nervous trader so concerned with his goods he was determined to travel with the most important cargoes, regardless of the personal danger or inconvenience. It had caused some amusement, and a little contempt, but he had not been disbelieved. ‘Yes, I did,’ he repeated. ‘And I have the clothes.’ He swallowed a little more wine to moisten his dry lips. ‘Over there.’
In three neat parcels were the three different jackets he had worn; a dark green woollen coat of excellent cut, high collared with brass buttons in which to meet the driver west to Calais and the sea; a blue coat with lighter facings to speak to the driver south towards the Pyrenees and Spain; a brown jacket with buff-coloured collar, cuffs and lapels to introduce himself to the driver south and east towards Italy. They were all expensive and memorable. When another man with similar white hair and long nose turned up in the same clothes, it would be assumed it was he, still determined to ride with his cargo. Each parcel was labelled with the direction for which it was intended. Each one would be left at a different safe house, according to which route of escape the King was going to take. That would be decided upon at the moment, according to which seemed best.
Bernave glanced at them, and was satisfied. He said nothing else about it, no words of praise or debt, no questioning of his resolve, simply, ‘I’m sorry,’ and then silence.
The rain splattered on the window, and in the hearth the logs settled lower. Briard leaned forward and put on another. Someone could inherit the claret, but he was damned if he was going to be cold.
‘I never thought there would be any other outcome,’ he said truthfully. ‘As soon as they put him on trial there was never any other end possible. I can remember that farce as if it were yesterday. The ever-virtuous little Robespierre with his clicking heels and his green spectacles. He claims to be France’s best hope for a pure future, you know—devoid of greed, corruption or immorality. And perhaps he is! Why do I hate him so much?’
‘God! I hope not!’ Bernave said passionately, his voice raw. ‘You hate him for his lies of the soul! Because he takes the dreams of decent men and twists them into the shapes of his own starved nightmares. Because he finds filthy the human loves and needs of ordinary men, and makes of them something to be despised.’ He sat absolutely still, but his voice was shaking, and there was a passionate misery in his face. ‘He’s read too much Rousseau. Lovers of the mind who never touch each other, but are in a perpetual anticipation, and never consummate anything, as if the reality would soil them.’ He tried to smile, and it was a grimace. ‘They are philosophers of the unfulfilled, and unfulfillable.’
Briard stared into his glass as the fire crackled and burned up. It was already beginning to seem far away, the pedantic little figure who was obsessed with purity, who never forgot an insult, or forgave a favour.
‘Never do him a service, Bernave,’ he said aloud. ‘If you place him in your debt for anything he will never pardon you for it.’
Bernave’s lips twisted back off his teeth. ‘I will never do him a favour, believe me! I would rather deal with Danton any day, or even Marat.’
Briard was surprised. Marat’s savage face came too easily to his inner eye. ‘Would you? Would you really?’
‘I think Robespierre’s hatred for Marat will tear the Convention apart,’ Bernave replied quietly. ‘I pray I am wrong.’
‘Does Danton hate him?’ Briard was puzzled. ‘I didn’t see that. Danton does not seem to me like a man who hates.’
‘Not yet.’ Bernave sipped the burgundy, rolling it on his tongue. ‘But he will. Robespierre will give him cause.’
‘Any man who listens to Saint-Just—’
Bernave jerked his scarred hand dismissively. ‘The man is mad! Madder even, than Hébert or Couthon. That we listen to him is surely the most terrible
In three neat parcels were the three different jackets he had worn; a dark green woollen coat of excellent cut, high collared with brass buttons in which to meet the driver west to Calais and the sea; a blue coat with lighter facings to speak to the driver south towards the Pyrenees and Spain; a brown jacket with buff-coloured collar, cuffs and lapels to introduce himself to the driver south and east towards Italy. They were all expensive and memorable. When another man with similar white hair and long nose turned up in the same clothes, it would be assumed it was he, still determined to ride with his cargo. Each parcel was labelled with the direction for which it was intended. Each one would be left at a different safe house, according to which route of escape the King was going to take. That would be decided upon at the moment, according to which seemed best.
Bernave glanced at them, and was satisfied. He said nothing else about it, no words of praise or debt, no questioning of his resolve, simply, ‘I’m sorry,’ and then silence.
The rain splattered on the window, and in the hearth the logs settled lower. Briard leaned forward and put on another. Someone could inherit the claret, but he was damned if he was going to be cold.
‘I never thought there would be any other outcome,’ he said truthfully. ‘As soon as they put him on trial there was never any other end possible. I can remember that farce as if it were yesterday. The ever-virtuous little Robespierre with his clicking heels and his green spectacles. He claims to be France’s best hope for a pure future, you know—devoid of greed, corruption or immorality. And perhaps he is! Why do I hate him so much?’
‘God! I hope not!’ Bernave said passionately, his voice raw. ‘You hate him for his lies of the soul! Because he takes the dreams of decent men and twists them into the shapes of his own starved nightmares. Because he finds filthy the human loves and needs of ordinary men, and makes of them something to be despised.’ He sat absolutely still, but his voice was shaking, and there was a passionate misery in his face. ‘He’s read too much Rousseau. Lovers of the mind who never touch each other, but are in a perpetual anticipation, and never consummate anything, as if the reality would soil them.’ He tried to smile, and it was a grimace. ‘They are philosophers of the unfulfilled, and unfulfillable.’
Briard stared into his glass as the fire crackled and burned up. It was already beginning to seem far away, the pedantic little figure who was obsessed with purity, who never forgot an insult, or forgave a favour.
‘Never do him a service, Bernave,’ he said aloud. ‘If you place him in your debt for anything he will never pardon you for it.’
Bernave’s lips twisted back off his teeth. ‘I will never do him a favour, believe me! I would rather deal with Danton any day, or even Marat.’
Briard was surprised. Marat’s savage face came too easily to his inner eye. ‘Would you? Would you really?’
‘I think Robespierre’s hatred for Marat will tear the Convention apart,’ Bernave replied quietly. ‘I pray I am wrong.’
‘Does Danton hate him?’ Briard was puzzled. ‘I didn’t see that. Danton does not seem to me like a man who hates.’
‘Not yet.’ Bernave sipped the burgundy, rolling it on his tongue. ‘But he will. Robespierre will give him cause.’
‘Any man who listens to Saint-Just—’
Bernave jerked his scarred hand dismissively. ‘The man is mad! Madder even, than Hébert or Couthon. That we listen to him is surely the most terrible
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