“I am impervious,” Jean-Paul Marat said, “to bullets and your wit.”
“You look even worse at this hour.”
“The Revolution does not value me tor my decorative qualities, Danton. Nor you, I believe. Men of action, that’s what we are, aren’t we?” As usual, Marat seemed to be deeply entertained by some private joke. “Get Mandat here,” he said.
“Is he still at the palace? Message to Mandat,” Danton said over his shoulder. “My compliments to him, and the Commune requests his presence urgently at City Hall.”
From the Place de Grève, the roar of the growing crowd. Danton splashed some brandy into a glass and stood cradling it in his palm. He reached up to loosen the cravat he had wasted his time in tightening, at home in the Cour du Commerce. The pulse jumped at the side of his neck. His mouth was dry. A wave of nausea welled inside him. He took another sip from the glass. The nausea abated.
The Queen extended her hand and Mandat kissed it. “I shall never come back,” he said. It was the sort of thing to say. “Order to the commander of the Place de Grève duty battalion. Attack from the rear and disperse the mob marching on the palace.” He scrawled a signature. His horse was waiting. The duty commander had the order within minutes. At City Hall, Mandat went straight to his own office. He was ordered to make his report, but so far as he could discern there was no proper authority to report to. He toyed with the notion of locking his door. But it seemed an unsoldierly thing to do.
“Rossignol,” said Danton, “thank you.” He glanced over Mandat’s order, which the district police commissioner had put into his hand. “Let us step along the corridor, and ask Mandat to explain to the new commune why he has deployed armed force against the people.”
“I refuse.” Mandat said.
“You refuse.”
“Those people are not the municipal government. They are not the Commune. They are rebels. They are criminals.”
“I shall compound their crimes,” Danton said. He reached forward and took Mandat by the front of his coat, hauling him by physical force from the room. Rossignol leaned forward and deftly confiscated the Marquis’s rapier; he turned its hilt in his fingers and grimaced.
Outside the room Mandat looked up into a ring of hostile faces. He became limp with terror. “Not now,” Danton said. “Not yet, my friends. You can leave this to me, I don’t need help.” He tightened his grip. “Keep refusing, Mandat,” he said, and began to drag him towards the Throne Room, where the new Commune had assembled. He laughed. It was like being a child again—the licensed brutality, when the issues are simple.
Five a.m. Antoinette: “There is no hope.”
Five a.m. Gabrielle began to tremble and shiver. “I’m going to be sick,” she said. Louise Robert sprinted off for a basin, and held it while Lucile lifted Gabrielle’s hair from her shoulders and smoothed it back from her brow. When she had finished her unproductive retching they eased her back onto a sofa, placed the basin inconspicuously at hand, tucked cushions under the small of her back and dabbed her temples with handkerchiefs soaked in lavender water. “Well, you probably guessed,” Gabrielle said. “I’m pregnant again.”
“Oh, Gabrielle!”
“People usually say congratulations,” she said mildly.
“Oh, but so soon,” Lucile moaned.
“Well, what do you do?” Louise Robert shrugged. “It’s either you get pregnant, or you use English overcoats, don’t you, take your choice.”
“What are English overcoats?” Gabrielle said, looking glassily from one to the other.
“Oh really!” Louise was scornful. “What does de facto mean? What are English overcoats? Right little noble savage we’ve got here, Lucile.”
“I’m sorry,” Gabrielle said. “I can’t keep up with your conversation.”
“No point trying,” Lucile said. “Rémy knows all about English overcoats, but they are not things that married men will entertain. Especially Georges-Jacques, I imagine.”
“I don’t think we really want to know what you imagine, Mme. Desmoulins,” Louise said. “Not in this context.”
A tear quivered on the end of Gabrielle’s lashes. “I don’t mind being pregnant, really. He’s always very pleased. And you get used to it.”
“The way things are going,” Louise said, “You’ll have eight, nine, ten. When’s it due?”
“February, I think. It seems such a long way off.”
“Go home. Sleep. Two hours.”
The hideous flare of the torches at three o’clock: the oaths of the fighting men above the creak and rumble of the cannon on the move.
“Sleep?” Camille said. “It would be a novelty. Shall I find you at the palace?”
Danton breathed spirits into his face. “No, why at the palace? Santerre is in control of the National Guard, we have Westermann, he’s a professional, leave it to him. Can I never impress upon you that there is no need to take these personal risks?”
Camille slumped against the wall and covered his face with his hands. “Fat lawyers sitting in rooms,” he said. “It is very exciting.”
“It’s quite exciting enough for any normal person,” Danton said. He wanted to beg, will it be all right, will we make it, will we see sunrise? “Oh Christ, Camille, go home,” he said. “What I violently object to is your hair tied up with that piece of string.”
The Marquis de Mandat had been interrogated by the new Commune, and locked up in a room at City Hall. At first light, Danton suggested that he should be taken to the Abbaye prison. He stood by a window to watch him led down the steps, flanked by a strong guard.
He nodded to Rossignol. Rossignol leaned out of the window and shot Mandat dead.
“Come on,” Lucile said. “Change of scene.” The three women picked up their effects, locked the doors, went downstairs and out into the Cour du Commerce. They would walk around to Lucile’s apartment, to the prison of waiting in another place. No one around; and the air was fresh, even chilly. An hour from now, there would be the promise of heat. Lucile thought, I have never been so alive as I am now: this poor betrayed cow, leaning on my right shoulder, this bird-boned virago leaning on my left. The deadweight, the flyer; she had to coordinate their steps up the stairs.
The servant Jeanette did her best to look shocked when she saw them. “Make up a bed for Mme. Danton,” Lucile said. Jeanette tucked her under a quilt, on one of the drawing-room sofas; Gabrielle, willing to be babied for once, let her head fall back onto the cushions while Louise Robert took out her hairpins and let the warm dark cloak of hair spread over the sofa’s arm and tumble to the carpet. Lucile brought her hairbrush, and knelt like a penitent, smoothing long easy strokes through the electric mane; Gabrielle lay with her eyes closed, hors de combat. Louise Robert edged onto the blue chaise-longue, inched to the back of it, drew her feet up. Jeanette brought her a blanket. “Your mother is rarely fond of this piece of furniture,” she told Lucile. “She always said, you never know when you’ll be glad of it.”
“If you want anything, call me.” Lucile trailed towards her bedroom; did a detour, to pick up a bottle that contained three inches of flat champagne. She was tempted to drink it, but then reflected that there was nothing more unpleasant. It seemed a week since these bottles were opened.
The very thought made her queasy. Jeanette came up behind her; she jumped violently. “Lie down now, my sweetheart,” the woman said. “You won’t make any difference by trying to stay upright.” The grim set of her mouth said: I love him, too, you know.
At 6 a.m. the King decided to inspect the National Guard. He descended to the courtyards of the palace. He wore a sad purple coat, and carried his hat under his arm. It was an unhappy business. The noblemen outside his suite dropped to their knees as he approached and murmured their words of allegiance; but the National Guardsmen insulted him, and a gunner shook a fist in his face.
Rue Saint-Honoré: “Some breakfast?” said Eléonore Duplay.
“I don’t think so, Eléonore.”
> “Max, why not eat?”
“Because I never eat at this hour,” Robespierre said. “At this hour I answer my letters.”
Babette at the door. Round morning face. “Father sent this up. Danton is signing proclamations at City Hall.”
Robespierre let the document lie on his desk. He did not touch it, but ran his eyes to the signature. “In the name of the nation—DANTON.”
“So Danton claims to speak for the nation?” Eléonore said. She watched his face.
“Danton is an excellent patriot. Only—I thought he would have sent for me by now.”
“They dare not risk your life.”
Robespierre looked up. “Oh no, that’s not it. I think Danton doesn’t want me to—what shall we say?—study his methods.”
“That may be so,” Eléonore agreed. What did it matter? She would say anything: anything that would keep him safe behind Duplay’s wall, that would keep his heart beating till tomorrow and tomorrow and the day after that.
It was perhaps 7:30 in the morning when the patriots trained their big guns on the palace. Behind those guns were all the weapons the Insurrectionary Commune could find: muskets, sabers, cutlasses and rank upon rank of the sacred pike. The rebel thousands sang the “Marseillaise.”
Louis: What do they want?
Camille slept for an hour with his head on his wife’s shoulder.
“Danton.” Roederer looked up at the apparition blocking the doorway. “Danton, you’re drunk.”
“I’ve been drinking to keep awake.”
“What do you want?” With me, Roederer meant. His fright showed clearly on his face. “Danton, I am not a royalist, whatever you may think. I was at the Tuileries because I was commanded there. But I hope you and your commanders know what you’re doing. You must understand that the carnage will be terrible. The Swiss will fight to the last man.”
“So I’m told,” Danton said. “I want you to go back there.”
“Back?” Roederer gaped at him.
“I want you to get the King out.”
“Out?”
“Stop repeating what I say, imbecile. I want you to get the King out and in doing so force him to abandon the defense. I want you to go back now and tell Louis and tell Antoinette that they’ll be dead within hours unless they leave the palace, call off the resistance and put themselves under the protection of the Assembly.”
“You want to save them? Do I understand you?
I believe I’m making myself plain.”
“But how am I to do it? They won’t listen to me.”
“You must tell them that once the mob gets into the palace there is nothing I can do. The devil himself won’t be able to save them then.”
“But you want to save them?”
“This is becoming tedious. We must have the King and the Dauphin at all costs. The others matter less, though I dislike seeing women harmed.”
“Costs,” the lawyer repeated. Something seemed to take shape in his tired brain. “Costs, Danton. Now I see.”
Danton launched himself across the room. He grabbed Roederer’s coat front and wrapped a hand round the man’s throat. “You will bring them out or you will answer to me. I shall be watching you, Roederer.”
Choking, Roederer put out a hand, clawing at Danton’s arm. The room was spinning. I shall die, he thought. He struggled for breath and his ears roared. Danton flung him to the floor. “That was the first cannon fire. They are attacking the palace now.”
Roederer looked up, propping himself weakly on one arm, along the column of Danton’s heavy body to his savage face. “Now get them out for me.”
“A clothes brush, I think,” Camille said. “We are supposed to be distinguishing ourselves from the rabble. So Danton says.” He looped the tricolor sash over his shoulder. “Am I presentable?”
“Oh, you could take your morning chocolate with a duchess. Supposing there were one left to take it with. But what now?” Lucile could not keep the fear off her face for long.
Louise and Gabrielle were waiting for news. He had been uncommunicative, when he came in.
“Georges-Jacques intends to remain at City Hall, in control of operations. François is there, too, working away in the next office.”
Louise: “Will he be safe?”
“Well, apart from a great earthquake, and the sun going black, and the moon becoming as blood, and the heavens departing as a scroll when it is rolled together, and the coming of the seven last angels with the seven last plagues—all of which is an ever-present risk, I agree—I can’t see much going wrong for him. We’ll all be safe, as long as we win.”
“And at the palace?” Gabrielle said.
“Oh, at the palace they’ll be killing people by now.”
ANTOINETTE: We still have a defense here.
ROEDERER: Madame, all Paris is marching on you. Do you wish to be responsible for the massacre of the King, of yourself and your children?
ANTOINETTE: God forbid.
ROEDERER: Time presses, Sire.
Louis: Gentlemen, I beg you to abandon a futile defense, and withdraw. There’s nothing to be done here, either for you or for me. Let’s go.
The account of Thomas Blaikie, a Scottish gardener employed at the French court:
But all seemed to prepaire for the great catostrophe of the 10th August and many people wished a Change and they talked of people come from Marsielles to attact the Thuilleries; this seemed a projected affaire and the Thuileries was garded by the Suisse gardes and many more in Suisse dress was expecting to take part with the King. The night before we was nearly informed of what was to happen although non could emagine how it was to turn; the evening of the 9 by the fall of a Bottle from the wall which happened to cut my leg and render me lame so that I was forced to sit on our Terrasse which was opposite the Champs Elize and the Thuileries, where I could hear the first coup de Cannon about 9 and then the other firing and tumult continued. I could see the people running to and fro in the Champs Elize and the horror of the misacre increased and as the King left his gardes and went to the Nationalle assembly, so that those poor wretches that had come to defend him being deserted by him was left to be misacred by the rabble, whereas if the King had stopt there was the greatest part of the Sections ready to defend him; but when they found he had gone to the Assembly they all turned to the mesacre of the poor Suisse gardes … . Many of these anthrophages passed in the Street and stoppt to show us parts of the Suisses they had misacred some of whom I knew … every one seemed to glory in what he had done and to show even their fury on the dead body by cutting them or even tearing their clothes as monuments of triumph, so that this seemed as if the people were struck with a sort of Madness … . But it was impossible to describe all the acts of wanten horor that happened this day … .
“Camille.” A young National Guardsman whom he’d never seen before, pop-eyed with nervousness and expecting to be slapped down. “We have taken a royalist patrol, they were dressed in our uniforms, we have them shut in our guard room at the Cour de Feuillants. Some people are trying to take them off us. Our commander has asked for reinforcements to clear the courtyard but no one has come. We can’t hold them back much longer—can you talk to this rabble, can you talk some sense into them?”
“What is the point?” Fréron said.
“People shouldn’t be killed like dogs, Monsieur,” the boy said to Fréron. His mouth trembled.
“I’m coming,” Camille said.
When they reached the courtyard, Fréron pointed: “Théroigne.”
“Yes,” Camille said calmly. “She’ll get killed.”
Théroigne had taken charge; here was her own, her little Bastille. A hostile, unfocused rabble had a leader now; and already it was too late for the prisoners in the guardroom, for above the shouts, above the woman’s own voice, you could hear the crash of glass and the splinter of wood. She had driven them on, as they stoved in the door and pitted their strength, like goaded beasts in a cage, at the iron bars of the window
s. But they were breaking in, not breaking out; confronted by bayonets in a narrow passage, they had dropped back for a moment, but now they were tearing the building apart. They were stone-eating beasts, and it was not meant for a siege; they had pick-axes, and they were using them. Behind the front rank of attackers the courtyard was swarming with their well-wishers, shouting, shaking their fists, waving weapons.
Seeing the Guardsman’s uniform, the tricolor sashes, sections of the crowd gave way to them, letting them pass. But before they reached the front of the crowd, the boy put a hand on Camille’s arm, holding him back. “Nothing you can do now,” he said.
Théroigne wore black; she had a pistol in her belt, a saber in her hand, and her face was incandescent. A cry went up: “The prisoners are coming out.” She had stationed herself before the doorway, and as the first of the prisoners was dragged out she gave the signal to the men beside her and they raised their swords and axes. “Can’t someone stop her?” Camille said. He shrugged off the Guardsman’s restraining hand and began to push forward, yelling at people to get out of his way. Fréron forced a path after him and took him by the shoulder. Camille pushed him violently away. The crowd fell back, diverted by the prospect of two patriotic officials about to take each other apart.
But the few seconds of grace had passed; from the front rank there was an animal scream. Théroigne had dropped her arm, like a public executioner; the axes and swords were at work, and the prisoners were being kicked and hauled, one by one, to the deaths prepared for them.
Camille had made headway; the National Guardsman was at his back. Louis Suleau was the fourth prisoner to emerge. At a shout from Théroigne the crowd held off; they even moved back, and as they did so they crushed the people behind them, so that Camille was helpless, immobile, arms pinioned to his sides, when he saw Théroigne approach Louis Suleau and say to him something that only he could have heard; Louis put up a hand, as if to say, what’s the point of going into all this now? The gesture etched itself into his mind. It was the last gesture. He saw Théroigne raise her pistol. He did not hear the shot. Within seconds they were surrounded by the dying. Louis’s body—perhaps still breathing, no one could know—was dragged into the crowd, into a vortex of flailing arms and blades. Fréron yelled into the National Guardsman’s face, and the young man, red with anguish and bewilderment, drew his saber and shouted for a way out. Their feet splashed through fresh blood.
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