A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel

by Hilary Mantel

  “It is a pity there is not some way to exclude them,” Citizen Fleuriot said.

  “The Republic has no provision for trials in camera,” Fouquier said. “You know quite well the importance of doing these things in the public eye. However, there is to be nothing in the press. Now—as for our case, it is non-existent. The report we were handed by Saint-Just is—well, it is a political document.”

  “You mean lies,” Liendon suggested.

  “Yes, substantially. I have no doubt, personally, that Danton is guilty of enough to get him executed several times over, but that doesn’t mean he is guilty of the things we will charge him with. We have had no time to prepare a coherent case against these men. There are no witnesses we can put up without the fear that they will blurt out something extremely inconvenient for the Committee.”

  “I find your attitude defeatist,” Fleuriot remarked.

  “My dear Fleuriot, we all know that you are here to spy for Citizen Robespierre. But our job is to pull nasty forensic tricks—not to mouth slogans and pat phrases. Now—please consider the opposition.”

  “I take it,” Liendon said, “that by ‘the opposition’ you don’t mean those unfortunates selected as defense counsel.”

  “I doubt they will dare to speak to their clients. Danton is of course well known to the people; he is the most forceful orator in Paris, and also a much better lawyer than either of you two. Fabre we need not worry about. His case has received a lot of publicity, all of it unfavorable to him, and as he is very ill he’ll not be able to give us any trouble. Hérault is a different matter. If he condescends to argue, he could be very dangerous, as we have almost no case against him.”

  “I think you have a certain document, relating to the woman Capet?”

  “Yes, but as I have had to arrange for alterations to it I am not very anxious for it to be brought forward. Now, we must not underestimate Deputy Philippeaux. He is less well known than the others but I am afraid he is utterly intransigent and appears not to be afraid of anything we can do to him. Deputy Lacroix is of course a cool-headed man, something of a gambler. Our informant reports that so far he treats the whole thing rather as a joke.”

  “Who is our informant?”

  “In the prison? A man called Laflotte.”

  “I am afraid of your cousin Camille,” Fleuriot said.

  “Again, our informant has made useful observations. He describes him as hysterical and distraught. It seems he claims that Citizen Robespierre visited him secretly at the Luxembourg, and offered him his life to testify for the prosecution. An absurd story, of course.”

  “He must be out of his mind,” Liendon said.

  “Yes,” Fouquier said. “Perhaps he is. Our aim from the first hour of the trial must be to unnerve, browbeat and terrorize him; this is not particularly difficult, but it is essential that he be prevented from putting up any sort of defense, as the people who remember ’89 are somewhat attached to him. But now, Fleuriot—what are our assets, would you say?”

  “Time, Citizen.”

  “Precisely. Time is on our side. Procedure since Brissot’s trial is that if after three days the jury declares itself satisfied, the trial can be closed. What does that suggest, Liendon?”

  “Take care in selecting the jury.”

  “You know, you two are really getting quite good. Shall we get on with it then?” Fouquier took out his list of the regular jurors of the Revolutionary Tribunal. “Trinchard the joiner, Desboisseaux the cobbler—they sound a staunch plebeian pair.”

  “Reliable men,” Fleuriot said.

  “And Maurice Duplay—who could be sounder?”

  “No. Citizen Robespierre himself has vetoed his presence on the jury.”

  Fourquier bit his lip. “I shall never understand that man. Well then—Ganney the wig maker, he’s always cooperative. I suppose he needs the job—there can’t be much call for wigs. And Lumière.” He ticked off another name. “He may need some encouragement. But we’ll provide it.”

  Liendon peered over the Public Prosecutor’s shoulder.

  “How about Tenth-of-August Leroy?”

  “Excellent,” Fouquier said. He put a mark by the name of the man who had once been Leroy de Montflobert, Marquis of France. “And now?”

  “We’ll have to put in Souberbielle.”

  “He’s a friend of Danton and Robespierre both.”

  “But I think he has the right principles,” Fleuriot said. “Or can be helped to develop them.”

  “To balance him out,” Fouquier said, “we’ll have Renaudin the violin maker.”

  Fleuriot laughed. “Excellent. I was at the Jacobins myself that night he knocked Camille down. But what was the cause of the quarrel? I never knew.”

  “Only God knows,” Fouquier said. “Renaudin is no doubt demonstrably insane. Can you remember, if you address my cousin in court, not to call him by his Christian name?” He frowned over the list. “I don’t know who else is absolutely solid.”

  “Him?” said Liendon, pointing.

  “Oh no, no. He is fond of reasoning, and we don’t want people who reason. No, I’m afraid we’ll have to go ahead with a jury of seven. Oh well, they’re hardly in a position to argue. You see, I’ve been talking as if there were some sort of contest. But we aren’t, here, playing any game we can lose. See you in court at eleven o’clock.”

  “My name is Danton. It is a name tolerably well known in the Revolution. I am a lawyer by profession, and I was born at Arcis, in the Aube country. In a few days’ time, my abode will be oblivion. My place of residence will be History.”

  Day One.

  “That sounds distinctly pessimistic,” Lacroix says to Philippeaux. “Who are all these people?”

  “Fabre of course you know, this is Chabot—delighted to see you looking so well, Citizen—Diedrichsen, this is Philippeaux—this is Emmanuel Frei, Junius Frei—you are supposed to have conspired with them.”

  “Delighted to meet you, Deputy Philippeaux,” one of the Frei brothers says. “What did you do?”

  “I criticized the Committee.”

  “Ah.”

  Philippeaux is counting heads. “There are fourteen of us. They’re going to try the whole East India fraud. If there were any justice, that would take a court three months. We have three days.”

  Camille Desmoulins is on his feet. “Challenge,” he says, indicating the jury. He is being as brief as possible in the hope that he can avoid stuttering.

  “Route it through your counsel,” Hermann says shortly.

  “I am defending myself,” Desmoulins snaps back. “I object to Renaudin.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “He has threatened my life. I could call several hundred witnesses.”

  “That is a frivolous objection.”

  The report of the Police Committee is read out, relating to the East India affair. Two hours. The indictments are read. One hour more. Behind the waist-high barriers at the back of the court, the spectators stand packed to the doors: out of the doors, and along the street. “They say the line of people stretches as far as the Mint,” Fabre whispers.

  Lacroix turns his head in the direction of the forgers. “How ironic,” he mumurs.

  Fabre passes a hand over his face. He is slumped in the armchair which is normally reserved for the chief person accused. Last night when the prisoners were transferred to the Conciergerie he was hardly able to walk, and two guards had assisted him into the closed carriage. Occasionally one of his fits of coughing drowns out the voice of Fabricius Paris, and the Clerk of the Court seizes the opportunity to pause for breath; his eyes travel again and again to the impassive face of his patron, Danton. Fabre takes out a handkerchief and holds it to his mouth. His skin looks damp and bloodless. Sometimes Danton turns to look into his face; another few minutes, and he will turn to watch Camille. From above the jury, corrosive shafts of sunlight scour the black-and-white marble. Afternoon wears on, and an unmerited halo forms above the head of Tenth-of-August
Leroy. In the Palais-Royal, the lilac trees are in bloom.

  Danton: “This must stop. I demand to be heard now. I demand permission to write to the Convention. I demand to have a commission appointed. Camille Desmoulins and myself wish to denounce dictatorial practices in the Committee of Public—”

  The roar of applause drowns him. They call his name; they clap their hands, stamp their feet and sing the “Marseillaise.” The riot travels backwards into the street, and the tumult becomes so great that the president’s bell is inaudible; in frenetic dumb show, he shakes the bell at the accused, and Lacroix shakes his fist back at the president. Don’t panic, don’t panic, Fouquier mouths: and when Hermann makes his voice heard, it is to adjourn the session. The prisoners are led below to their cells. “Bastards,” Danton says succinctly. “I’ll make mincemeat out of them tomorrow.”

  “Sold? I, sold? There is not a price high enough for a man like me.”

  Day Two.

  “Who is this?”

  “Oh, not another,” Philippeaux says. “Who is this man?”

  Danton looks over his shoulder. “That is Citizen Lhuillier. He is the Attorney—General-or used to be. Citizen, what are you doing here?”

  Lhuillier takes his place with the accused. He does not speak, and he looks stunned.

  “Fouquier, what do you say this man’s done?”

  Fouquier looks up to glare at the accused, and then back to the list he holds in his hand. He confers with his deputies in a furious whisper. “But you said so—” Fleuriot insists.

  “I said subpoena him, I didn’t say arrest him. Do everything your bloody self!”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s done,” Philippeaux says. “He doesn’t know. But he’ll soon think of something.”

  “Camille,” Hérault says, “I do believe your cousin’s incompetent. He’s a disgrace to the criminal Bar.”

  “Fouquier,” his cousin asks him, “how did you get this job in the first place?”

  The Public Prosecutor rummages among his papers. “What the hell,” he mutters. He approaches the judge’s table. “A fuck-up,” he tells Hermann. “But don’t let them know. They’ll make us a laughing-stock.”

  Hermann sighs. “We are all under a great deal of pressure. I wish you would employ more seemly language. Leave him there, and on the last day I’ll direct the jury that there’s insufficient evidence and they must acquit.”

  Vice President Dumas reeks of spirits. The crowd at the back moves, restive and dangerous, bored by the delays. Another prisoner is brought in. “God in Heaven,” Lacroix says, “Westermann.”

  General Westermann, victor of the Vendee, places his belligerent bulk before the accused. “Who the hell are all these people?” He jerks his thumb at Chabot and his friends.

  “Divers criminal elements,” Hérault tells him. “You conspired with them.”

  “Did I?” Westermann raises his voice. “What do you think, Fouquier, that I’m just some military blockhead, some oaf? I was a lawyer at Strasbourg before the Revolution, I know how things should be done. I have not been allotted counsel. I have not been put through a preliminary investigation. I have not been charged.”

  Hermann looks up. “That is a formality.”

  “We are all here,” Danton says drily, “by way of a formality.”

  There is an outburst of rueful laughter from the accused. The remark is relayed to the back of the court. The public applaud, and a line of sansculotte patriots take off their red caps, wave them, sing the “Ça Ira” and (confusingly) yell à la Lanterne.

  “I must call you to order,” Hermann shouts at Danton.

  “Call me to order?” Danton explodes to his feet. “It seems to me that I must recall you to decency. I have a right to speak. We all have a right to a hearing. Damn you, man, I set up this Tribunal. I ought to know how it works.”

  “Can you not hear this bell?”

  “A man on trial for his life takes no notice of bells.”

  From the galleries the singing becomes louder. Fouquier’s mouth is moving, but nothing can be heard. Hermann closes his eyes, and all the signatures of the Committee of Public Safety dance before his lids. It is fifteen minutes before order is restored.

  The affair of the East India Company again. The prosecutors know they have a case here, so they are sticking to the subject. Fabre lifts his chin, which had fallen onto his chest. After a few minutes he lets it return there. “He should have a doctor,” Philippeaux whispers.

  “His physician is otherwise engaged. On the jury.”

  “Fabre, you’re not going to die on us, are you?”

  Fabre makes a sick effort at a smile. Danton can feel the fear which holds Camille rigid between himself and Lacroix. Camille spent the whole of last night writing, because he believes that in the end they are bound to let him speak. So far the judges have put him down ferociously whenever he has opened his mouth.

  Cambon, the government’s financial expert, takes the stand to give evidence about profits and share certificates, banking procedure and foreign currency regulations. He will be the only witness called in the course of the trial. Danton interrupts him:

  “Cambon, listen: do you think I’m a royalist?”

  Cambon looks across at him and smiles.

  “See, he laughed. Citizen Clerk of the Court, see that it goes down in the record that he laughed.”

  HERMANN: Danton, the Convention accuses you of showing undue favor to Dumouriez, of failing to reveal his true nature and intentions and of aiding and abetting his schemes to destroy freedom, such as that of marching on Paris with an armed force to crush republican government and restore the monarchy.

  DANTON: May I answer this now?

  HERMANN: No. Citizen Paris, read out the report of Citizen Saint-Just—I mean, the report that the citizen delivered to the Convention and the Jacobin Club.

  Two hours. The accused have now separated into two camps, the six politicians and the general trying to put a distance between themselves and the thieves: but this is difficult. Philippeaux listens attentively, and takes notes. Hérault appears sunk in his own thoughts; one cannot be sure he is listening to the court at all. From time to time the general makes an impatient noise and hisses in Lacroix’s ear for some point to be elucidated; Lacroix is seldom able to help him.

  For the first part of the reading the crowds are restless. But as the implications of the report become clear, a profound silence takes possession of the court, stealing through the darkening room like an animal coming home to its lair. The chiming of the clocks marks off the first hour of the report, Hermann clears his throat, and behind his table, back to the accused, Fouquier stretches his legs. Suddenly Desmoulins’s nerve snaps. He puts a hand to his face, wonders what it is doing there, and anxiously flicks back his hair. He looks quickly at the faces to the left and right of him. He holds one fist in the other palm, his mouth pressed against the knuckles; taking his hands from his face, he holds the bench at each side of himself until the nails grow white with pressure. Dictum of Citizen Robespierre, useful in criminal cases: whoever shows fear is guilty. Danton and Lacroix take his hands and hold them surreptitiously by his sides.

  Paris has finished, voice cracking over the final phrases. He drops the document on the table and its leaves fan out. He is exhausted, and if there had been any more he would have broken down and wept.

  “Danton,” Hermann says, “you may speak now.”

  As he rises to his feet, he wonders what Philippeaux has recorded in his notes. Because there is not one allegation he can drag screaming into disrepute; not one charge that he can hold up and knock down again and trample on. If only there were a specific accusation … that you, Georges-Jacques Danton, did on the 10th day of August 1792 traitorously conspire … But it is a whole career he has to justify: a whole life, a life in the Revolution, to oppose to this tissue of lies and innuendo, this abortion of the truth. Saint-Just must have made a close study of Camille’s writings against Brissot; that was where t
he technique was perfected. And he thinks fleetingly of the neat, malicious job Camille would have done on his career.

  After fifteen minutes he finds the pleasure and the power of rolling out his voice into the hall. The long silence is over. The crowd begins to applaud again. Sometimes he has to stop and let the noise defeat him; then he draws breath, comes back stronger. Fabre taught him, he taught him well. He begins to imagine his voice as a physical instrument of attack, a power like battalions; as lava from the mouth of some inexhaustible volcano, burning them, boiling them, burying them alive. Burying them alive.

  A juryman interrupts: “Can you enlighten us as to why, at Valmy, our troops did not follow up the Prussian retreat?”

  “I regret that I cannot enlighten you. I am a lawyer. Military matters are a closed book to me.”

  Fabre’s hand unclenches from the arm of his chair.

  Sometimes Hermann tries to interrupt him at crucial points; Danton overbears him, contemptuously. At each of the court’s defeats, the crowds cheer and whistle and shout derisive comments. The theaters are empty; it is the only show in town. And that is what it is—a show, and he knows it. They are behind him now—but if Robespierre were to walk in, wouldn’t they cheer him to the echo? Père Duchesne was their hero, but they laughed and catcalled when his creator begged for mercy in the tumbrel.

  After the first hour his voice is as strong as ever. At this stage the physical effort is nothing. Like an athlete’s, his lungs do what he has trained them to do. But now he is not clinching an argument or forcing a debating point, he is talking to save his life. This is what he has planned and waited and hoped for, the final confrontation; but as the day wears on he finds himself talking over an inner voice that says, they are allowing this confrontation because the issue is decided already: you are a dead man. A question from Fouquier brings him to a pitch of boiling rage: “Bring me my accusers,” he shouts. “Bring me a proof, part proof, the flimsiest shadow of a proof. I challenge my accusers to come before me, to meet me face to face. Produce these men, and I will thrust them back into the obscurity from which they should never have emerged. Come out, you filthy imposters, and I will rip the masks from your faces, and deliver you up to the vengeance of the people.”