idea; they were doomed to be spat at in the street. Each week, after the type was set, Camille would say, never again, this is the last edition, positively. But next Saturday the paper would be out again, because he could not bear anyone to think that THEY had frightened him, with their threats and insults and challenges, with their money and rapiers and friends at Court. When it was time to write, and he took his pen in his hand, he never thought of consequences; he thought of style. I wonder why I ever bothered with sex, he thought; there’s nothing in this breathing world so gratifying as an artfully placed semicolon. Once paper and ink were to hand, it was useless to appeal to his better nature, to tell him he was wrecking reputations and ruining people’s lives. A kind of sweet venom flowed through his veins, smoother than the finest cognac, quicker to make the head spin. And, just as some people crave opium, he craves the opportunity to exercise his fine art of mockery, vituperation and abuse; laudanum might quieten the senses, but a good editorial puts a catch in the throat and a skip in the heartbeat. Writing’s like running downhill; can’t stop if you want to.
A FEW LOW INTRIGUES to wrap up the annus mirabilis… Lafayette tells Duke Philippe that he is seeking proofs of his involvement in the October riots and that if he finds them he will…proceed. The general wants the Duke out of the country; Mirabeau, finding him essential to his schemes, wants him in Paris. ‘Tell me who is pressuring you,’ Mirabeau begs; not that he can’t guess.
The Duke is confused. He should have been King by now, but he isn’t. ‘You set these things afoot,’ he complains to de Sillery, ‘and other people take them out of your hands.’
Charles-Alexis is sympathetic: ‘Not exactly plain sailing, is it?’
‘Please,’ the Duke says, ‘I am not in the mood for your naval metaphors this morning.’
The Duke is frightened – frightened of Mirabeau, frightened of Lafayette, and marginally more frightened of the latter. He is even frightened of Deputy Robespierre, who sits in the Assembly opposing everyone and everything, never raising his voice, never losing his temper, his gentle eyes implacable behind his spectacles.
After the October days, Mirabeau conceives a plan for the escape of the royal family – you have to talk, now, in terms of ‘escape’. The Queen loathes him, but he is trying to manipulate the situation so that he seems to the Court a necessary man. He despises Lafayette, but believes he might be turned to some account; the general has his fingers on the purse-strings of the Secret Service funds, and that is no small matter, if one has to entertain, to pay one’s secretaries, to help out needy young men who happen to put their talents at your disposal.
‘They may pay me,’ the Comte says, ‘but they have not bought me. If someone would trust me, I wouldn’t need to be so devious.’
‘Yes, Monsieur,’ Teutch says stonily. ‘I wouldn’t go marketing that epigram, if I were you, Monsieur.’
AND MEANWHILE, General Lafayette brooded: ‘Mirabeau,’ he said coldly, ‘is a charlatan. If I cared to expose his schemes I could bring the sky around his ears. The idea of him in the ministry is unthinkable. He is massively corrupt. It is wonderful how the man’s popularity survives. I might say it grows. It does, it grows. I will offer him a place, some embassy, get him out of France…’ Lafayette ran his fingers through his scanty blond hair. It was fortunate that Mirabeau had once said – said in public – that he wouldn’t have Philippe as his valet. Because if they should ally themselves…no, it’s unthinkable. Orléans must leave France, Mirabeau must be bought off, the King must be guarded day and night by six National Guardsmen, likewise the Queen, tonight I dine with Mirabeau and I will offer…He had lapsed into silent thought. It 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 Orléans…If a thousand louis seems to you indiscreet, do not ask for it, but that is the amount I urgently need…
ORLÉANS 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 Clavière, ‘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: Maître G.-J. Danton paid over to Maître Huet de Paisy and Mlle Françoise 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?
II. Liberty, Gaiety, Royal Democracy (1790)
‘OUR CHARACTERS make our destiny,’ Félicité 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 Hôtel de la Fautrière, 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.
