Marat,’ he said earnestly, ‘I beg you, just a moment or two of your time, if you would be so gracious.’ The words were preposterous. Marat had never been gracious in his life. The rage inside him burned like lava, scorching everything it touched.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. His voice was hoarse, rasping, and held a peculiar mixture of accents. One remembered that his father was Sardinian and his mother Swiss. He could read and write in English, Italian, Dutch and German, as well, of course, as French.
‘Citizen Aulard,’ the man introduced himself.
Marat was impatient. He gestured sharply with his hands, fingers jabbing at the air, his weight shifting from foot to foot.
‘What do you want?’ he repeated.
‘Your advice, Citizen,’ Aulard replied. There was a certain ring of confidence in him. If he was frightened he hid it well. ‘So many of our more educated men have fled from Paris, as if they were guilty of something and had cause to fear.’ He shrugged. ‘And who knows, perhaps they have.’ He saw Marat’s temper rising. ‘But it has left us without men of certain skills, men who are widely read and have inventive and subtle minds in the sciences.’
Against his will Marat was caught.
Aulard must have seen it. He knew his flattery worked. Marat did not hunger any more for power—that was satisfied—but nothing would ever assuage his need for glory, for the recognition he felt he had been denied all his life. He had published volumes of work on all manner of subjects as varied as optics, electricity and the nature of the human soul. The Académie Française had steadfastly ignored them all. But he would be revenged. After tomorrow he could do anything.
‘What can I help you with?’ he asked Aulard, standing still at last.
The flicker of a smile touched Aulard’s mouth.
‘I have a plan to set up treatment for our soldiers who have suffered amputations in battle,’ he replied. ‘But I cannot persuade the doctors at the School of Medicine to listen to me. Their minds are closed ...’
Marat nodded.
Aulard knew he had his attention, even his sympathy. It was so easy. It was like offering sweets to a starved child. With all Marat’s power and his rage, he was still so vulnerable, the pain in him so naked.
Marat vulnerable?
He ruled the Commune by terror, and the Commune were the real rulers of Paris, and thus of France. Marat could raise his hand, and send anyone he wanted to the guillotine.
‘They haven’t learned anything or thought of anything new in twenty years,’ Aulard went on, knowing exactly what to say. He had probably studied Marat’s career. He knew of the endless works written, Marat labouring crouched over his desk by candlelight, eighteen and twenty hours a day, living on next to nothing, driven to exhaustion by the hunger for recognition, exploring every avenue of thought he could aspire to, and always being passed over. Volume after volume had poured from his pen, every one to be derided and turned away.
He had scraped a living as a doctor in places as diverse as the household of the Comte d’Artois, of all people, and the village of Pimlico on the edge of London. Always the passion for acknowledgement of his genius had impelled him on. Failure had embittered him, caused quarrels, dismissals, and in the end persecution, as he had allied himself with the desperate, the starving and the dispossessed. His towering, blazing anger for their misery was the pain of his own rejection.
But that was all over now. Nobody would ever reject him again.
Out of the corner of his vision Marat saw the man who had followed him in the street: he looked to be in his mid-thirties, a very ordinary man, with brown hair and well-worn, workman’s clothes.
‘Your medical opinion would carry more weight with them than mine,’ Aulard went on. ‘If you were to consider my plans, Citizen, and find yourself able to recommend them, then everyone else would take them seriously also.’
‘Let me see them,’ Marat agreed. ‘Bring them to my house tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Citizen,’ Aulard said enthusiastically. ‘Your help will mean everything to me ... and to the poor men who have suffered in the cause of patriotism.’ His face was already gleaming with the prospect of victory. His smile widened; his shoulders relaxed.
The man with brown hair moved forward, almost to Marat’s elbow.
‘Will this be free to the good citizens who had offered their services in Paris as well?’ he asked.
Aulard stared at him. ‘And who are you?’ he demanded angrily. ‘I am speaking with Citizen Marat! How dare you interfere? Citizen Marat does not need your opinion.’
‘Fernand Lacoste. Why does it matter who I am?’
Aulard moved towards him.
‘Wait!’ Marat snapped, holding his hand up. He turned to Aulard. ‘Will it be free? Or will you make money from this, and fame?’
‘I seek only the wellbeing of my fellow citizens who have been injured in the cause of freedom,’ Aulard answered sententiously.
Marat was not fooled twice.
‘Good! Then take it to the Army. If they recommend it, then you don’t need me. Go and see Citizen Pache.’ He was not sure how it had happened, but he was aware that he had been used.
Aulard was fortunate to escape so lightly.
He swung round to Fernand. ‘I’ll not forget your interference, Citizen!’ he spat.
‘You’d be wise to forget you were ever here,’ Marat retorted. ‘I do not like to be used, Citizen Aulard.’
Aulard paled, stood his ground for a moment, then spun round and strode off, leaving Marat alone in the corridor with Fernand Lacoste.
The man seemed nervous, excited. He stared at Marat as if transfixed.
‘What is it, Citizen?’ Marat asked softly, his voice little more than a hiss. ‘You followed me all the way from the Cordeliers. What do you want?’
Lacoste paled, but he did not back away. He licked his lips. ‘There is something wrong,’ he said with a little shake of his head. He was frowning. ‘I don’t know what it is, but I believe it has to do with the King.’
‘Citizen Capet,’ Marat corrected him, but he was not listening. He knew one should never ignore whispers, gossip. People like this were the eyes and ears of the revolution.
‘Citizen Capet,’ Lacoste repeated obediently. ‘I live on the Boulevard St-Germain, in a big house. It used to belong to Citizen Victor Bernave.’ He was speaking too quickly, almost gabbling. He needed to say everything, but he was afraid of losing Marat’s attention.
Marat knew it, and waited. It was possibly nothing, but it might matter.
‘But he was murdered,’ Lacoste went on. ‘Now it belongs to my wife.’ He looked acutely uncomfortable. He had said something he did not mean to. Marat could see it in his eyes.
‘What has that to do with Citizen Capet?’ he asked.
In spite of his nervousness, Lacoste did not flinch or lower his gaze.
‘Something was going on in that house since long before Bernave was murdered. I thought it was all to do with money. His trade was in cloth and he did well. People were coming and going on errands at all hours. Then today a man came to the back door with a story about being a tailor who had been asked by Bernave to do a job altering a coat for someone, but he still expected to do it even though Bernave is dead.’
Marat was losing patience. This was tedious and of no possible importance.
‘My daughter stared at him as if she could barely believe her eyes,’ Lacoste went on. ‘She is six years old. Afterwards I asked her why. Then I realised it!’
‘What? So far you have said nothing!’ Marat snapped.
‘The King! Citizen Capet!’ Lacoste replied urgently. ‘The man looked exactly like him! And he was offering to alter a coat for a man who intended to leave Paris within the next few days. I don’t know what it means, Citizen Marat, but I thought you should know.’
Ideas whirled in Marat’s head. So the man was not a fool after all. A middle-aged man who looked like Louis Capet, people making plots and plans, coming and going at all hours. Victor Bernave had been a clever, slippery man, not to be trusted. Good thing he was dead.
‘You have done well to bring this to me, Citizen,’ Marat said gently. ‘Who else have you told?’
‘No one!’ Lacoste said with feeling. ‘Who else could I know would do the right thing for the people?’
‘Nobody,’ Marat agreed. Excellent. If no one else knew, then if this was indeed some kind of plot, he would foil it himself. He could use men from the Commune, men he could trust. The Girondins were useless. They would argue with one another and end up achieving nothing, as always. They would be too busy trying to make personal gain out of it to reach a decision ... like a roomful of frightened old women running around tripping over each other when someone yells ‘Fire!’
Danton was no good. He was greedy and indecisive. He had actually wanted to save the King’s life in October! He was an oaf—a buffoon! He had revolution on his lips, but not in his heart.
And Robespierre had no heart, the frozen little worm. All he would do was get his own glory out of it, use it to climb one step higher up the ladder of power.
Marat would deal with this plot himself. Trust none of them.
‘What else have you seen?’ he asked Lacoste. ‘Who comes to the house? Who goes out? What have you overheard?’
Lacoste’s eyes widened. ‘You think it is real?’ There was awe in his voice.
‘Maybe!’ Marat was abrupt. He didn’t want Lacoste to think too much of himself. He could get exaggerated ideas of his importance. Marat fixed him with a sullen, smouldering look.
Lacoste told him everything he could think of or recall, reciting it obediently like a schoolboy repeating his lessons.
‘Thank you,’ Marat nodded when he was finished. ‘Say nothing to anyone! You have done the right thing. Now go home and keep silent.’
‘Yes, Citizen Marat,’ Fernand promised. Seeing that Marat had given him leave to go, he turned on his heel and escaped.
Marat went to the hall of the Convention, his mind whirling. He did not go to the seats of the deputies but to the front of the balcony above, where spectators crowded together to watch and listen to the proceedings.
Who would have the courage or the intelligence to plan a rescue of the King right from the jaws of the guillotine? Not the royalists. None of them had the nerve. They were all too busy taking care of their own skins—and fortunes, feathering their nests in England, in Austria, or wherever they thought they had the best chance of living out an exile in comfort.
Marat stared down at the circle of seats stretching wide in tiers, and the rostrum with its short wooden stairs up one side and down the other.
The people nudged each other and moved a little away from him, out of respect, or because of the smell.
So who was it then? His mind roved over all the possibilities, thinking of the ambitious, the dissatisfied, all those of whose loyalties he was uncertain.
It had to be more than one person. Only a group could accomplish such a thing. But there would be one leader, there always was, a sly, ruthless man with the audacity to think of rescuing the King almost from the scaffold’s edge.
A man like that conniving devil, Bernave! Never knew what he really thought, or meant.
Except that he was dead ... murdered, apparently. Now there was an interesting thought! He should learn more about that.
The deputies were divided not according to the region they represented, but from left to right depending upon the extremity of their political opinions. Those of the most conservative sat to the right, those of the most wild and revolutionary to the left. The large mass who were undecided dominated the centre, known as the Mountain.
Marat looked around for faces he might recognise, and saw Barbaroux. His handsome profile was unmistakable. He had once been told by someone that it was noble and very Roman. Now he was forever leaning back to display it the better. Fool! If he had spoken as well as he looked, he might have achieved something.
Brissot appeared harassed and uncertain, like a man who has been set on a horse he knew perfectly well he had not the strength to ride, and that he would eventually have no choice but to cling on to for dear life and be carried wherever it chose to take him. Marat despised him, as he despised them all. Idiots, poseurs, the whole lot of them.
He would show them, tomorrow, if there was a plan to rescue the King. He, Marat, would be the one to expose it.
He looked for Danton but did not see him. He would have been noticeable instantly, even in this crowd. It took him a moment to find Robespierre. The light caught the white of his powdered hair and the flickering movement of his little hands. He was whispering to someone. Effete little swine. He claimed to love the people, and yet his neat little nose wrinkled in disgust if one of them came anywhere near him! Hypocrite!
And there was Saint-Just, sitting like stone. He could have been a monument on a grave. Better he were! That was where he belonged.
The debate seemed desultory, and without emotion. Then suddenly there was a rustle of movement. People sat further upright. Some craned forward. They were staring up. They had seen him. He smiled. He did not know how grotesque the gesture was with his wide, sagging mouth.
This time tomorrow he would drop the bombshell that there had been a plot to rescue the King—which he had brilliantly foiled. That would make them all take notice—not just here but all over Paris—all over France! It would be the end of the Girondins. Smug little Robespierre could not be the hero of that! He would be ignored, and he would hate it! Marat’s smile widened.
Next to him a man moved a few feet further away. Another wrinkled his nose then instantly covered his face with a handkerchief.
A busy little deputy shot to his feet and scurried round to climb the rostrum. Almost before he was there he began to speak of a glorious new age born of blood. His eyes kept glancing towards Marat.
Marat nodded.
The deputy spoke of the imminent death of the King, and what a glorious day it would be: the birth of the Republic, of liberty and justice for everyone.
Marat watched the Girondins to see if any of them had the courage to argue what he knew they believed.
They looked wretched, embarrassed, fidgeting with their hands, but not one rose to speak. Cowards! Exactly what he expected.
Another deputy asked a question about the war with Prussia, and if there were any way to prevent it escalating. He showed a spark of courage, but no one responded.
Brissot turned to Vergniaud, the spokesman for the Girondins, beside him, and for an instant Marat wondered if he were going to rise, but he did not.
Marat stared down at the sea of faces; at the Girondins in whom so many hopes had been placed: their gravitas, their virtue, their noble ideals! They sat in little huddles. One could tell just by looking at them who had quarrelled with whom, who felt insulted or cheated of some honour. It would be amusing, if the fate of France did not hang on it! They aspired to the dignity of the senators of ancient Rome. They talked endlessly and wrote terrible treatises. Roland was the worst: a sour, unhappy man with literary pretensions infinitely beyond his ability to realise. It was said his memoranda were the most complete ever written. He took it as a compliment. It was not. They were dry enough to choke a horse.
They all had dreams of literary immortality, and their works were almost unreadable. They had exasperated Bernave. Marat remembered that now. He had been funny about them at times, and yet there was irony and tragedy beneath the laughter. He had cared too much.
Marat cared too. He knew what it was to be tired and poor, to be sneered at and excluded, to be hungry, cold and frightened and have no weapon with which to fight back. He remembered when the Marquis de Lafayette had sent three thousand soldiers into the Cordeliers to hunt him like a rat! And failed.
And where was Lafayette now? Gone over to the Austrians!
Tomorrow Marat would put the final seal on his glory and make irrevocable the steps forward into the new age. But it must be done his way: through the men of the Commune, not these ineffectual talkers in the Convention. He had no more patience with them. Whatever had been planned, by Victor Bernave or whoever else it was, it would happen between the prison of the Temple and the steps of the guillotine.
So that was why Bernave had told him of the royalists’ plan in the Temple! It made exquisite sense! It could not succeed. He did it to protect his own plan!
He turned and pushed his way through the crowds back to the corridor. He must hurry. The pain of his sores was crucifying, but there was no time to give in to it. He had borne everything in the past: hunger, cold, illness, persecution. Only a little longer and the fruits of it would be his. All the glory in the world.
He did not even see the men he passed who stepped back too hastily, making way for him, faces tight with fear, hands to their noses.