Where the Light Falls(42)
Merignac swallowed, his spoon suspended in his fingers as he spoke. “They are quite sought-after these days.”
“Beloved, you might say,” Jean-Luc added.
“Indeed, Robespierre is…well, he’s an interesting fellow. His rise to power was quick. Many believe that he is unstoppable.” The room was now completely dark, illuminated by only a dozen flickering candles. The dim lighting gave the orange of Merignac’s wig a peculiar fiery appearance against which his pale skin seemed paper-thin, almost translucent.
“Do you know what they’ve begun to call Robespierre?” Merignac cocked his head. “ ‘The Incorruptible.’ But I’m not so sure of that. My employer believes that no man’s virtue is beyond corruption. It’s simply a matter of finding his weakness.”
Jean-Luc looked down at his stew, slightly startled by the remark. Gavreau, perhaps feeling uncomfortable with the silence, slurped his wine and muttered: “I know mine pretty well, you might say.” Only Gavreau laughed at his own joke.
“The thing that Robespierre recognized,” Merignac continued, ignoring Gavreau, “and that the fool of a king never did, is that anger is so much more potent than love. The Bourbon tried to appeal to people’s better natures. He told them he loved them as a father loves his children. They don’t want to hear that. They are hungry and enraged and they want someone to tell them that they are right to be so.”
Jean-Luc sat silently, considering this.
“We’re both from the south, Citizen St. Clair,” Merignac continued. “A region perhaps most famed for its maritime industry. I would liken public opinion to the headwinds caught in a great sail. The brilliance of Robespierre is that he has caught the wind of the people’s rage and desperation and has directed it with great agility and cunning. True, if managed poorly it can turn on those who wield it—like our ill-fated monarch. But, if harnessed properly, that force can power the machine of progress. As Citizen Lazare likes to say: ‘Progress comes from change, and change is generated by force.’ Why not harness the power of the people and generate force from all of this splendid chaos?”
“Hear, hear!” Gavreau bellowed, slamming a fist into the table. Jean-Luc turned to his colleague and noticed that he had already drained several glasses of wine, and, from the looks of it, had begun to feel their effects.
Ignoring that interjection, Merignac continued in a quiet tone, looking only at Jean-Luc. “My esteemed patron, Citizen Lazare, believes that the wrath of the people is the true source of the nation’s strength and power. The late king may have tried to appeal to the better natures of the common people, but, in truth, he feared them. He never understood them, don’t you see? Liberty, equality, fraternity.” The elder man waved his hand aside, leaning in closer to Jean-Luc. “That is all fine and dandy. But the true origin of this new power is quite a simple thing: pure, unbridled rage. Fury, born out of years of desperation. The man who understands that best…well…”
Jean-Luc hadn’t expected this turn in the conversation. He usually enjoyed discussing policy and how best to serve the people’s interests, but something in Merignac’s words struck him as more than that. There was an edge of zealous cunning, a base view of mankind that would paint his fellow countrymen as terrifying, bestial, even maniacal. What about the noble work toward which he and his fellow patriots were striving—the Declaration of the Rights of Man? Universal suffrage? Affordable bread and housing? Jean-Luc was about to say as much when there was a loud clamor toward the front of the restaurant.
Two young men wearing the blue coat of the army, their faces so similar that surely they must have been brothers, were being escorted out of the restaurant. One of them, his hair darker, had his arms wrapped around the other, and from the looks of it he was trying to calm him down.
At the table from which they had just been excused, a third man, also in an officer’s uniform, was hollering in their direction. He sat before a pile of smashed china, a grin on his face as he sipped from a glass of wine. “Get your drunk arse home, Remy! And next time, I’ll stick you with the bill.”
The younger-looking brother, his hair disheveled from the commotion, yelled over his shoulder. “You’re a fool, LaSalle, and I’d punch you if I could!” He struggled against the older man’s restraining embrace. The restaurant attendants were insisting that they leave while the darker-haired brother, his grip still on the other’s shoulders, offered several coins to the hotelier as consolation.