I may be home a little later than I said but that everything is going well. Got that?”
Fifty thousand in the field, he thought, nothing compared to five hundred close-packed in a grim bare box of a meeting hall. He saw his brother Lucien on the dais, presiding, but no comfort there. Out out out out before he was properly in. Sanctuary of the law profaned, out out at once, no right, OUTSIDE THE LAW . Someone cried dictator and the word was taken up. Lucien was calling, gavel-banging: “My brave brother—his achievements in the field—at least a hearing—” Bonaparte saw the claws and fists looming, heard heavy breath, knew at once and for the first time what his only feared enemy was: the crowd, nails and teeth for weapons. He prepared to faint, recovered, turned to stumble out, found the enemy had blocked retreat, then the claws were onto him, tearing. The salt in his mouth was blood, he put fingers to his right cheek, unbelieving, but there, trickling to the palm, was wet red. Then came the blessed emblem of order—uniforms, strong soldiers shouldering and hitting out, himself thrust into the square of protective order, out, out, hitting out, out.
“Outside the law,” Bourrienne said. “You know what it means—those were the words they spoke before Robespierre—”
“What’s happening in there now?” They could hear roars and anger, a faint gavel. He did not wipe away the blood, he knew, sick as he was, the value of blood.
“You know what’s happening. You know what happened to Robespierre. Your brother’s trying to hold back the vote.” A scribbled note came out with a panting usher. Bonaparte read it; he said:
“We have ten minutes. We must have Lucien out here. Get my horse. Get an escort for Lucien.”
Drums, there was nothing so comforting as drums, a daddy-mammy in crescendo, a roll sustained, frightening the few birds of Brumaire. There were shouting faces at the open Orangery windows. Lucien spoke to the troops:
“That lawful assembly in there is being threatened—threatened physically, threatened with daggers, threatened with swords—by a handful of mad extremists. The army must rescue that lawful assembly, steel must answer steel.”
The noise from the windows was confused, but the troops caught the words outside the law . The bloody-faced general spoke:
“Soldiers, have I not led you to victory again and again? Have I not again and again risked my life for France, our France, a France once again in danger from Frenchmen? I met danger at Toulon, in Italy, in Egypt, on the high seas, I meet worse danger now in a place of cunning assassins. You followed me before, will you not follow me again?”
Some shouted Long live , many were not sure. Lucien drew his sword and, Corsican luck, the dying sun pounced on it. He thrust it at his brother’s chest, crying: “I swear, I swear that if ever he menaces the liberty of our dear land, I will—” Roars and roars and roars. It was fine drama—dying sun, brothers poised in tableau, a sword, blood. Bonaparte said to Lucien:
“All right now, I think. We have them now. Go with Leclerc and Murat, lead the way in, we’ll clear that damned hall.”
“Freedom, freedom, die for freedom!” Some of the Five Hundred were leaping out of the windows, as from a fire.
“Die, indeed,” Augereau said. “Who the hell wants to kill those bastards?”
No trouble now about getting that committee.
“I ’ d much rather be,” she shivered, “back at Number Six.” They were walking at sunset in the Great Gallery of the Tuileries, big, cold, unhomelike, haunted especially at this hour by kings whose shining light had turned to dried blood. She herself, after all, was an aristocrat, had waited to join the democracy of the headless, shivered now not solely from the huge baroque cold but from the memory of the narrowness of her salvation. The First Consul slapped her rump, starting a chain of echoes, and said heartily:
“Courage, girl. A little bare
Fifty thousand in the field, he thought, nothing compared to five hundred close-packed in a grim bare box of a meeting hall. He saw his brother Lucien on the dais, presiding, but no comfort there. Out out out out before he was properly in. Sanctuary of the law profaned, out out at once, no right, OUTSIDE THE LAW . Someone cried dictator and the word was taken up. Lucien was calling, gavel-banging: “My brave brother—his achievements in the field—at least a hearing—” Bonaparte saw the claws and fists looming, heard heavy breath, knew at once and for the first time what his only feared enemy was: the crowd, nails and teeth for weapons. He prepared to faint, recovered, turned to stumble out, found the enemy had blocked retreat, then the claws were onto him, tearing. The salt in his mouth was blood, he put fingers to his right cheek, unbelieving, but there, trickling to the palm, was wet red. Then came the blessed emblem of order—uniforms, strong soldiers shouldering and hitting out, himself thrust into the square of protective order, out, out, hitting out, out.
“Outside the law,” Bourrienne said. “You know what it means—those were the words they spoke before Robespierre—”
“What’s happening in there now?” They could hear roars and anger, a faint gavel. He did not wipe away the blood, he knew, sick as he was, the value of blood.
“You know what’s happening. You know what happened to Robespierre. Your brother’s trying to hold back the vote.” A scribbled note came out with a panting usher. Bonaparte read it; he said:
“We have ten minutes. We must have Lucien out here. Get my horse. Get an escort for Lucien.”
Drums, there was nothing so comforting as drums, a daddy-mammy in crescendo, a roll sustained, frightening the few birds of Brumaire. There were shouting faces at the open Orangery windows. Lucien spoke to the troops:
“That lawful assembly in there is being threatened—threatened physically, threatened with daggers, threatened with swords—by a handful of mad extremists. The army must rescue that lawful assembly, steel must answer steel.”
The noise from the windows was confused, but the troops caught the words outside the law . The bloody-faced general spoke:
“Soldiers, have I not led you to victory again and again? Have I not again and again risked my life for France, our France, a France once again in danger from Frenchmen? I met danger at Toulon, in Italy, in Egypt, on the high seas, I meet worse danger now in a place of cunning assassins. You followed me before, will you not follow me again?”
Some shouted Long live , many were not sure. Lucien drew his sword and, Corsican luck, the dying sun pounced on it. He thrust it at his brother’s chest, crying: “I swear, I swear that if ever he menaces the liberty of our dear land, I will—” Roars and roars and roars. It was fine drama—dying sun, brothers poised in tableau, a sword, blood. Bonaparte said to Lucien:
“All right now, I think. We have them now. Go with Leclerc and Murat, lead the way in, we’ll clear that damned hall.”
“Freedom, freedom, die for freedom!” Some of the Five Hundred were leaping out of the windows, as from a fire.
“Die, indeed,” Augereau said. “Who the hell wants to kill those bastards?”
No trouble now about getting that committee.
“I ’ d much rather be,” she shivered, “back at Number Six.” They were walking at sunset in the Great Gallery of the Tuileries, big, cold, unhomelike, haunted especially at this hour by kings whose shining light had turned to dried blood. She herself, after all, was an aristocrat, had waited to join the democracy of the headless, shivered now not solely from the huge baroque cold but from the memory of the narrowness of her salvation. The First Consul slapped her rump, starting a chain of echoes, and said heartily:
“Courage, girl. A little bare
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