He tried praying: some beads to keep his mind ordered. But then slipping through his fingers they reminded him of a rope, and he dropped them gently on to the floor. He kept count: Pater noster, qui es in coeli, Ave Maria, Ave Maria, and that pious addendum, Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto, Amen. The blessed syllables ran together. They made nonsense words, everted themselves, darted in and out of sense. Anyway, what is the sense? God is not going to tell him what to do. God is not going to help him. He does not believe in a God of that sort. Hes not an atheist, he tells himself: just an adult.
Dawn: he heard the clatter of wheels below the window, the leathery creak of the harness and the snort and whinny of the horse drawing a cart bringing vegetables for those who would still be alive at dinner-time. Priests were wiping their vessels for early Mass, and the household below was rising, washing, boiling water and lighting fires. At Louis-le-Grand, he would have been at his first class by now. Where were they, the children he had known? Where was Louis Suleau? Pursuing his sarcastic path. Where was Fréron? Cutting a swathe through society. And Camille would be sleeping still, this morning, gathered to the citys dark heart: sleeping unconscious of his perhaps damned soul draped about in muscle and bone.
Brount whined at the door. Charlotte came, called him sharply to come away. Brounts reluctant paws scrabbled down the stairs.
He unlocked the door to let the barber in. The man looked into the face of his regular, amiable client; he knew better than to try his morning chatter. The clock ticked without compunction towards ten.
It occurred to him at the last moment that he need not go; he could simply sit here and say, Im not going into court today. They would wait for him for ten minutes, post a clerk to look along the road, and then they would send a message; and he would reply that he was not going into court today.
They could not drag him out, or carry him, could they? They could not force the sentence out of his throat?
But it was the law, he thought wearily, and if he could not carry it out he should have resigned: should have resigned yesterday.
THREE P.M.: the aftermath. He is going to be sick. Here, by the side of the road. He doubles up. Sweat breaks out along his back. He goes down on his knees and retches. His eyes mist over, his throat hurts. But theres nothing in his stomach; he hasnt eaten for twenty-four hours.
He puts out a hand, gets to his feet and steadies himself. He wishes for someone to take his hand, to stop him from shivering; but when you are ill, no one comes to help.
If there were anyone to watch his progress along the road they would see that he is staggering, lurching from foot to foot. He tries consciously to stand up straight and put some order in his steps, but his legs feel too far away. The whole despicable body is teaching him a lesson again: be true to yourself.
This is Maximilien de Robespierre, barrister-at-law: unmarried, personable, a young man with all his life before him. Today against his most deeply held convictions he has followed the course of the law and sentenced a criminal to death. And now he is going to pay for it.
A MAN SURVIVES: he comes through. Even here in Arras it was possible to find allies, if not friends. Joseph Fouché taught at the Oratorian College. He had thought of the priesthood but had grown away from the idea. He taught physics, and was interested in anything new. Fouché came to dinner quite often, invited by Charlotte. He seemed to have proposed to her or at any rate, they had come to some understanding. Max was surprised that any girl would be attracted by Fouché, with his frail, stick-like limbs and almost lashless eyes. Still, whos to know? He did not like Fouché at all, in point of fact, but Charlotte had her own life to lead.
Then there was Lazare Carnot, a captain of engineers at the garrison; a man older than himself, reserved, rather bitter about the lack of opportunities open to him, as a commoner in His Majestys forces. Carnot went for company to the Academys meetings, formulae revolving in his head while they discussed the sonnet form. Sometimes he treated them to a tirade about the deplorable state of the army. Members would exchange amused glances.
Only Maximilien listened earnestly quite ignorant of military matters, and a little overawed.
When Mlle de Kéralio was voted in by the Academy its first lady member he made a speech in her honour about the genius of women, their role in literature and the arts. After this shed said, Why dont you call me Louise? She wrote novels thousands of words a week. He envied her facility. Listen to this, shed say, and tell me what you think.
He made sure not to authors are touchy. Louise was pretty, and she never quite got the ink scrubbed off her little fingers. Im off to Paris, she said, one cant go on stagnating in this backwater, saving your presences. Her hand tapped a rolled sheaf of manuscript against a chair-back. O solemn and wondrous Maximilien de Robespierre, why dont you come to Paris too? No? Well, at least lets take off for the afternoon with a picnic. Lets start a rumour, shall we?
Louise belonged to the real nobility. Nothing to be thought of there, said the Aunts: poor Maximilien.
Noble or not, Charlotte said, the girls a trollop. She wanted my brother to up and go to Paris with her, imagine. Yes, just imagine. Louise packed her bags and hurtled off into the future. He was dimly aware of a turning missed; one of those forks in the road, that you remember later when you are good and lost.
Still, there was Aunt Eulalies stepdaughter, Anaïs. Both the Aunts favoured her above all other candidates. They said she had nice manners.
ONE DAY BEFORE LONG the mother of a poor rope-maker turned up at his door with a story about her son who was in prison because the Benedictines at Anchin had accused him of theft. She said the accusation was false and malicious; the Abbey treasurer, Dom Brognard, was notoriously light-fingered, and had in addition tried to get the rope-makers sister into bed, and she wouldnt by any means be the first girl
Yes, he said. Calm down. Have a seat. Lets start at the beginning.
This was the kind of client he was beginning to get. An ordinary man or frequently a woman whod fallen foul of vested interests. Naturally, there was no hope of a fee.
The rope-makers tale sounded too bad to be true. Nevertheless, he said, well let it see the light. Within a month, Dom Brognard was under investigation, and the rope-maker was sueing the abbey for damages. When the Benedictines wanted to retain a lawyer, who did they get? M. Liborel, his one-time sponsor. He said, gratitude does not bind me here, the truth is at stake.
Little hollow words, echoing through the town. Everyone takes sides, and most of the legal establishment takes Liborels. It turns into a dirty fight; and of course in the end they do what he imagined they would do they offer the rope-maker more money than he earns in years to settle out of court and go away and keep quiet.
Obviously, things are not going to be the same after this. Hell not forget how they got together, conspired against him, condemned him in the local press as an anti-clerical troublemaker. Him? The abbots protégé? The bishops golden boy? Very well. If thats how they want to see him, he will not trouble from now on to make things easy for his colleagues, to be so very helpful and polite. It is a fault, that persistent itch to have people think well of him.
The Academy of Arras elected him president, but he bored them with his harangues about the rights of illegitimate children. Youd think there was no other issue in the universe, one of the members complained.
If your mother and your father had conducted themselves properly, Grandfather Carraut had said, you would never have been born.
CHARLOTTE would take out her account books and observe that the cost of his conscience grew higher by the month. Of course it does, he said. What did you expect?
Every few weeks she would round on him and deliver these wounding blows, proving to him that he was not understood even in his own house.
This house, she said. I cant call it a home. We have never had a home. Some days you are so preoccupied that you hardly speak. I may as well not be here. I am a good housekeeper, what interest do you display in my arrangements? I am a fine cook, but you have no interest in food. I invite company, and when we take out the cards or prepare to make conversation you withdraw to the other side of the room and mark passages in books.
He waited for her anger to subside. It was understandable; anger these days was her usual condition. Fouché had offered her marriage or something and then left her high and dry, looking a bit of a fool. He wondered vaguely if something ought to be done about it, but he was convinced shed be better off without the man in the long run.
Sorry, he said. Ill try to be more sociable. Its just that Ive a lot of work on.
Yes, but is it work youll be paid for? Charlotte said that in Arras he had got himself the reputation of being uninterested in money and soft-hearted, which surprised him, because he thought of himself as a man of principle and nobodys fool. She would accuse him of alienating people who could have promoted his career, and he would begin again to explain why it was necessary to reject their help, where his duties lay, what he felt bound to do. She made too much of it, he thought. They could pay the bills, after all. There was food on the table.
Charlotte would go round and round the point, though. Sooner or later, she would work herself into a crying fit. Then out it would come, the thing that was really bothering her. Youre going to marry Anaïs. Youre going to marry Anaïs, and leave me on my own.
IN COURT he was now making what people called political speeches. How not? Everythings politics. The system is corrupt. Justice is for sale.
JUNE 30 1787:
It is ordered that the language attacking the authority of justice and the law, and injurious to judges, published in the printed memoir signed De Robespierre, Barrister-at-Law, shall be suppressed; and this decree shall be posted in the town of ARRAS.
BY ORDER OF THE MAGISTRATES OF BÉTHUNE
EVERY SO OFTEN, a pinpoint of light in the general gloom: one day as he was coming out of court a young advocate called Hermann sidled up to him and said, You know, de Robespierre, Im beginning to think youre right.
About what?
The young man looked surprised, Oh, about everything.
HE WROTE AN ESSAY for the Academy of Metz:
The mainspring of energy in a republic is vertu, the love of ones laws and ones country; and it follows from the very nature of these that all private interests and all personal relationships must give way to the general good Every citizen has a share in the sovereign power and therefore cannot acquit his dearest friend, if the safety of the state requires his punishment.
When he had written that, he put his pen down and stared at the passage and thought, this is all very well, it is easy for me to say that, I have no dearest friend. Then he thought, of course I have, I have Camille.
He searched for his last letter. It was rather muddled, written in Greek, some business about a married woman. By applying himself to the dead language, Camille was concealing from himself his misery, confusion and pain; by forcing the recipient to translate, he was saying, believe that my life to me is an élitist entertainment, something that only exists when it is written down and sent by the posts. Max let his palm rest on the letter. If only your life would come right, Camille. If only your head were cooler, your skin thicker, and if only I could see you again If only all things would work together for good.
Now it is his daily work to particularize, item by item, the iniquities of the system, and the petty manifestations of tyranny here in Arras. God knows, he has tried to placate, to fit in. He has been sober and conformist, deferential to colleagues of experience. When he has spoken violently it has only been because he hoped to shame them into good actions; in no way is he a violent man. But he is asking the impossible he is asking them to admit that the system theyve laboured in all their lives is false, ill-founded and wicked.
Sometimes when he is faced with a mendacious opponent or a pompous magistrate, he fights the impulse to drive a fist into the mans face; fights it so hard that his neck and shoulders ache. Every morning he opens his eyes and says, Dear God, help me to bear this day. And he prays for something, anything, to happen, to deliver him from these endless polite long drawn-out recriminations, to save him from the dissipation of his youth and wit and courage. Max, you cant afford to return that mans fee. Hes poor, I must do it. Max, what would you like for dinner? I havent an idea. Max, have you named the happy day? He dreams of drowning, far far under the glassy sea.
He tries not to give offence. He likes to think of himself by nature as reasonable and conciliatory. He can duck out, prevaricate, evade the issue. He can smile enigmatically and refuse to come down on either side. He can quibble, and stand on semantics. Its a living, he thinks; but it isnt. For there comes the bald question, the one choice out of two: do you want a revolution, M. de Robespierre? Yes, damn you, damn all of you, I want it, we need it, thats what were going to have.
IV. A Wedding, a Riot, a Prince of the Blood
(17871788)
LUCILE has not said yes. Shes not said no. Shes only said, shell think about it.
ANNETTE: her first reaction had been panic and her second rage; when the immediate crisis was over and she had not seen Camille for a month, she began to curtail her social engagements and to spend the evenings by herself, worrying the situation like a dog with a bone.
Bad enough to be deemed seduced. Worse to be deemed abandoned. And to be abandoned for ones adolescent daughter? Dignity was at its nadir.
Since the King had dismissed his minister Calonne, Claude was at the office every evening, drafting memoranda.
On the first night, Annette had not slept. She had tossed and sweated into the small hours, plotting herself a revenge. She had thought that she would somehow force him to leave Paris. By four oclock she could no longer bear to remain in her bed. She got up, pulled a wrap about her shoulders, walked through the apartment in the dark; walked barefoot, like a penitent, for the last thing she wanted was to make any noise at all, to wake her maid, to wake her daughter who was sleeping, no doubt, the chaste and peaceful sleep of emotional despots. When dawn came she was shivering by an open window. Her resolution seemed a fantasy or nightmare, a monstrous baroque conceit dreamed by someone other than herself. Come now, its an incident, she said to herself: thats all. She was left, then as now, with her grievance and her sense of loss.