Three-Book Edition: A Place of Greater Safety; Beyond Black; The Giant O’Brien

He was looking into a man’s chest, and the man had a musket.

There should be, he thought wildly, a challenge, you are supposed to say, who goes there, friend or foe? What if they say ‘foe’, and keep coming?

‘Who are you?’ the chest said.

‘I am the governor.’

‘The governor is dead and all chopped up into little pieces.’

‘So I’ve heard. I am the new governor. Lafayette sent me.’

‘Oh really? Lafayette sent him,’ the chest said. There were sniggers from the darkness. ‘Let’s see your commission.’

Soulès reached inside his coat: handed over the piece of paper that he had kept next to his heart all these nervous hours.

‘How do you expect me to read it in this light?’ He heard the sound of paper crumpling. ‘Right,’ the chest said with condescension. ‘I am Captain d’Anton, of the Cordeliers Battalion of the citizens’ militia, and I am arresting you because you seem to me a very suspicious character. Citizens, carry out your duty.’

Soulès opened his mouth.

‘No point shouting. I have inspected the guard. They’re drunk and sleeping like the dead. We’re taking you to our district headquarters.’

Soulès peered into the darkness. There were at least four armed men behind Captain d’Anton, perhaps more in the shadows.

‘Please don’t think of resisting.’

The captain had a cultured and precise voice. Small consolation. Keep your head, Soulès told himself grimly.

THEY RANG THE TOCSIN at Saint-André-des-Arts. A hundred people were on the streets within minutes. A lively district, as d’Anton had always said.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ Fabre said. ‘Perhaps we should shoot him.’

Soulès said, over and over again, ‘I demand to be taken to City Hall.’

‘Demand nothing,’ d’Anton said. Then a thought seemed to strike him. ‘All right. City Hall.’

It was an eventful journey. They had to take an open carriage, as there was nothing else available. There were people already (or still) in the streets, and it was obvious to them that the Cordeliers citizens needed help. They ran along the side of the carriage and shouted, ‘Hang him.’

When they arrived, d’Anton said, ‘It’s much as I thought. The government of the city is in the hands of anyone who turns up and says, “I’m in charge.”’ For some weeks now, an unofficial body of Electors had been calling itself the Commune, the city government; M. Bailly of the National Assembly, who had presided over the Paris elections, was its organizing spirit. True, there had been a Provost of Paris till yesterday, a royal appointee; but the mobs had murdered him, when they had finished with de Launay. Who runs the city now? Who has the seals, the stamps? This is a question for the daylight hours. The Marquis de Lafayette, an official said, had gone home to bed.

‘A fine time to be asleep. Get him down here. What are we to think? A patrol of citizens leaves their beds to inspect the Bastille, wrested from tyrants at enormous cost – they find the guard the worse for drink, and this person, who cannot explain himself, claiming to be in charge.’ He turned to his patrol. ‘Someone should account to the people. There are skeletons to be counted, one would think. Why, there may be helpless victims chained in dungeons still.’

‘Oh, they’re all accounted for,’ the official said. ‘There were only seven people in there, you know.’

Nevertheless, d’Anton thought, the accommodation was always available. ‘What about the prisoners’ effects?’ he asked. ‘I myself have heard of a billiard table that went in twenty years ago and has never come out.’

Laughter from the men behind. A blank wild stare from the official. D’Anton’s mood was suddenly sober. ‘Get Lafayette,’ he said.

Jules Paré, released from clerking, grinned into the darkness. Lights flared in the Place de Grève. M. Soulès eyes were drawn irresistibly to the Lanterne – a great iron bracket from which a light swung. At that spot, not many hours earlier, the severed head of the Marquis de Launay had been kicked around like a football among the crowd. ‘Pray, M. Soulès,’ d’Anton suggested pleasantly.

DAWN HAD BROKEN when Lafayette appeared. D’Anton saw with disappointment that his turn-out was immaculate; but his newly shaven face was flushed along the cheek bones.

‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘Five o’clock?’ d’Anton said helpfully. ‘Just guessing. I always thought that soldiers were ready to get up at any time of the night.’

Lafayette turned away for a second. He clenched his fists, and cast up his eyes to the red-fingered sky. When he turned back his voice was crisp and amiable. ‘Sorry. That was no way to greet you. Captain d’Anton, isn’t it? Of the Cordeliers?’

‘And a great admirer of yours, General,’ d’Anton said.

‘How kind.’ Lafayette gazed wonderingly at the subordinate this new world had brought him: this towering, broad-shouldered, scarfaced man. ‘I don’t know that this was necessary,’ he said, ‘but I suppose you’re only doing your – best.’

‘We’ll try to make our best good enough,’ Captain d’Anton said doggedly.

For an instant, a suspicion crossed the general’s mind: was it possible that he was the victim of a practical joke? ‘This is M. Soulès. I formally identify him. M. Soulès has my full authority. Yes, of course I’ll give him a new piece of paper. Will that do?’

‘That will do fine,’ the captain said promptly. ‘But your word alone will do for me, any time, General.’

‘I’ll get back home now, Captain d’Anton. If you’ve quite finished with me.’

The captain didn’t understand sarcasm. ‘Sleep well,’ he said. Lafayette turned smartly, thinking, we really must decide if we’re going to salute.

D’Anton wheeled his patrol back to the river, his eyes glinting. Gabrielle was waiting for him at home. ‘Why ever did you do it?’

‘Shows initiative, doesn’t it?’

‘You’ve only annoyed Lafayette.’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘It’s just the sort of game people around here like,’ Paré said. ‘I should think they really will make you a captain in the militia, d’Anton. Also, I should think they’ll elect you president of the district. Everybody knows you, after all.’

‘Lafayette knows me,’ d’Anton said.

WORD FROM VERSAILLES: M. Necker is recalled. M. Bailly is named Mayor of Paris. Momoro the printer works through the night setting up the type for Camille’s pamphlet. Contractors are brought in to demolish the Bastille. People take it away, stone by stone, for souvenirs.

The Emigration begins. The Prince de Condé leaves the country in haste, lawyers’ bills and much else unpaid. The King’s brother Artois goes; so do the Polignacs, the Queen’s favourites.

On 17 July, Mayor Bailly leaves Versailles in a flower-bedecked coach, arrives at City Hall at ten a.m., and immediately sets off back again, amid a crowd of dignitaries, to meet the King. They get as far as the Chaillot fire-pump: mayor, Electors, guards, city keys in silver bowl – and there they meet three hundred deputies and the royal procession, coming the other way.

‘Sire,’ says Mayor Bailly, ‘I bring Your Majesty the keys of your good city of Paris. They are the very ones that were presented to Henri IV; he had reconquered his people, and here the people have reconquered their King.’

It sounds tactless, but he means it kindly. There is spontaneous applause. Militiamen three deep line the route. The Marquis de Lafayette walks in front of the King’s coach. Cannon are fired in salute. His Majesty steps down from the coach and accepts from Mayor Bailly the nation’s new tricolour cockade: the monarchy’s white has been added to the red and the blue. He fastens the cockade to his hat, and the crowd begins to cheer. (He had made his will before he left Versailles.) He walks up the staircase of City Hall under an arch of swords. The delirious crowd pushes around him, jostling him and trying to touch him to see if he feels the same as other people. ‘Long live the King,’ they shout. (The Queen had not expected to see him again.)

‘Let them be,’ he says to the soldiers. ‘I believe they are truly fond of me.’

Some semblance of normal life takes hold. The shops re-open. An old man, shrunken and bony, with a long white beard, is paraded through the city to wave to the crowds who still hang about on every street. His name is Major Whyte – he is perhaps an Englishman, perhaps an Irishman – and no one knows how long he has been locked up in the Bastille. He seems to enjoy the attention he is getting, though when asked about the circumstances of his incarceration he weeps. On a bad day he does not know who he is at all. On a good day he answers to Julius Caesar.

EXAMINATION of Desnot, July 1789, in Paris: