One Thing More

by Anne Perry

  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.