A Place of Greater Safety. Hilary Mantel
Читать онлайн книгу.
his way towards them. It was some weeks since d’Anton had put any work his way; his yellow face had become an irritation, and you can’t keep going, his clerk Paré had told him, all the lazy malcontents in the district.
‘What do you think of all this?’ Billaud’s eyes, perpetually like small, sour fruits, showed signs of ripening into expectation. ‘Desmoulins has declared his interest at last, I see. Been with Orléans’s people. They’ve bought him.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Well, talk of the devil.’
Camille came in alone. He looked around warily. ‘Georges-Jacques, where have you been?’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you for a week. What do you make of Réveillon?’
‘I’ll tell you what I make of it,’ Charpentier said. ‘Lies and distortion. Réveillon is the best master in this city. He paid his men right through the lay-offs last winter.’
‘Oh, so you think he is a philanthropist?’ Camille said. ‘Excuse me, I must speak to Brissot.’
D’Anton had not seen Brissot until now; unless he had seen him and overlooked him, which would have been easy enough. Brissot turned to Camille, nodded, turned again to his group to say, ‘No, no, no, purely legislative.’ He turned back, extended a hand to Camille. He was a thin man, meagre, mousy, with narrow shoulders hunched to the point of deformity. Ill-health and poverty made him look older than his thirty-five years, yet today his wan face and pale eyes were as hopeful as a child’s on its first day at school. ‘Camille,’ he said, ‘I mean to start a newspaper.’
‘You must be careful,’ d’Anton told him. ‘The police haven’t entirely let the situation go. You may find you can’t distribute it.’
Brissot’s eyes travelled across d’Anton’s frame, and upwards, across his scarred face. He did not ask to be introduced.
‘First I thought I’d begin on 1 April and publish twice weekly, then I thought no, wait till 20 April, make it four times weekly, then I thought, no, leave it till next week, when the Estates meet – that’s the time to make a splash. I want to get all the news from Versailles to Paris and out on to the streets – the police may pick me up, but what does it matter? I’ve been in the Bastille once, I can go again. I’ve not had a moment to spare, I’ve been helping with the elections in the Filles-Saint-Thomas district, they were desperate for my advice –’
‘People always are,’ Camille said. ‘Or so you tell me.’
‘Don’t be snide,’ Brissot said gently. There was impatience in the faint lines around his eyes. ‘I know you think I haven’t a chance of keeping a paper going, but we can’t spare ourselves now. Who would have thought, a month ago, that we’d have advanced this far?’
‘This man calls three hundred dead an advance,’ Charpentier said.
‘I think –’ Brissot broke off. ‘I’ll tell you in private all that I think. There might be police informers here.’
‘There’s you,’ a voice said behind him.
Brissot winced. He did not turn. He looked at Camille to see if he had caught the words. ‘Marat put that about,’ he muttered. ‘After all I’ve done to further that man’s career and bolster his reputation, all I get is smears and innuendos – the people I’ve called comrades have treated me worse than the police have ever done.’
Camille said, ‘Your trouble is, you’re backtracking. I heard you, saying the Estates would save the country. Two years ago you said nothing was possible unless we got rid of the monarchy first. Which is it, which is it to be? No, don’t answer. And will there be an inquiry into the cause of these riots? No. A few people will be hanged, that’s all. Why? Because nobody dares to ask what happened – not Louis, not Necker, not even the Duke himself. But we all know that Réveillon’s chief crime was to stand for the Estates against the candidate put up by the Duke of Orléans.’
There was a hush. ‘One should have guessed,’ Charpentier said.
‘One never anticipated the scale of it,’ Brissot whispered. ‘It was planned, yes, and people were paid – but not ten thousand people. Not even the Duke could pay ten thousand people. They acted for themselves.’
‘And that upsets your plans?’
‘They have to be directed.’ Brissot shook his head. ‘We don’t want anarchy. I shudder when I find myself in the presence of some of the people we have to use …’ He made a gesture in d’Anton’s direction; with M. Charpentier, he had walked away. ‘Look at that fellow. The way he’s dressed he might be any respectable citizen. But you can see he’d be happiest with a pike in his hand.’
Camille’s eyes widened. ‘But that is Maître d’Anton, the King’s Councillor. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Let me tell you, Maître d’Anton could be in government office. Except that he knows where his future lies. But anyway, Brissot – why so unnerved? Are you afraid of a man of the people?’
‘I am at one with the people,’ Brissot said reverently. ‘With their pure and elevated soul.’
‘Not really you aren’t. You look down on them because they smell and can’t read Greek.’ He slid across the room to d’Anton. ‘He took you for some cut-throat,’ he said happily. ‘Brissot,’ he told Charpentier, ‘married one Mlle Dupont, who used to work for Félicité de Genlis in some menial capacity. That’s how he got involved with Orléans. I respect him really. He’s spent years abroad, writing and, you know, talking about it. He deserves a revolution. He’s only a pastry-cook’s son, but he’s very learned, and he gives himself airs because he’s suffered so much.’
M. Charpentier was puzzled, angry. ‘You, Camille – you who are taking the Duke’s money – you admit to us that Réveillon has been victimized –’
‘Oh, Réveillon’s of no account now. If he didn’t say those things, he might have done. He might have been thinking them. The literal truth doesn’t matter any more. All that matters is what they think on the streets.’
‘God knows,’ Charpentier said, ‘I like the present scheme of things very little, but I dread to think what will happen if the conduct of reform falls into hands like yours.’
‘Reform?’ Camille said. ‘I’m not talking about reform. The city will explode this summer.’
D’Anton felt sick, shaken by a spasm of grief. He wanted to draw Camille aside, tell him about the baby. That would stop him in his tracks. But he was so happy, arranging the forthcoming slaughter. D’Anton thought, who am I to spoil his week?
VERSAILLES: a great deal of hard thinking has gone into this procession. It isn’t just a matter of getting up and walking, you know.
The nation is expectant and hopeful. The long-awaited day is here. Twelve hundred deputies of the Estates walk in solemn procession to the Church of Saint-Louis, where Monseigneur de la Fare, Bishop of Nancy, will address them in a sermon and put God’s blessing on their enterprise.
The Clergy, the First Estate: optimistic light of early May glints on congregated mitres, coruscates over the jewel-colours of their robes. The Nobility follows: the same light flashes on three hundred sword-hilts, slithers blithely down three hundred silk-clad backs. Three hundred white hat plumes wave cheerfully in the breeze.
But before them comes the Commons, the Third Estate, commanded by the Master of Ceremonies into plain black cloaks; six hundred strong, like an immense black marching slug. Why not put them into smocks and order them to suck straws? But as they march, the humiliating business takes on a new aspect. These mourning coats are a badge of solidarity. They are called, after all, to attend on the demise of the old order, not to be guests at a costume ball. Above the plain cravats a certain pride shows in their starched faces. We are the men of purpose: goodbye to frippery.
Maximilien de Robespierre walked with a contingent from his own part of the country, between two farmers; if he turned his head he could see the embattled jaws of the Breton deputies. Shoulders trapped