The Brittany Club

"About this matter," Armand began, "our play is inherently political. When I wrote it, I knew that staging it carried political risks."

He paused, then continued, "And choosing to stage it at a time like this is itself a political act. We considered the political risks long ago. Even if something really does happen, the worst is that we'll spend some time in the Bastille feeding the rats."

People generally called going to prison "feeding the rats," but Armand called it "eating rats." One word made all the difference. Most people shuddered at the mere mention of the Bastille, but Armand and Robespierre both knew that because it was often used to imprison nobles, the Bastille was probably better appointed than any other prison in France.

"Besides, I think that if our king were just a little cleverer, we wouldn't be in danger of feeding rats in the Bastille," Saint-Just said. "If our king decided to crush the people, he should act swiftly and decisively: arrest all the Third Estate representatives at once and send them straight to the guillotine. That might cause some unrest, but with the rebels left leaderless, they could easily be picked off one by one."

A mocking smile touched Saint-Just's handsome lips. "Besides, most of these representatives are rich. Mr. Robespierre, you're almost the poorest among them, yet even you are a 'rich man' compared with most people in the Saint-Antoine District. And some are hundreds of times richer than you. If the king killed all the representatives, confiscated their assets, and used the money to win over more troops, as well as the nobles and poor people willing to follow him, he might still weather this crisis. Of course, France could end up in a civil war. He would have to be prepared for the possibility that, if he lost, he'd be sent to the guillotine just like Charles I. But with the other side leaderless, I think he'd be in a much better position than Charles I was. If our king really planned to do that, we'd most likely have our heads chopped off outright. We wouldn't get as far as feeding rats in the Bastille."

As he spoke, Saint-Just even gently stroked his long, slender neck, with a touch of the defiant spirit of "Such a noble head—who dares strike it off?"

"Do you think the king would do that?" Robespierre asked.

"No." A scornful smile appeared on Saint-Just's face. "If the king had that kind of resolve, he wouldn't let that Austrian woman walk all over him. Nor would he have come away empty-handed from the Assembly of Notables. All in all, His Majesty lacks both the courage to be a tyrant and the magnanimity to be an enlightened monarch. He isn't a king anyone needs to fear. So I don't think we're in any danger."

"Mr. Saint-Just," Robespierre said admiringly, "you possess a composure and courage far beyond what your age and appearance would suggest. To be honest, when I saw yesterday that you were playing Spartacus, I was quite surprised. But your performance was so outstanding that you completely convinced me. I wondered how someone as young as you could have such strength. Yet after speaking with you today, I understand that a person's thoughts and strength can't be measured by age. Mr. Saint-Just, you're right: our king lacks that kind of resolve. And we aren't fools who'll sit back and let him do whatever he wants. The privileged classes have squandered so much over the years that the country is broke. The army is broke too, and full of discontent. Besides, the soldiers are French people themselves. The army is made up of people, not soulless tools. If the king really took a gamble, the only troops he could truly count on would be mercenaries. But if he had money for mercenaries and none for the French army, what do you think the French army would make of that? In fact, we're not entirely unprepared. Many nobles and officers are in contact with us. If the king really planned any major move, he couldn't keep it from us. So while your performance does carry some risk, that risk is manageable. After all, I was the one who invited you. Even if you hadn't asked, I'd still have to see to your safety. So you can rest easy. There's some risk, but the chances of ending up in the Bastille are very small."

"We're not afraid of the Bastille, or even the guillotine," Armand said.

They talked a little more about the performance, then Armand and Saint-Just prepared to take their leave. Robespierre walked them to the door, then suddenly spoke again. "Ah, there's something I almost forgot. We have a club made up of good friends who want reform. I think our ideas are quite close. Would you be interested in joining?"

"What kind of club is it?" Saint-Just asked.

"The Brittany Club. It was originally a club for representatives from Brittany, but after the Estates-General convened, more people joined. They're all friends who support a constitutional government, so we're now considering changing the club's name to the Friends of the Constitution. What do you think? If you're interested, I can introduce you."

"Sounds good," Armand said. "I have another friend who's a fine fellow too. You may have heard of him. His surname is Bonaparte—Joseph Bonaparte. He's a scientific genius."

"I've heard of him," Robespierre said with a nod. "Though I can't understand his writings. Well, could you wait a moment? I'll go write him an invitation right away, and you can take it to him."

"Gladly," Armand said.

Robespierre went into his study to write the letter, while Armand and Saint-Just went into the sitting room and took seats on the sofa to wait.

"Armand, do you think Mr. Bonaparte would be willing to join this club?" Saint-Just asked.

"Don't worry. I know Joseph and I know his political views. In fact, you can tell from his... You know, a lot of the ideas in the Spartacus script came from him. He's definitely a progressive young man who supports constitutional government." Armand had nearly let slip that Joseph had written Slave War Song for him. Remembering Joseph's reaction when he'd given him the song, he had a faint sense that he'd done something foolish.

"I know that too," Saint-Just said. "But I've always felt that Mr. Bonaparte doesn't really want to get too involved in politics. He seems more inclined to focus on his studies. I have no doubt that Mr. Bonaparte loves constitutional government, but I think he may love science more."

"Damn! I hadn't thought of that." Armand shook his head, then added at once, "But it's only an invitation to a club. It shouldn't take up much of his time. If he's really busy, he can just choose not to take part."

As they spoke, Robespierre came out of his study and handed an envelope to Armand.

"I've written the invitation. I look forward to seeing this scientific genius at the club."

"Right, but Mr. Robespierre..." Armand hesitated.

"What is it, Mr. Lavoisier?" Robespierre asked.

"Joseph is busy with an important research project at the moment. It's taking up a great deal of his time," Armand said. "He may not be able to attend all the club's activities..." He trailed off awkwardly.

Robespierre froze for a moment, then laughed. "Ah, Mr. Lavoisier, that's no problem. It's only a club. No club expects all its members to show up every time. After all, everyone has their own affairs, don't they? So it's not a problem at all."

"If that's the case, then it should be fine," Armand said.

After leaving Robespierre's home, Armand glanced at the sky and said to Saint-Just, "Louis, Joseph lives nearby, just one street away. Judging by the time, he should be heading home soon. I think I'll go straight over and give him the invitation. Would you like to come with me?"

Saint-Just thought it over, then shook his head. "There isn't much time before the next performance. I'd better go back and get ready."

They parted at the street corner. Saint-Just got into a hired carriage and headed back to the troupe, while Armand set off on foot for Joseph's home.

When Armand knocked on Joseph's door, Joseph was having dinner with his two younger brothers. Generally speaking, when travelers from the Great Eater Nation of the East accidentally ended up in the West, they would cook Chinese food for themselves if they could, because most Western food tasted pretty awful to the food lovers of the Great Eater Nation. This was especially true for those unfortunate souls who landed in countries where the only food was potatoes, eggs, and sardines gazing skyward at a forty-five-degree angle, staring death in the face. Yet Joseph was eating an authentic Western meal: bread and roasted lamb chops. That was not only because he was lucky enough to have arrived in the Great Eater Nation of the West. The French were famous throughout the world for their food. It was also because, in this era, the ingredients needed for Chinese cooking were practically impossible to find in France. And Joseph was now a man of some standing. It would be improper for someone of his status to cook for himself. Besides, labor was cheap, so Joseph had hired a maid to help around the house.

In the Great Eater Nation of later generations, hiring a maid cost a pretty penny. A domestic helper's wages were well above the median income. But in France at this time, hiring a maid to run the household really didn't cost much.

"That smells wonderful. Roasted lamb chops, right? Joseph, you're living much better these days." As soon as Armand came in, he sniffed deeply a few times and smiled.

"Not too bad. Armand, what brings you here at this hour? Is something up?" Joseph asked.

"Ah, I came to deliver a letter—an invitation," Armand said.