Time of Terror

by Hunter, Seth

  Then the coach swung to the right and they were in shadow again, heading north through the Porte Saint-Antoine in the direction of the Temple.

  “Where are we going?” he asked Bulbeau but the midget shook his head and said, “You will see.”

  It had been just after four when he went into the theatre and now it was sunset. Across the rooftops he could see the dark mass of Butte-Montmartre rising against the sky. A beautiful evening sky. But the smell was worse even than usual as if the wheels of the carriage had splashed through a pool of excrement. He wrinkled his nose against it and Bulbeau caught his eye and said “Monfaucon,” as people did when they wished to explain a sudden, disgusting smell and feared that others would think it was them.

  Monfaucon. My falcon, my hawk. The great dump to the north of the city, where the slaughterhouses were and where they took the rubbish and the filth they scraped from the streets. It had been a place of execution in the days of the kings.

  And was still, Nathan had heard, though less formal, unsanctioned by the law: where the Trouanderie made an end to informers and others who had offended against their criminal code, leaving the bodies to rot among the garbage and the filth.

  So was this where they were taking him?

  But why bother, when they could have left him to rot with all the other bones in the Empire of the Dead?

  And then they stopped and Bulbeau invited him to get out and he saw they were in the Rue du Temple, outside the House of Wax.

  They took him up the stairs to the studio where he had met little Marie Grosholtz. No Marie, not this time, but there was a head—presumably awaiting her attentions on the workbench—and he saw with a shock that it was the head of Danton.

  Then he looked again and saw that it was made of wax. In the poor light it looked remarkably real, even to the scars from his fight with the bull and the light of battle in his eye. Various other portions of anatomy were spread about the room and at the far end stood a group of headless figures dressed in the costumes of the ancient regime, their hands arranged in elegant gestures as if in the middle of some polite discourse. The absence of their heads seemed of little consequence.

  Nathan’s escort led him through into the office—and there were the three men he had last seen in the Paris Observatoire, sharing a bottle.

  “Here he is,” said Le Mulet. “Our friend of the catacombs.”

  “By God, sir,” said the American Minister, raising his glass. “Back from the dead.”

  “And looking more dead than alive,” said Imlay. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

  Clearly Nathan was expected.

  They sat him down and poured him a glass of wine.

  Wine was probably not a good idea with his pounding headache but he drank it anyway. He was having difficulty coming to terms with the reality of his situation and he doubted if a glass of wine would make it any less real; it might even help.

  “Sorry about your little accident,” said Le Mulet. “They didn’t know it was you.” Clearly he no longer felt betrayed—or if he did was prepared to let bygones be bygones.

  “You are to be congratulated on your escape,” said Imlay. “You must tell me about it some time. Your timing is perfect. You will be in at the kill, as I believe they say in England.”

  Nathan shook his head and was sorry for it.

  “What kill?”

  “The fox. Or I should say, the Tiger-cat.”

  “The next twenty-four hours,” said Morris, “will decide the fate of France.”

  This was not greatly helpful.

  “Well, Tom Paine’s fate is already decided upon,” Nathan informed him pithily. “He is to be tried tomorrow—and likely to be executed unless we can help him.” He turned to Le Mulet. “I need to go back for him tonight, through the catacombs.”

  It was not Tom Paine’s fate that most concerned him but they need not know that. He might still have time. And if Le Mulet could let him have some men . . .

  “You do not understand,” said Imlay. “They are ready to act—to end the Terror. Then no one will be executed. Your gold has been put to good use while you have been in prison.”

  “My gold?”

  “Danton’s gold. Danton is their inspiration but it is the gold that will achieve the business.”

  They had been speaking French, presumably out of courtesy to Le Mulet, and Nathan did not quite grasp his meaning.

  “I am sorry,” he said, raising his hand to the back of his head. “I am not sure . . .”

  “The Convention is ready to act against Robespierre,” explained Imlay.

  He saw from Nathan’s expression that he was not entirely convinced.

  “It’s true. Believe me. Robespierre has gone too far, even for them. He says there are traitors in their midst, a league of scoundrels, enemies of Virtue. They called on him to name them. When he stepped down from the tribune hundreds were on their feet demanding he name the names but he would not.”

  “A fatal error!” Morris exulted. “If he had named ten he would have reassured the rest. But now . . .”

  “They all think they are on his death list,” Imlay finished for him. “And they know they must strike before he strikes them.”

  “So . . .” Nathan looked from one to the other. He was beginning to get his mind round this. A small hope began to form. “Where is Robespierre now?”

  “At the Jacobins, rallying his supporters.”

  Were they mad or was it him? Was it no great matter that Robespierre was rallying his troops?

  “And what of the National Guard?”

  “That is where your gold comes in,” said Imlay.

  “Pitt’s gold,” Nathan reminded him. “And by the way, he wants it back.”

  “But it will achieve the fall of Robespierre. Which is what it was intended for.”

  It was intended for Danton—and to achieve peace. Should he mention that? But this constant reference to his gold intrigued him. Clearly Imlay was anxious to account for it—or to have Nathan account for it to Pitt if he ever got back to England.

  “Certain key figures have been bribed,” Imlay continued. “Among the Guard and in the Sections. Men who can bring people out on the streets—or keep them at home. Believe me, your gold—Pitt’s gold—has found its way into a lot of pockets.”

  Including your own no doubt, thought Nathan.

  “What of Hanriot?” he said.

  Hanriot was commander of the Garde Parisienne. Nathan had seen him at the Luxembourg on his notorious tours of inspection. He was a madman and a drunk and everyone feared him. He had been one of the main organisers of the September massacres and during the last insurrection he had ringed the Tuileries with cannon, demanding the surrender of every delegate on the Jacobin blacklist. When the President of the Convention rejected the demand he told the messenger, “Go back to your fucking President and tell him he’s fucked and if he doesn’t hand the bastards over in ten minutes we’ll blast the place to shit.”

  As speeches went it was not up to Danton’s standards but they sent out the men he wanted and all of them were executed. Hanriot was a joke but he had power and he was dangerous. And he supported Robespierre.

  “We haven’t approached Hanriot,” said Imlay. “He is too unpredictable.”

  This was not encouraging.

  The door opened and Bulbeau came in with a note for the patron.

  “News from the Jacobins,” Le Mulet announced. “Robespierre was loudly cheered. They set on two of his critics and beat them to a pulp. He said, ‘We must deliver the Convention from these scoundrels. If we fail, you will see me drink the hemlock with calm.’ ”

  This seemed to amuse him.

  “So now he thinks he is Socrates,” said Imlay. “And they all shouted they would drink it with him. My God, th
e French.”

  He shook his head but then frowned, possibly recalling that Le Mulet was French.

  “So—this is good news? Or bad?” Nathan thought he had better get this straight.

  “Vadier is confident,” Morris insisted.

  “Vadier? Where does Vadier . . . ?”

  But Imlay was glaring at the Minister warningly.

  “Vadier is but one of them,” he said. “There are many others. It is them or Robespierre. They know this now.”

  Nathan remembered the Festival of the Supreme Being when Robespierre climbed to the top of the Mountain—and Vadier and the other malcontents stood at the bottom, waiting to sink their daggers in his back.

  “Let us hope so.” Nathan pressed his fingers into his eyes. He was so tired he felt he was going to black out. He made an effort to stay awake, to concentrate. People’s lives depended on it. Tom Paine’s certainly, Sara’s possibly. Did it always come down to the personal? Yes, unless you were a fanatic like Robespierre. That is what he must tell his mother if ever he saw her again. It was the right to a personal life, free from dogma. That was what he was fighting for.

  But not now. His head was spinning but there were things he must do.

  “One thing you must do”—he turned to Le Mulet—“you must pack the gallery.”

  He had seen how the gallery dominated the Convention. The delegates were terrified of the mob. When they saw a sample of it—those howling faces in the gallery, screaming murder—their blood turned to water.

  “Pack it with your own men. Men, women, children, if necessary. You must stop him filling it with his Jacobins. Or he’ll have us all on his death list.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Le Mulet. “It is all arranged.”

  Chapter 43

  the Palais de Justice

  They came for Sara at two in the morning. She knew it could happen at any time and it did not surprise her. Nothing surprised her any more. Not even seeing Nathan watching her in the prison courtyard or receiving the message to meet him in the prison store . . . or waiting there in vain for him to turn up.

  It was fate. She could do nothing about it. Her name was on the List.

  They took her first to the Conciergerie for what was left of the night and then to the Palais de Justice to wait until it was her turn to be tried. She still did not know the charge and was allowed no lawyer.

  They left her there for most of the day among the gradually thinning crowd in the cell, sweating in the terrible heat, mostly silent, some talking quietly, others writing their final letters or compiling a detailed defence but for the most part resigned to their slaughter. And like cattle they stood there, those that did not wish to lie down on the filthy straw, flapping sometimes at the flies that buzzed around their heads.

  Then there was only Sara. And she began to think they had missed her and would have to bring her back the following day. This made her neither sorry nor glad. A kind of fatalism had settled on her. It was her only defence.

  And then at last they called her name.

  She was led up into the courtroom and placed in the dock. A surprisingly empty courtroom, very different from the last time she had seen it, when Danton was on trial. There were the same three judges, or ones very like them, but they seemed to be going through the motions, playing their allotted roles in an endless, pointless charade. The emergency decrees allowed no witnesses and no counsel for the defence. The Public Prosecutor put the case to the jury and the judges asked the jury to give a verdict of guilty or not guilty and that was it. Not guilty verdicts were not unheard of but they caused a great deal of trouble for all concerned. The Prosecutor would insist on an immediate retrial and on bringing in witnesses for the prosecution—who had to be dragged off the streets and paid—and everyone had to hang around for a great deal longer than was necessary including the prisoners who had already been condemned and the executioner’s assistants who were waiting to cut their hair and the men who drove the charrettes and the horses who pulled them and the soldiers who escorted them to the scaffold and the executioner himself. And when they’d heard the witnesses for the prosecution the jury invariably changed their verdict to guilty and it was all for nothing and in all probability they’d be struck off the jury list and lose their attendance fee. So guilty verdicts were easier all round.

  Sara searched the faces in the public gallery, looking for Nathan but not really expecting to see him. She had long since given up hope of that.

  Someone began to speak. One of the clerks, spectacles on his nose, shuffling papers, and at last she heard the charges against her.

  Item one: that she was the wife of the ci-devant Count of Turenne who had been condemned to death for various crimes against the Republic. She was therefore guilty of association with a convicted criminal. Punishable by death.

  Item two: that she was an associate of the woman Lucille Desmoulins who had been convicted of conspiracy to free the prisoners from the Luxembourg. She was therefore guilty of association with a convicted criminal. Punishable by death.

  Sara attempted to speak. True she had been the wife of the Count of Turenne, who had died of natural causes but—

  But then the President rang his bell. The prisoner was not allowed to speak, he instructed her sharply, until all the charges had been read and all the evidence laid against her.

  Then Fouquier stood up. The Public Prosecutor. In his black robes with his long nose stuck into a thin file of papers, he reminded Sara of a crow pecking at something dead on the ground, something that was scarcely worth the bother. She recalled another image in a book of nursery rhymes—one of the English books she’d had as a child—showing a raven dressed as a doctor visiting a family of rabbits, and the apprehensive looks on their faces. She recalled the lines of the rhyme that went with it:

  I do not like thee, Doctor Fell

  The reason why I cannot tell,

  But I do not like thee, Doctor Fell

  It seemed strangely significant to her now that this was one of the very few English rhymes she had ever been able to remember.

  Fouquier read out a statement from a police informer who could not be named, he said, for reasons of security. Citoyenne Seton was the daughter of an English officer.

  Again Sara attempted to protest. Her father was Scottish, she said, and had been an officer in the French Army. Again the President rang his bell. If she continued to interrupt, he said, she would be removed from the court.

  Fouquier resumed: she had smuggled messages into the Luxembourg to the convicted English spy, Thomas Paine. A clerk shuffled papers and muttered something in his ear. Fouquier looked taken aback for a moment. He shook his head as if in despair at the people he was forced to work with. It had come to his attention that the aforesaid Thomas Paine had not yet been convicted, due to an administrative error.

  However—Fouquier had returned to his script—a number of letters had been found in the Citoyenne’s apartment including some that were clearly in code from contacts in England. Correspondence with the enemy at time of war, he reminded the jury, was in itself a crime of treason, punishable by death.

  The word “death” seemed to hang in the air. Or perhaps only for Sara. It must have been heard many times that day and every day by most of those present. But it seemed to wake a few of them up as if reminding people that the day was somewhat advanced and it must soon be time for dinner. The judges conferred; the President asked if there was much more.

  There was more, Fouquier replied, but as it was late in the day, he proposed to bring the evidence to a close. The President asked the jury if they had heard enough to make a decision. It seemed to Sara that no one was listening. Their minds were elsewhere. In fact, she noticed a palpable air of tension as if they were in a hurry to get away. Then the door at the back of the court was flung open and a drunk lurched in shouting something about a plot.
He was a large man dressed in an exotic costume, like a general, red, white and blue feathers in his hat, a sash on his chest, a sabre at his waist, and a bottle in his hand. The ushers hurried to remove him but then fell back in confusion. For it turned out he was a general. General Hanriot, commander of the Garde Parisienne.

  And behind him, running to catch up but in a semblance of military order, a squad of soldiers with fixed bayonets.

  He had come to defend the Revolutionary Tribunal from attack, Hanriot announced, swaying and slurring his words. There was a plot by royalist and counter-revolutionaries to take over the Convention. He was posting his men at all public buildings.

  The spectators started to edge towards the doors. One of the jurymen tried to sneak out too but was turned back by the guards.

  But Fouquier and his assistants managed to calm the general down and finally he staggered out followed by his bemused squad. Turning at the door he drew his sword with a flourish and shouted confusingly, “Kill all policemen!”

  The trial was resumed. The President asked the jury if they had reached a verdict. There was a muttered consultation. Yes, they said. Guilty.

  The sentence was, of course, death.

  They marched her across to the Conciergerie. The charrettes were waiting in the Cour du Mai, clouds of flies buzzing round the horses’ heads, the drivers dozing under wide-brimmed straw hats. Heat rose in waves from the cobbles and guards huddled in the shade leaning on their muskets. Sara looked up at the sky, shading her eyes against the glare. It was like burnished steel but with a hint of bronze in it as if it had been coated with several layers of varnish.

  They should not keep the horses waiting, she thought, in such heat.

  Then it dawned on her: they were waiting for her. This sentence of death was not something proposed for some distant future. Not even for next week or tomorrow. It was today.

  “Alex,” she said aloud, turning as if she had left him somewhere.