that none of it made any sense. A lead was what we wanted, Max thought, we wanted some – fine phrases, I suppose. Inspiration, call it what you will. Necker was struggling now. His voice was fading. This, clearly, had been anticipated. He had a substitute by him. He passed his notes across. The substitute rose and began. He had a voice like a creaking drawbridge.
Now there was one woman Max watched: the Queen. When her husband spoke, there was some effort at a frowning concentration. When Barentin rose, she had dropped her eyes. Now she looked about her, quite frankly; she scanned the benches of the Commoners. She would watch them, watching her. She would glance down to her lap, move her fingers slightly, to catch the flash of diamonds in the light. She would raise her head, and again the stiff-jawed face would turn, turn. She seemed to be searching, searching. What was she searching for? For one face above the black coats … An enemy? A friend? Her fan jerked in her hand, like a live bird.
Three hours later, heads reeling, the deputies stumbled out into the sun. A large group gathered at once about Mirabeau, who was dissecting for their instruction the speech of M. Necker. ‘It is the speech, gentlemen, that one might expect from a banker’s clerk of some small ability … As for the deficit, it is our best friend. If the King didn’t need to raise money, would we be here?’
‘We may as well not be here,’ a deputy observed, ‘if we cannot have the voting by head.’ Mirabeau slapped the man on the shoulder, unbalancing him.
Max moved well out of range. He didn’t want to risk, even accidentally, being pounded on the back by Mirabeau; and the man was so free with his fists. At once, he felt a tap on his shoulder; it was no more than a tap. He turned. One of the Breton deputies. ‘Conference on tactics, tonight, my rooms, eight o’clock, all right?’
Max nodded. Strategy, he means, he thought: the art of imposing on the enemy the time, place and conditions for the fight.
Here was Deputy Pétion, bounding up. ‘Why lurk so modestly, de Robespierre? Look now – I’ve found you your friend.’ The Deputy dived bravely into the circle around Mirabeau, and in a moment re-emerged: and with him, Camille Desmoulins. Pétion was a sentimental man; gratified, he stood aside to watch the reunion. Mirabeau stumped off in animated conversation with Barnave. Camille put his hands into de Robespierre’s. De Robespierre’s hands were cool, steady, dry. Camille felt his heart slow. He glanced over his shoulder at the retreating Mirabeau. For a second, he saw the Comte in quite a different light: a tawdry grandee, in some noisy melodrama. He wished to leave the theatre.
ON 6 MAY the Clergy and the Nobility met separately, in the chambers allocated to them. But except for the Hall of the Lesser Pleasures, there was nowhere big enough for the Third Estate. They were allowed to stay where they were. ‘The King has made an error,’ de Robespierre said. ‘He has left us in possession of the ground.’ He surprised himself: perhaps he had learned something after all from his scraps of conversation with Lazare Carnot, the military engineer. One day soon he must undertake the nervous business of addressing this great assembly. Arras seems far, very far away.
The Third Estate cannot actually transact any business, of course. To do so would be to accept their status as a separate assembly. They don’t accept it. They ask the two other Estates to come back and join them. Nobility and Clergy refuse. Deadlock.
‘SO WHATEVER I SAY next, write it down.’
The Genevan slaves sat about with scraps of paper resting on books propped on their knees. The Comte’s papers covered every surface that might have been used as a writing desk. From time to time they exchanged glances, like the knowing veteran revolutionaries they were. The Comte strode about, gesturing with a sheaf of notes. He was wearing his crimson dressing-gown, and the rings on his big hairy hands caught the candlelight and flashed fire into the airless room. It was one a.m. Teutch came in.
TEUTCH: Monsieur –
MIRABEAU: Out.
[Teutch draws the door closed behind him.]
MIRABEAU: So, the Nobility don’t wish to join us. They have voted against our proposal – by a clear hundred votes. The Clergy don’t wish to join us, but their voting was, am I right, 133 to 114?
GENEVANS: You are right.
MIRABEAU: So that’s close. That tells us something.
[He begins to pace. The Genevans scribble. It is 2.15. Teutch comes in.]
TEUTCH: Monsieur, there is a man here with a very hard name who has been waiting to see you since eleven o’clock.
MIRABEAU: What do you mean, a hard name?
TEUTCH: I can’t understand what it is.
MIRABEAU: Well, get him to write it down on a piece of paper and bring it in, can’t you, imbecile?
[Teutch goes out.]
MIRABEAU [digressing]: Necker. What is Necker, in the Lord’s name? What are his qualifications for office? What in the name of God makes him look so good? I’ll tell you what it is – the fellow has no debts, and no mistresses. Can that be what the public wants these days – a Swiss pinch-penny, with no balls? No, Dumont, don’t write that down.
DUMONT: You make yourself sound envious of Necker, Mirabeau. Of his position as minister.
[2.45 a.m. Teutch comes in with a slip of paper. Mirabeau takes it from him in passing and puts it in his pocket.]
MIRABEAU: Forget Necker. Everybody will, anyway. Return to the point. It seems, then, that the Clergy are our best hope. If we can persuade them to join us …
[At. 3.15 he takes the slip of paper out of his pocket.]
MIRABEAU: De Robespierre. Yes, it is a peculiar name … Now, everything depends on those nineteen priests. I must have a speech that will not only invite them to join us, but will inspire them to join us – no commonplace speech, but a great speech. A speech that will set their interest and duty plainly before them.
DUROVERAY: And one that will cover the name of Mirabeau in eternal glory, just by the way.
MIRABEAU: There is that.
[Teutch comes in.]
MIRABEAU: Oh, good heavens, am I to endure you walking in and out and slamming the door every two minutes? Is M. de Robepierre still here?
TEUTCH: Yes, Monsieur.
MIRABEAU: How very patient he must be. I wish I had that kind of patience. Well, make the good deputy a cup of chocolate, Teutch, out of your Christian charity, and tell him I will see him soon.
[4.30 a.m. Mirabeau talks. Occasionally he pauses in front of a mirror to try out the effect of a gesture. M. Dumont has fallen asleep.]
MIRABEAU: M. de Robinpère still here?
[5.00 a.m. The leonine brow clears.]
MIRABEAU: My thanks, my thanks to you all. How can I ever thank you enough? The combination, my dear Duroveray, of your erudition, my dear Dumont, of your – snores – of all your singular talents, welded together by my own genius as an orator –
[Teutch sticks his head around the door.]
TEUTCH: Finished, have you? He’s still here,
