Madness and Glory (32): Robespierre

This is a work of historical fiction

Chapter 32

Robespierre put on a Festival of the Supreme Being. It was a grand affair, vaunting the singing of hymns, a brass band, floral displays, a crowd of thousands, and atop a massive specially constructed mountain of plaster and cardboard, a statue of the Greek Hercule. At an appointed moment, the band and singing went silent as Robespierre, wearing a green velvet coat, descended from the mountain brandishing a sheaf of wheat. There was thunderous applause. With his usual eloquence, he dedicated the day to the “Being of Beings,” who was responsible, not for any privileged religious institutions, but for the creation of all things.

Despite such outward display of rectitude and political strength, Robespierre’s support had begun to fade. There were serious economic problems throughout the country, foreign wars were progressing erratically, and his high moral and political attacks on several of the deputies – both direct, and by innuendo – had turned many against him. The active undermining and over-elaboration in recent months by Tallien and Barras, together with skillful building up of debts by Fouché, served to deepen each wound Robespierre inflicted, both real and imagined, and keep them open and festering.

Tallien made visits to the meetings of the official Sections of Paris whenever he could free himself from his duties as the Secretary to the Convention. He always was welcomed eagerly, a distinguished member of the Mountain who spoke the language of the people. Often, he would give flamboyant reports of activities of the Convention in the form of a burlesque, playing all roles and imitating the voices of various deputies. These performances were very well received, often with uproarious laughter when, tuning down his own inflection, he deftly captured the characteristic intonations and affectations of well known members like Couthon, Collot d’Herbois, Saint-Just and – coup de grâce – Robespierre. This paramount leader, now Tallien’s prime target, had come to be feared by members of Section assemblages at the same time as he was followed and admired. Tallien’s satirical representations, interspersed with biting innuendo about Robespierre’s tyrannical intentions and cockeyed economic policies, produced smiles, guffaws, and even nodding heads. Following these presentations, Tallien would usually give serious stirring speeches, fists clenched and arms flailing to give emphasis to words extolling the purposes of the Revolution. These speeches also contained many references to how he personally forwarded each and every purpose.

He also used the visits as opportunities to collect information on persons who might or might not be amenable to his secretly planned takeover. He let it be known at the meetings that he would listen attentively to any allegations of opposition or treason, whether stated during the meeting openly, or in lowered whispers while the group dispersed. If he heard an allegation that might favor Robespierre, he gave assurances he would look into it and usually neglected to do so. Unfavorable or weakening accusations, or those that otherwise suited his purposes, he reported immediately to the Committee of Public Safety. A few he let ripen, tucking them away for useful windfalls in the future.

On a visit to the Gentilly Section, near where the Bicêtre was located, he gave his usual burlesque performance and threw in some imitations of dying priests and aristocrats massacred there under his supervision. At the end, he put out his usual invitation to receive accusatory reports. As he walked off the podium, he felt a tug on his sleeve from the Bicêtre attendant Ajacis. Looking cautiously over his shoulder to make sure no one from the asylum saw him, Ajacis spoke softly, indicating he had a story to tell. He identified himself as an asylum attendant, and asked to speak to Tallien alone. Tallien nodded, gesturing toward a corridor away from others in the room.

“Are you familiar, citizen Tallien, with the new medical director of the Bicêtre?”

“Yes, I have met him. He has, I know, changed the treatment methods there. Forbids beatings, and the use of chains.”

“The governor did some of that, on a mild Jean or a quiet Jacques, before. We didn’t like the mollycoddling then but put up with it to keep our jobs. But now that this Dr. Pinel is there, all the lunatics can walk free around. He don’t do purging, bleeding, hardly anything at all. And we see him sitting with them. He actually sits down and talks with them.”

“This is a rational approach, is it not?” Tallien said cautiously. “He is a believer in equality, a good revolutionary.”

“I don’t know about rational but, citizen Tallien. I know he is not a good revolutionary at all. He has been talking with an inmate about some kind of conspiracy.”

“Indeed, what kind of conspiracy?”

Ajacis wet his lips. Again, he looked around nervously, then leaned forward toward Tallien.

“That’s my point. I don’t know exactly what it was, this conspiring. But it was who it was said were ones doing it. In fact, two great patriots.”

“Patriots? Who? Which patriots?”

“Commander Barras. And you.”

Tallien’s face became drawn, suddenly drained of blood. His eyes narrowed.

“Who was this? Who did you say?”

“You, citizen. And Commander Barras.”

“Barras? Me? What conspiracy is this?”

“I am not sure. Another attendant told me he heard them discuss the details. There was something in it about Robespierre. I couldn’t really tell whether it was for him, or against him.”

“I see.” Tallien said, momentarily encouraged by Ajacis’s uncertainty. “I do remember, a long time back, Saint-Just told me that a Bicêtre lunatic was at the widow Capet’s execution ranting about a plot. Yes, he even stared at Barras, Saint-Just said. But you don’t mean to say that this lunatic is still alive, at Bicêtre, and the doctor, Pinel, talks about such things with him seriously?”

“He does. From what I hear, you wouldn’t believe what things this doctor listens to,” Ajacis sighed, rolled his eyes, and shook his head.

Tallien, awkwardly bringing his mouth up into his crooked smile, complimented Ajacis on his loyalty and diligence. He assured him there could not be any such plot, and Ajacis heartily agreed, saying it was inconceivable to have such a thing by two who were the legs and heart of the Revolution like Commander Barras and himself. Tallien put his hand on Ajacis’s shoulder, asserting that he, as an excellent Bicêtre attendant, knew all about maniacs and their wild ravings. Monstrous and totally unreliable. The inmate – “what was his name?” – was obviously deranged. But there was real concern that this Dr. Pinel was paying attention to seditious babble, and Tallien would quickly look into the matter. The inmate, Ajacis confirmed – “his name is Lalladiere” – was the same ranting lunatic who was at the queen’s execution. He and another attendant chased Lalladiere when he escaped from the asylum, and they followed him to the Place that day. Ajacis volunteered that he was glad that Tallien –”A great, I repeat, great revolutionary hero, far away as possible from suspicion of being a traitor, not the slightest bit of doubt in any patriot’s mind” – was going to pursue things further.

A few days later, Tallien, feeling the need to counter or suppress quickly emergence of any further damaging Bicêtre disclosures, called for another meeting of the Gentilly Section. He made no reference at all to the asylum, but spoke of the need for sans-culottes to find their voices and strengths, to continue to enhance their powerful place in the glorious Revolution.

When the meeting began, he walked immediately to the front of the room. There was a swagger to his walk, an air of confidence that imbued him, despite his stubby legs, with authority. As was his custom for these occasions, he was dressed roughly, quite unlike his grand attire at the Paris salons, in a somewhat worn, slightly ill-fitting coat, unbuttoned shirt, and the sans-culotte straight pants of many in his audience. Before he started speaking, he peered slowly around the room, not at any one in particular, but with a look of broad acknowledgement that encompassed, and drew in, everyone in the group.

“I have come here to ask you,” he began, “what leadership do you want to have? You, all of you here, what kind of a leader do you want?”

“Hear, hear,” shouted a young butcher close to the front of the room, raising an immaculately clean hand. “That’s it, citizen,” bellowed a nearby older and black-coated rag dealer, a common pursuit in that neighborhood. He pounded on the bench beside him. Further back, a wide-faced milliner wearing a white cloth bonnet that circled her face, chimed in with a loud, high-pitched voice, “We’re with you, citizen.”

“Yes,” Tallien continued, for the moment apparently ignoring the spontaneous affirmation, “you must decide what you want. What kind of leadership? The kind of leaders you want us to be.”

“Strong…” a middle-aged but already seamy-faced fishmonger started to say but Tallien did not pause to let her finish. “All of you, look to either side of you. One of those you sit next to may be a traitor. We are beset with traitors everywhere, and they may be close or lurking any place in the room. People who seem to be your friends, neighbors living near you, may be waiting for the moment they can undo the Revolution, or betray you, to get themselves extra food, luxuries, or positions in a – blast the word – monarchy they hope will come. These are in sympathy with all the corrupt, deceiving priests. The despicable aristocrats. And then, also, look to the people you don’t know too well, or those who have recently just moved into the neighborhood, they could be aristocrats in disguise.”

Now, Tallien paused and again surveyed the assemblage. There was some scuffling of feet, and rows of irregular undulations and swayings where some looked either sideways or backwards. Many remained motionless or, with anticipation, were leaning slightly forward. All were cautiously quiet until, from the back of the room a tall greengrocer with puffy cheeks looking like smoothly rounded urns, called out:

“What should we do?”

“Consider. Decide.”

Tallien’s inflection served here as a special emphasis. “You must, you shall, decide the kind of leadership you want. Not, I’m sure, traitors. Watch carefully for those among us who show signs of weakening resolve, do not hail the Revolution, make false accusations against our deputies, and those more subtle ones who simply carp and criticize. They are out to do us in, divide us, and bring oppression back upon our heads.”

Over and over, Tallien repeated variations of his casting out of verbal hooks baited with lures of participation and partnership followed by reeling in with denouncements and commands. When he stopped again to receive a response from the group, a stocky young mason wearing gray striped pants and a red cockade cap stood up and asked him to tell them who the traitors were. The mason straightened his chest and nodded his head at the people sitting at both sides of him. An old wrinkle-faced woman, her lean, aggressive-looking son, and a square-shouldered stone-carrier all nodded back at him while assenting loudly to his question.

“Ah, that is what we must determine together,” Tallien answered, upbeating and prolonging “together”. “Some of them look like simple people, dressed regular and plain like you and me. They disguise themselves as shopkeepers, stone carriers, clothes washers, and ordinary tradespeople. Others are easier to make out, they look prosperous and well-fed. You find them in offices and churches. And they are also salesman and engineers. Some are even bankers and doctors.”

Several people now cried out from different places in the assembly room: “Who are these people?” and “Tell us, Tallien,” and “Names, give us names.”

“I know of some,” Tallien answered. “I shall work to find out about more. And all of you must, too.”

“Tell us what you know,” the young mason demanded.

“What are their names?” shouted an insistent voice at the edge of the group.

“They use the Revolution,” Tallien, looking aroused, said loudly, “to forward their own ends.”

“Yes, yes.”

“They claim to be on the side of equality, of fraternity. But they try to instill confusion and discontent.”

Impassioned shouts of “Yes, who are they?” “Tell us.” “We shall root them out.” rose from numerous portions of the group. The room was alive with the sounds of shifting feet, people jumping up, sitting back down, loud conversations.

“I know of one, a baker who lives here, Cantonelle,” Tallien said in a modulated tone strong enough to be heard over most of the noise. He was indicating a man who, it happened, had once inflicted a personal grievance on him. “This man claims,” he continued, “he has little grain and sells as much bread as possible. But he hoards his supplies and looks to find other places in Paris where he can get higher prices.”

A resounding, almost unanimous roar filled the room. Tallien’s eyes shone.

“And, yes, there is another, a shoemaker in this neighborhood. Her name is Rastinac. She makes shoes for citizen Robespierre.” He now referred to a woman hated by his mistress, Thérèse, for a slighting remark made at a wardrobe fitting. “I have heard,” he said with a put-on tone of vehemence, “that when Robespierre, the very eminence of our Revolution, sent a pair back to her recently with the message that the soles were poorly made, she complained that he was wrong. She went around and told her friends and neighbors he had no right to say such a thing because…” he paused for a moment, looking around. “Because,” he resumed, “she had once made shoes for the queen! Imagine, she boasted of outfitting the contemptible widow Capet!”

Another roar, punctuated with shouts of disbelief, curses at the shoemaker, and explosive bursts of derisive epithets from every side about the dead queen.

“And one other,” Tallien said, sternly and with emphasis, when the clamor subsided, “is the doctor in charge of the Bicêtre. He lets madmen go free.”

“That’s true. They come among us,” vigorously affirmed the fishmonger interrupted by Tallien earlier. “These free lunatics escape and are on the streets,” she added.

“It’s not safe to be out at night,” the black-coated rag dealer said.

“They are wild, bizarre, and come right into your own house. I know firsthand,” sounded the sharp distinct voice of Théo Rochereau, Jean-Luc’s father. He, a regular attendee at meetings of the Gentilly Section, had heard all but not spoken up to that point. Several people called for quiet to hear him. “One of them,” he continued, “followed my son to our home. I was terrified, you can be sure of that. Barely managed to get word to the asylum to take him back before he could hurt one of us.”

“That is right,” Tallien interjected, “the man Pinel, medical director of Bicêtre, lets the maniacs go wild. They walk around freely, without fetters or chains. He talks to them, too, riles them up. Can you feature that, talking with a lunatic? He is one of the disguised ones. Says he is enlightened, a patriot, but –” Tallien paused before his next revelation, having made sure beforehand to consult informants and find as much as he could about this dangerous doctor. Pounding his fists, he continued slowly and firmly: “He helped to hide the traitor, Condorcet, who was condemned to the guillotine.”

“Let’s go and take all of them,” the urn-cheeked greengrocer boomed out. From every side came proclamations of assent.

“This doctor is a monarchist,” Tallien said, shouting now over the growing din. And making sure there was little room for equivocation, he again pounded his fists and proceeded further: “Be quiet and listen everyone. I have here words he wrote after seeing the execution of the king.” With a flourish, he pulled out a copy of a personal letter written by Pinel which had been secretly obtained by his mistress Thérèse. He brandished the paper above his head, and as the room became quiet, he began: “I greatly regret,’ says this Dr. Philippe Pinel, ‘that I was obliged to attend the execution of the king bearing arms with the other citizens of the Section and I write to you now with my heart filled with grief.’”

“Do you hear that?” Tallien snarled. “The man says his ‘heart’, the core of his soul was, on watching Louis’s execution, ‘filled with grief.’ Then, he goes on like this: ‘and my whole being was stunned by the shock of this dreadful experience.’ Stunned, he says. Grief-filled heart, whole being, and stunned – he put it all down in a letter – about the death of the greatest traitor, the despicable Louis Capet.”

The quiet was broken with shrill calls. It was now unanimous. From all sides came: “To the razor. To the guillotine.” The young butcher pushed to the front of the room and, standing at Tallien’s side, he shouted to the group, “Divide up, and we go to get all of them. Come patriots, some for each place.”