Moonshine

It was always hardest during the early spring, when the pavements were flooded with the melted snow, trampled over with dirt, and the few misguided flowers would only emphasize the bleakness of the soot.

At least the nights were mostly spent in argument around the table that was groaning under the interminable pile of requests, demands, reports, complaints.

Twenty five million pairs of hands stretched at them, twenty five million mouths ready to devour them bite by bite, and they had every right, Saint-Just thought; we have claimed the responsibility for what became of their revolution, but one cannot help wishing that they had some compassion as well. Some patience, maybe even… a chance to be spared, for a while.

The days, without the grim companionship of the table, for what it was worth, and with the eternal concern that they were not doing enough sitting like a pit in the stomach, were worse.

Saint-Just kept digging his fingers into a spot right above his left eyebrow. It didn’t do much; the pain kept mounting in a familiar fashion, and the nausea wasn’t far away.

This was the second time this week alone. After the next few minutes the words became blotchy, with a faint shimmer around the page. The effort to focus was distracting to the point well past the usual irritation.

The pain wasn’t even the worst of it. There was this nebulous feeling, as if everything had suddenly become unreal, as if Saint-Just was looking through his own eyes and writing while moving his own fingers like the joints of a puppet on a string; as if his own memories belonged to someone else, someone who could rightfully carry his name, unlike this body of an impostor.

Most of the time Saint-Just had the presence of mind to remember that the feeling would go away. But the exhaustion had made it feel more final, somehow. Not stronger – Saint-Just could still function through the pain and even through the emptiness, he could still argue his points and give orders and keep writing until his hands cramped up. He just couldn’t really believe that it would ever end, this bleak spring that came too soon and without any real warmth.

He really was in no fit state to visit Maxime, but the decree wouldn’t wait.

It felt like an insurmountable number of steps, of courtesies, and of course Philippe would decide to hang around just on the day when Saint-Just could barely handle candlelight, much less the unbreakable gaiety. Which he knew he cherished and loved about Philippe. Theoretically. In the world where he could recognize himself in a mirror.

Saint-Just sat down for a moment on a discarded woodpile outside the Duplays and attempted to collect himself.

“I suppose it’s your turn,” someone mumbled, while Saint-Just was convincing his legs to move in spite of the cold.

The last resort of the desperate: a straight back, an even gait and an immaculately pressed jacket. It had worked in the armies well enough.

“Ah, well, if you refuse to pay attention, I could throw a snowball at you, you know, but – citizen? L-louis Antoine?”

It slowly dawned on Saint-Just that he was, apparently, expected to answer. Also, his backside was cold. Because he had slid down from the woodpile and was sitting in the snow.

He wasn’t quite sure how he ended up there, and the headache certainly did not help matters, and the very idea that he was supposed to talk to someone now, and then go on with the day, and there was just so much of the day left, not to mention the night that would follow, and then tomorrow was already looming on the horizon, bringing that dull ache in the body, the clenched teeth that accompany a morning when one needs to move by sheer willpower.

And then, more likely than not, another posting on a mission to some sodden, bloody battlefield where he would have to – stand up straight, coat perfectly pressed – work whatever miracle they were going to charge him with, and then come back. Always, come back.

A pair of distinctly concerned dark eyes coalesced somewhere in his blurry vision, slowly followed by the rest of the figure in a shabby coat.

“Up you go,” the man said, grabbing Saint-Just by the wrist and hauling him up without the least concern for manners, and also without any real strength.

This insufferable – Camille Desmoulins, which was the very definition of the word – had twigs for wrists. Wouldn’t even be able to aim anything heavier than a pistol. And now, he dared try dragging Saint-Just somewhere – granted, it was the direction in which he had been headed, but Desmoulins didn’t know it, meaning he was just being his usual arrogant self.

“Stop this,” Saint-Just had said, or thought he did anyway, but Desmoulins didn’t show the faintest recognition of it, and before he knew it he was being dragged up the familiar stairs, through the door and –

“You’re supposed to knock,” said Maximilien Robespierre.

“You’re supposed to take better care of your bloody Committee,” huffed Desmoulins. “I had a perfectly planned article with just enough sarcasm, but you can’t poke fun at anyone who’s halfway through being a ghost. I’ll send up some coffee.”

The warmth of the room made Saint-Just’s head throb even worse, though the persistent feeling of unreality had receded a little while listening to Desmoulins’s – insufferable, of course, – banter.

Maxime, gloriously, did not ask any questions, instead pushing Saint-Just into a chair and throwing an old coat over him.

In a moment, a wet nose at Saint-Just’s fingers signaled the presence of a very large, very warm dog who was apparently determined to lean against the chair regardless of whether it was occupied.

This was going all wrong. They were supposed to go through the draft of the new tax decree, he had it in his coat pocket...only, on second thought, it was probably still on the desk in his room.

Then, Saint-Just was going to leave, but first he would ask Elisabeth if Maxime was getting regular meals and if the barber was still visiting daily, because he knew that if he was no longer concerned about the state of his hair that was a more concerning sign than if he had just fainted straight at the podium; and of course he wouldn’t want to worry Eleonore with any questions.

“Camille sent up some coffee,” Maxime said, pushing a cup into Saint-Just’s hands. “There’s soup coming up. He told me to salt it, apparently it helps with the headaches. That’s what you have, right? A headache?”

Saint-Just could only nod, focusing on holding the cup without spilling the scalding liquid all over himself.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

The sound Maxime made at that might have been a very poor attempt at laughter.

“And, I’m afraid I have to go back now,” Saint-Just put down the coffee and tried to stand up, but what with his legs still continuing to stage a small rebellion on their own, and the dog getting in the way, he slipped and fell down right in front of the chair.

“I forgot the draft,” he tried to explain from the floor.

Maxime glared at him, stepped to the door to collect the soup and respond in a brusque tone to someone’s concerned voice, and walked over to Saint-Just, who confusedly thought that he was about to get a proper dressing down for being summarily useless.

Saint-Just took a deep breath and tried to compose his face. The headache was now compounded by a sharp pang of pain behind his eyes.

Maxime sat down into the chair and lifted the coat from the floor.

The market didn’t open until noon.

Everyone would be in bread lines until late morning anyway. They used to be almost a social occasion before the heavy snows began; the women would crack jokes, trade family stories and recipes, and as the hours grew longer, there was always gossip to fall on.

These days, everyone was too cold to waste their breath, too hungry to focus on anything but the next meal, and the grim calculation on how it would have to be shared between family members was not to be spoken.

There was never enough bread for more than half of the line anyway; the rest would have to try another baker, or search through the house for jewels, books; anything of value that hadn’t been sold yet, and then come straight to the market. The fortunate ones, now carrying a loaf under their arms, would be there too, picking the best meat for their soup.

“How much?” asked a man, picking up a sizable rat from the counter.

The vendor frowned.

The prices had remained the same for weeks; was this customer so recently down on his luck that he wouldn’t know them by heart?

An average rat ran at 50 centimes, up to 60 for an exceptionally fat one. That was on the higher end of the meat; after all, one could verify with their own eyes that there was no disease afflicting the creatures, which was not always the case with what was being hawked by other butchers.

“Sixty-five,” the vendor ventured after another glance.

In spite of being dirty and unkempt, and well out of fashion, the man’s clothes were made from fine wool, and the dark red jacket was barely stained. Add a hat to it, and he’d be looking much too fine for the business.

Perhaps this was why he was only wearing a piece of yellow cloth wrapped around his head. Or, judging from a nervous tick of scratching right under it, he might’ve been suffering from an affliction. Hopefully it was nothing catching.

“I’ll take it,” the man said without as much as a word of outrage, and paid with a coin that glittered pure gold, but was something that the vendor had last seen in his grandfather’s desk drawer.

But gold was gold, and the vendor still had a dozen rats to sell, before making enough to feed his own family; and his son, with that cough, sorely needed some honey in the hot water, and some medication, if he could get it, maybe with this gold coin on top of the usual proceeds… Oh, well, it would still take a few days.

Or perhaps – normally the vendor wasn’t in the habit of making small talk, not since he’d heard the news about his brother, about Sedan, but since there was no chance this man would ask him about his family anyway –

“That’s a nice glimmer and no mistake,” the vendor attempted his best smile. “Any more where that came from?”

The man, inexplicably, thoroughly examined his own pockets before responding.

“No, I’m afraid,” he sounded genuinely disappointed at the sudden lack of wealth. “Though; hm; you’re not even wearing a coat – is the trade keeping you warm?”

“I don’t catch my own rats, if that’s what you’re driving at. Got a half dozen boys working hard for it; they get the soup from my own Amélie in exchange, with bread when she makes it to the baker’s, and she usually does, given as she wakes up shortly after midnight,” – the vendor couldn’t quite keep the pride out of his voice. “And a coin or two, though that’s not worth much compared to a full belly.”

The man nodded with apparent satisfaction.

“Then why aren’t you wearing a coat? You’ll catch – hmm – you’ll catch your death.”

“Because,” the vendor took a deep breath; there really was nothing shameful about it, he told himself – “because it was a very good coat. English wool, you see. And my little boy, he’s been coughing for a fortnight. And – well, doctors charge enough, I suppose, to keep them on the good meat; no rats in their quarter. So –” he shrugged.

There was no pity in the man’s eyes, so dark green they were almost black, and clashing with the yellow headscarf. It made it easier to tell the story. But now the story was all told; only a few sentences, so insufficient to cover the grief, and the fear, and the love; oh well, it should’ve been enough to satisfy any curious customer, and especially one who wasn’t going to buy any more rats.

“Here,” the man said brusquely, shrugging off his coat. “It will at least keep you warm. And if you clean it – to be fair, not that I ever bothered – well, see what you can get for it, these days.”

“And you? You’ll freeze to death out there.”

The coat, of course, was a generous gift, and sorely needed; but damned if the vendor was going to accept it at the expense of this stranger freezing to death.

“Me? I’m too hard to kill. Also, try some dried herbs, for the cough. Linden, thyme, calendula if you get any…”

“Are you a medical man yourself?”

“It’s been many years since I was one,” the man mumbled as he turned around.

The snowfall has been steadily building up during their conversation, and when the vendor, silently thanking the man for his new coat, tried to follow him with his eyes, he had to keep blinking to get rid of the snowflakes.

The blinding snow was surely the reason why for a moment the vendor thought that the man suddenly stooped to put the rat down on the street and watch it scurry away into a sewer.

The rat was, obviously, dead; it must’ve been the wind or something; the vendor shook his head to dispel the illusion.

When he looked again, the man wasn’t there anymore.

“Are you going home? Nobody’s coming to the market in this snowstorm,” shouted a tall, redheaded man from the nearby stall; he specialized in brandy and never lacked for customers. “Whoa there – where did you get this coat? Robbed a mansion or something?”

“Weren’t you looking? This man gave it to me!”

“What man?”

“The one with the yellow wrap around the head! Bought a rat, no haggling even, and left me the coat too. Will probably be dead before the evening, in this cold.”

“I haven’t seen anyone like that – nor, for that matter, anyone at all. Not since this morning. It’s the weather, I suppose, everyone’s waiting for the storm to pass.”

The vendor stuck his freezing fingers into the pockets of his new coat, to warm them up before he had to pack up the stall with all the rats, which were now destined for his own family’s dinner. He felt something crinkle.

When he took out the piece of paper, he could barely make out the letters, printed in cheap ink, faded and brown.

Ten days, and the shelling goes on.

It’s deafening, they say, what were you saying, can you repeat it?

It’s worse for the commander; how does one make sure that the orders can still be heard, is there a loudspeaker?

The dead are not that numerous, not yet; the supplies are coming in. The rest of the Republic stands unbroken, the stone walls are thick enough, they can last a while. After all, this fortress hasn’t been taken in well over a hundred years, and even then only for a short time, until the first victory of the newly revolutionary France.

-

One month, and the shelling goes on.

The sick, they have it easier, they say sometimes. They can just be evacuated; or lie here and wait for the broken bones to heal.

It helps to focus on the pain, to forget the noise, which has turned into a low, persistent hum, until the hands cannot stop from shaking, until it rings through the dreams.

This is when the stories begin.

The soldiers would deny it – they’d say that their stories have been flying around for a while; since the declaration of the war, since the first battle and the first casualty; stories are essential for survival.

But these tales are new.

Have you seen him, they say, in the outer courtyard, at night? He’s bound to pass by, you’ll notice the hat if nothing else.

-

Three months, and the shelling goes on.

The battles of this new war are counted in months, not days, not even bodies, and none of the soldiers could explain what, exactly, they are fighting for.

In the end, each one is fighting for the man right next to him; for the fortress that by now has become a home and a symbol both.

Stories are essential for victory; not only for the one on the field, but for the one that is achieved by coming back, by being ableto come back.

When the soldiers begin to lose hope, this is when he stops by.

They all have seen him at least once by now, though he prefers the guardpost, that one under the broken column in the courtyard, closest to the shelling, and he is always gone by morning.

A blue jacket, high boots, a tricolor sash around the waist, an absurdly tall hat, and a penchant for incessant speeches that somehow makes it easier to breathe.

Remember – you can change the world; it is people like you who already have; and you will have a chance at it, again, if you keep fighting. If you make it through. If you do not give up.

He speaks of victory, sometimes; of discipline, of determination, and his chestnut curls fall on his shoulders, and gold glitters in his ears.

-

Six months, and the shelling goes on.

They still have food. They still have ammunition. The walls have not crumbled. The spirits – it is better not to ask. Too many have given all they could, and have remained standing anyway.

Stories are essential for memory; and memory, in this bleak landscape, torn apart by the artillery barrages, memory of green fields and of cafes, memory of laughter and dancing and speeches in the gardens, memory is the most precious treasure the defenders have left.

The commander does not chide his men. He does not rebuke childish fairytales or ghost stories. He remembers the angels of Mons, and speaks of the angel of the Terror, of the representative on a mission who took a ragged, disjointed army, and led it to a victory at Valmy, after Verdun had been taken and everyone thought the war had been lost.

The commander starts to give speeches, again; he talks about history, and even in the noise and the rain, the defenders stand up straighter, their shoulders set.

-

Nine months, and the shelling goes on.

By now the apparition walks the corridors even in daylight; the daze from the endless cannonade has blurred the minds, has softened the edges and the corners.

The rations are becoming, if not thinner, decidedly more simple; they say that France is tightening its belt to feed the defenders of Verdun; and the young representative on a mission, if their commander was right about his title, stops speaking of fury, and start speaking of hope.

On ne passe pas, it is written on the walls, in the hallways, carved into rock, scratched into dirt. They shall not pass.

Who wrote it? Who was looking over the shoulders of the guard, when he scraped the stone with his bayonet?

They shall not pass, in the snow, and there are no snowflakes on the blue jacket with a cocarde on the chest, and the face is chiseled in ice.

If you remain standing, you will have a victory, but it will be a bitter one, he says. The battle will be won by your courage. The true war, it will begin for you afterwards. Do not give up hope.

-

Three hundred days, and the shelling goes on.

It is the second winter now, and sometimes, if one looks straight at the sky, at the snowflakes twirling in the air, black specks on white, one could almost remember what it used to be like, to be able to call something beautiful.

Do not give up hope, they whisper, their ears deaf from the endless bombardment, and a clear low voice echoes it back at them.

-

Three hundred and three days, and the shelling is over.

The room was well lit, and the window cracked open just enough to help get rid of the chemical smell, though it did let in an occasional gust of snow from the street.

In front of the window, a man was attempting to pace a groove into the carpet.

“I swear you haven’t changed since you were ten and hiding books under the covers when you were told to lie very still and not to aggravate your fever,” he grumbled.

“What does a fever count when you have books?”

The voice coming from the sickbed attempted playfulness. The other man was decidedly not having any of it.

“Please, Maxime,” he said as sternly as he could, betrayed by his own voice cracking over the last syllable. “Have some more chamomile. The doctor ordered...well, I’ve never seen anyone order absolute peace and quiet in such an angry tone. If you ever run out of generals at the Rhine, you may consider him as a replacement.”

“Speaking of which – Augustin, can you please give me that letter?”

Augustin rolled his eyes.

“Are you strong enough? I am sure the letter can wait.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it cannot! It is from the Rhine.”

“You mean, from citoyen Saint-Just?”

“Who else would possibly send me a report from the Rhine?”

Augustin picked up the letter and held it just out of reach, with a smile that quickly turned into a grimace of worry.

“Well, one would imagine, since it takes more than two days for the post each way, one could allow a little time to rest before responding to the missive. But, I see. And more importantly, you don’t see anything without your glasses and with your eyes all blurry from the fever. And even more importantly, I know that you won’t stop bothering me and aggravating your chest if you don’t get to hear what Saint-Just has to say to you, apparently, right at this moment. Stop squirming, I’ll read it to you.”

Dear Maxime,

I arrived safely. Only the supplies have been interrupted; the troops have courage, are ready to march, I write with pride; because they know you support them.

Will attack tomorrow. Never fear! I understand your concern; it is addressed. I will not miss my chance.

You inspire them Maxime, in resolution and in conviction. I do not worry for myself; for the republic - you will lead it until it is avenged in cold heart and without unnecessary carnage. You were right – here it is, what we still can count on. I refuse to say – the soldiers; only, the men that will bring you victory, that are ready, unbreakable in their lines; my pride, my heart, my army.

Yours in victory,

Antoine Saint-Just

“Ah, that is good… Augustin? What is it?”

“Holy… I don’t even know what is holy enough for this. What is this?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The letter!”

“It seems the troops are doing well?” Maxime was becoming increasingly confused.

“What troops?”

“At the Rhine? Under Saint-Just’s command?”

“The letter! His letter! If you read every third word of it – oh, never mind. Could I send a quick note back, saying that you’re sick?”

“Just send him some encouragement, please. It would not do to worry the representative.”

Maxime leaned back into his pillows with a peaceful smile, beginning to doze.

Meanwhile, Augustin sat down at Maxime’s table and carefully copied Saint-Just’s letter, emphasizing every third word.

Dear Maxime,

I arrived safely. Only the supplies have been interrupted; the troops have courage, are ready to march, I write with pride; because they know you support them.

Will attack tomorrow. Never fear! I understand your concern; it is addressed. I will not miss my chance.

You inspire them Maxime, in resolution and in conviction. I do not worry for myself; for the republic - you will lead it until it is avenged in cold heart and without unnecessary carnage. You were right – here it is, what we still can count on. I refuse to say – the soldiers; only, the men that will bring you victory, that are ready, unbreakable in their lines; my pride, my heart, my army.

Yours in victory,

Antoine Saint-Just

Augustin re-wrote it once more, but only the underlined words this time.

I only have the courage to write because you will never understand it. I miss you Maxime, and I worry for you. It is cold without you here. What can I say – only, that you are in my heart,

Yours,

Antoine

“Does he think he is the only one who has ever read romances?” Augustin grumbled. “Well, I suppose, he must feel safe with Maxime; but this is really too easy a trick.”

---

Three days later, the door flew open, letting in a snow-caked feather, followed by a hat with a tricolor band and a soaking wet coat.

“Maxime,” puffed out the apparition, kneeling at the bed. “Are you -”

“He is much better, thank you. For not asking me. Nor noticing me at all.”

Augustin gathered his books and walked out the door with supreme nonchalance, idly whistling a tune.

When the newcomer continued to ignore him, fiercely whispering something in the vicinity of the pillow instead, Augustin peeked back in.

“You know, you could at least thank me for sending that letter,” he shouted before kicking the door closed.

“What letter? Antoine, what is he talking about?” Maxime asked.

“Your letter, the one that brought me here, you said -”

“I said what?”

Antoine stuck his hand into his coat and pulled out a grubby piece of paper.

“Here, you said -

My dear Antoine,

Tell them, I am proud; Now the soldiers understand that which I call revolutionary love and determination. You will win. Return in victory, to celebrate with me.

Salut & fraternité,

Maxime"

“Yes, well, Augustin did write it for me, but I read it before he sent it out. I am glad that you have returned, though why in such a rush? Is now the time to celebrate?”

“Why – oh, you insufferable, incorruptible… I love you too, as you very well know.”

Maxime suddenly sprang up, bedcovers falling aside.

“How did you – how did you guess that I -”

“What do you mean guess? You wrote to me. Or...is that not true anymore?”

The most expedient manner to respond seemed to be one without words.

After a while they had to separate for breath, and Maxime still was not done questioning.

“I wrote to you?”

“Yes, in the cipher.”

“What cipher?”

“What do you mean what cipher? Every third word. The same as I used myself. Here, I will read it for you.”

Antoine,

I now understand. I love you. Return to me.

Maxime

“Oh, that is… Augustin! Augustin! Come back here this instant! I can’t believe -”

Antoine looked so concerned at the tone that Maxime had to pull him back into his arms.

“I suppose, I can’t be too angry at him… though he really should not write someone else’s letters.”

“You did read it before he sent it out.”

“I did. So – your letters. Would you like to tell me exactly what I have missed?”

He is always the last to leave.

The table is covered with papers.

They do not have assigned seats here, and all their dispatches and orders and hastily penned pardons are scattered around; some of them haven’t been touched in weeks.

He had once scorned Collot for leaving a letter unanswered for two whole days. Such idleness, such lack of consideration for their Republic.

Letters upon letters, signatures upon signatures; his pen pressing down hard on the C and his armies rising, at first in imagination alone, quickly turned into an avalanche of summons and laws and calculations, fortifications and troops and cannons; and new generals sprouting from the mud as if he’d walked the countryside sowing dragon’s teeth.

But there was no time for flights of fancy, no time for hope, no time at all, as he would get up and pace around the table when he felt that sleep was about to overtake him; as he would crash back into his seat, finish another decree, sign: Carnot.

The giddiness of sleepless nights spent in total certainty that he was doing all he could. Carnot didn’t think of it then; he thought only of the battles, the munitions, the pesky social reforms that were nothing but a gnawing distraction, as he was ready to tell anyone, and often did. He thought only of the war, and that was sufficient.

The war remains his charge.

But the city is starving, and there is nobody to catalogue the imports and harangue the merchants.

But the soldiers in Carnot’s new armies are cold and disheartened and mistreated by officers, and there are no representatives on mission to be sent to the frontlines.

But what was supposed to be the government of order and of stability has sunk the country into despair, and there are no pamphlets full of words that burn, words that bite, words that somehow bring hope amidst the rage and indignation. There are no speeches at the podium that would ring in the streets for weeks to come.

This defeat is worse than any battlefield, and the former organizer of victory cannot even make it a glorious one.

There is a mirror near the door; one of these old gilded ones. It is turned at an angle to show the table. The room is decorated in wooden panels and inspirational pastels, not a glimpse of green cloth in sight.

Before leaving the room, Carnot stops in front of it, squints a little and looks through the glass, until his eyes begin to water and his reflection blurs.

He can almost see the green.

He can almost see the figures at the table behind him.

Prieur, waiting patiently with another report on the munitions; Carnot had never imagined that wars would be won on melted church bells.

Barrère, once again trying to calm down an argument in the corner, until Lindet stands up and throws his report on the table, demanding they all signed it right this instant.

Saint-Just, marching towards the table, his eyes blazing, as if their Committee were a recalcitrant battalion on the Rhine instead of the architects of their new, wobbly, breathtaking republic.

Earlier today Carnot had lashed out at Barras, cursed him, called him a dictator. Barras only laughed.

Carnot remembers when he had thrown similar accusations in Saint-Just’s face, and the fiery response that had followed; they would’ve come to blows if not for the rest of the Committee rising to separate them.

It does not bear thinking of what Carnot would give for that argument to happen again. What he would give for the fury that had coursed through their veins at the slightest insinuation that their republic was being threatened, was in danger, was not treated right.

His fellow Directors, they do not even talk about the republic outside of social occasions. Their vengeance has been painful, and long, and still somehow perfunctory, as if they couldn’t quite be bothered to care.

Carnot is there to wage war, and he is doing his duty. Better him than someone like Fouché, after all. It is a noble choice, to remain at the helm.

Only there is no sinking ship, and no last stand for the likes of him.

He blinks out the tears and looks into the mirror again.

Here they are, still seated at he table, passing the sheets around, voting, arguing, as a lantern shines through the window, and vendors push their carts full of morning papers; soon the calls will ring loud enough to be heard in the room. Here they are, gritting their teeth and straightening their backs against the weight of their responsibility. And at the end of the table, Robespierre adjusts his glasses and looks straight ahead, straight at him. Carnot steps closer, pressing his fingertips to the icy surface.

It is only a mirror. All it shows is Carnot’s own reflection.

His body crumples, and he falls to his knees upon the threadbare, dirty carpet and doubles over, trying to be quiet, trying to stifle the burning in his chest.

They are gone. He’d cursed them for their ambitions, he’d called them useless, impractical, pretending to build their republic out of words when it needed armies and cannonballs and trade and harbors; he’d denounced them as hungry for power, accused them of crippling liberty in the name of safety; such men should be gone, he'd thought, and better ones should replace them.

Now these men are gone, and others have replaced them.

And Carnot is in power still. And he realizes just how much his republic has been running on words.

Maximilien, he whispers, stepping close to the mirror, his eyes shut tight. Maximilien, I -

He does not finish the sentence.

There is nothing to say.

Carnot is a minister of war, it is not his responsibility to run the entire republic, which may not last anyway; that young general whom Carnot himself had elevated to power may take care of that soon.

He passes by the cemetery on the way home.

Dormir, enfin it is written above the gates. To sleep, at last.

Perhaps it would’ve been better – but no, Sophie is waiting, and Carnot has promised his sons to build a trebuchet in the yard together; time for them to learn basic mechanics. His life does not belong to him alone.

(And neither did the lives cut short at Thermidor. Neither did they.)

The following day, Carnot stands up and walks to the mirror in the middle of the argument.

They are talking about ignoring the next vote, if it could not be skewed, if it could not be bought.

The silver is dull grey in the eternal twilight of their room, and there is a spiderweb in the corner.

Carnot focuses on the mirror, trying to look through it, to see the familiar table and eleven seats around it in addition to his own.

Perhaps this time, Robespierre would step closer. Oh, Carnot had always mocked his incongruous focus on virtue, as if anyone had time for it in the middle of a war, but perhaps Robespierre could look at him again ­and then –

The mirror shows nothing.

“The lighter green, perhaps? You may pay in installments, if you wish. The new batch will be ready in a week. For a room three meters and a half high, this will be…”

The calculations are simple. Height, width, cost per meter squared. The comments on the style are best left for the apprentices. The deal on his wallpaper is always good, and he lets the customers pay over the course of the year, doesn’t even charge extra.

He makes enough as is, and his needs are few.

The best quality in a vendor is the ability to listen. It suits him well enough. He speaks little, and only about his trade; it’s as if the rest of the vocabulary has been erased from his mind.

So many words for all the types of bullets and barrels and cannonballs; lists painstakingly detailed, and lists rattled off in a hurry; over and over; size, weight, material, cost, always cost; will they be shipped, collected, restocked, manufactured?; needed? always needed; always too urgently; always on the brink of a crushing defeat, a glorious victory on the other side, and so many times only a single hastily scribbled order in between. So many calculations, in the margins.

He cuts himself off, asks the customer to finish her story instead, nods appreciatively.

His mind is a clear grey of a foggy sky above the city. No stifling orange of the summer sunset in Paris and no rosy dawn in the haze of stumbling home after another night at the Committee.

Listening comes easy, and for his customers there is always more news to dissect, there is always another gory detail to comment on. The legend gains another head, like a hydra far beyond the powers of a single Hercules.

“Remember what it was like in the days before the King; even before the Emperor?” they say.

“Remember the tyrants; the butchers; the thousands guillotined, and did you hear that he made a shrine to himself?”

“Do you know how many death warrants they had signed?”

“Robespierre would’ve crowned himself if he could.”

“It was Saint-Just who was the snake in the garden that had turned everyone to murdering their opponents!”

“Oh but that Couthon cut a menacing figure, pure hatred in the chair; and the rest, well, the rest no better than them – though what were the names again?”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. Did you know what they ordered to do in Lyon?..”

The number of victims grows in the telling. The time and place may be confused, but it is always so in legends; the myths of the Greeks may have contradicted themselves too, though he isn’t sure.

(Carnot would know; but that thought needs to be banished. There is a letter from Carnot, still on his table.)

What are the words worth, of a man against a legend?

Sometimes the customers come in for warmth and company alone.

Rumors travel fast, and the vendor has gained a reputation as a quiet man, one who casts no judgment and is good at keeping secrets.

Sometimes the legends are of another sort.

“The men were giants,” they say. “They were martyrs, too perfect for this world; only they did not go far enough, soon there will be another revolution in their name; and, M. Prieur, isn’t it true that you?.. Weren’t you?..”

He offers them some wine in response. The wine is well heated and spiced to guard against the damp of the winter.

He asks them about their lives.

It is only in very rare cases when he truly falls silent. After all, the customers of a wallpaper merchant are unlikely to discuss the logistics behind raising an army.

He can feel the winter in his bones more and more in each passing year.

The summons are straightforward enough, and the duty is clear; and quite possibly there is no one better to take up the old mantle of – well, if Carnot was the organizer of victory, in moments of vanity he used to think that he could be called its engineer.

But Carnot needs the golden-haired prodigy of a dizzying maelstrom of their new republic; not a middle-aged, prematurely grey bachelor comfortably installed in the provinces.

And the letter will remain unanswered.

He finds it the hardest to get through his days at the end of the year. The slush, the howling wind, the darkness falling earlier and earlier.

Back then, nobody could spare a thought for the season, except for the need for winter uniforms and more horses to haul the cannons through the mud.

It really doesn’t help that his birthday is the longest night of the year. This time, he lets it slip to a customer, and is surprised when all his most loyal clients come to his house with a full dinner that same evening, and more than a few bottles of wine.

Occasionally, the talk turns to the news from Paris; to the hope after the glorious days of July; to the new king, who will undoubtedly –

he lets the words pass him by.

He listens, and thanks them for their attention to an old man who is growing older, and shakes off their assurances that surely he isn’t that old yet; why, he’d be young enough to marry too, if he only wished to do so.

They used to make these jokes, around the table. Married to the Republic, they said; only one Republic, and so many husbands, starting with Robespierre; and that absurd Desmoulins with more lovers than coins in his pocket; and don’t even start about some of the others.

Some of their jokes had found their way into the legends too; though not about him. Never about him.

In the end, the answer is too complicated to be put in words; and love does not make the half of it. Anyone who would love him would have to love both who he is and who he was, and who he was – it can be put in words, perhaps, but all his words had been written out on the endless pile of papers on the table in a lamplit room in the Tuilleries, and they cannot be found again.

So he raises a toast to all the families of his guests instead, and the wine continues to flow.

It is long after midnight when the last of the guests leaves.

The hour does not bother him; his habits had remained nocturnal, even though it would be so much more convenient to be an early riser, like his neighbors and most of his clients.

He sits at the window and pours himself another glass.

Happy birthday, he thinks.

Two birthdays at once, at the turn of the month; a cause for a toast amidst all the paperwork; and he could’ve hated Couthon for that damned kindness in the emphasis that he was not the only one to be celebrated.

He doesn’t realize he has been speaking out loud until he feels the dryness in his throat, and lifts his glass again.

“You’ve made us into legends,” he says after draining it, “you all have made us into nothing but legends, no matter whether the legends are dark or fair.

“But it wasn’t like that at all. It was – it was both more prosaic, and more heroic too, all at once.

“You’ve missed the one windowpane that somehow never got repaired, so whoever sat closest to it was always complaining of a draught in winter; you’ve missed how Collot once had to leave early because the cheese he’d eaten for lunch did not agree with him at all; you’ve missed how Lindet had ordered coffee to be brought in when the night was so cold that we could barely form a coherent proposal, as if all our words had frozen in our mouths; you’ve missed how I’d made fun of Saint-Just’s chicken scratch of the handwriting, and in turn got mercilessly mocked for misplacing a zero and almost sending our entire supply of rifles to a single battalion; you’ve missed Carnot ordering everyone to sleep straight on the benches, and all of us, for some reason, obeying in an instant – probably because we were too exhausted to think of how damned uncomfortable those benches were; you’ve missed how Couthon used to twist one of his wheelchair knobs every time he was worried, making this insufferable faint squeak; and how relieved we were to finally be done with that sound after Saint-Just had gotten back from yet another breakneck assignment.

“You’ve missed the people. All of them – who lived, and fought, and joked around, and complained, and gave until they no longer could, and didn't stop even then; and lost it all, in the end. All of us.”

The monologue gets no response. He lives alone, after all.

He pours another glass, and sets it on the windowsill, still full.

“Happy birthday,” he says, into the night.

Suddenly, every light in the house bursts into flame. Every oil lamp and every sconce and even the single chandelier above his dining table, still covered in the remains of the dinner.

The window is no longer dark. In the light of the reflection, he is not alone.

He does not turn around.

“Happy birthday to you too,” the apparition whispers rolling his chair closer.

“And long live the Revolution.”

The reflection of a dead man keeps twisting the knob on the right handle of his chair, making the familiar squeaking noise.

“How dare you say it!” he yells at the window.

He’d turn around, except that he doesn’t know if he could bear seeing nothing but his empty room, candlelit or not.

“The revolution is gone! Yes, they talk about – oh, who cares, we all. Have. Failed. As you should know.”

“As I should. But you only need to look, –” the image of Couthon smiles in the candlelight, and comes even closer, stretching out his hand –

When he wakes up, the morning light is streaming through the window.

Damn the wine, he thinks. Makes one remember, and then there’s one step to madness.

Except that every candle in the house has burned out, and every lamp is emptied of oil. Even the chandelier, which he hadn’t even bothered to light for the guests, who were content with the candles on the table.

He goes back to the window.

You only need to look.

His first customer of the day will show up soon; he has bought a new house and needs the wallpaper for the bedroom; he is a serious man, a lawyer, and has been thinking about a career in municipal government too; his knowledge of the codes is exemplary, and he occasionally makes a speech at one of the clubs, or writes an opinion piece in a newspaper; and if he stands in the next election, he has a good chance at winning.

Only that thirty years ago, the station of his parents would’ve prevented him from this career, no matter the ability.

Only that he would’ve been happy to learn to read, instead of going to the public school.

Only that the cases the young lawyer takes up are judged based on the same laws for every plaintiff, the same laws from here to Marseilles.

Only that there are clubs and newspapers, and they accept opinions.

Only that there is an election to stand for.

Only that – and it is so little, in consideration, but it gives him a small burst of happiness – only that he will buy the wallpaper in meters squared.

It’s another legend, he thinks. The defeat; the failure, the loss of everything they had stood for. And legends have no place for the people.

This one hall must be worth more than his mother’s entire house. The marble alone – Saint-Just catches this passing thought and holds it close, presses it to himself.

He keeps his eyes trained on the half-columns. They are entirely decorative, marble carefully polished to reveal the veins, covered in a gold pattern that is a poor imitation of a Corinthian capital.

Pale grey and cherry red.

Do not look down; don’t let them see anything but the cold disdain that they deserve.

The blood must’ve seeped into the wood deep enough that they’ll have to cut it apart to remove the stains.

Saint-Just stands up straighter. His cravat has been readjusted by the soldiers, his head is held high, his shoulders are thrown backwards in a mockery of a parade stance, but is it truly a mockery? So many times he had felt that he might be going to his death in the morning, had relished the feeling of a tiny flame in his chest, as he spoke to the soldiers; and now he knows that death awaits, and his throat cannot form a single sound.

His hands are tied in front of him. He would’ve asked, too; he would’ve debased himself enough to ask the guards to fix the ropes, but that was not necessary. If he stands at the table, there is just enough distance for his fingers to slip between Maxime’s.

And he does not look down.

Maxime’s breathing is labored, his face has a grey tint, his eyes are closed, the kerchief tied around his jaw is dark red with blood.

Pale grey and cherry red, and the pain does not bear thinking about.

The soldiers had taken one look at Maxime and decided not to bother with the restraints. But they did refuse him pen and paper, and for that they should die twice over.

There’s nothing of the sort to be found in this room. There is only marble and gold, a few dainty pieces of wooden furniture, carved in flowers and flags and Phrygian hats to commemorate their Revolution.

The revolution that had happened in another life, before the mud and the snow and the armies, before the flour shortages and the treacherous dealings and the exhaustion twisting his insides; before the rush through the days that in the end had crashed upon each other and plummeted into the treacle slowness of this night.

The guards are gathered around another table, one pushed close to the door. They are playing dice and drinking wine, and their muttered complaints threaten to pierce the silence that Saint-Just had so diligently woven around himself.

Saint-Just turns his head away from them and finds himself staring straight at an old, gilded mirror, reflecting the faint candlelight in the room.

A soldier curses, evidently having lost his bet, and all the lights go out.

It takes a while to close the door that has been blown open by the wind, even longer to painstakingly relight every candle.

The guards move their table even closer to the door, supposedly to prevent any rescue missions under the cover of night, or so Saint-Just is barely able to hear, and take out their cards, as a change from the dice. The game begins again.

Saint-Just notices a feeble press on his fingers and looks down at Maxime.

His eyes are halfway open, and it looks like he is fighting with everything he has to push himself back to consciousness.

Same old Maxime. So many times Saint-Just has watched Maxime do just that, and brought him herbal concoctions, and coaxed food into him, as he kept pushing himself to work through his headaches, as if he could make the world bend around him by sheer force of will.

And he did. Time after time, until it was not sufficient, until nothing was sufficient anymore.

Saint-Just’s throat tightens. He takes a deep breath, swallows hard, and feels a faint touch at the back of his hand.

He is soothing me, Saint-Just thinks, and it feels so monstrously, painfully unfair, that he cannot keep looking directly at Maxime anymore, so he raises his head again, and, for lack of better options, looks back at the mirror across the room.

The reflection shows his own figure, tall and straight, without a scratch on his coat or a blemish on his face, standing next to that disgustingly ornate table. He can see Maxime lying on top of it, turned slightly on his left side, away from the guards. He can see their fingers, intertwined.

And as Saint-Just watches, another handful of figures slowly coalesce into the foggy silver. They are standing on the other side of the table.

Except that all the guards are away at the door, immersed in their game, and Saint-Just is certain that there is nobody else in the room.

Only he doesn’t turn around to check, because he can recognize the apparitions, and he’d be willing to admit that he has finally succumbed to insanity caused by shock and grief, except that Maxime, apparently, can see them too.

Maxime’s fingers are tightening painfully around Saint-Just's own, when the man on the left of him in the mirror lifts his head and tries to speak through the tears running down his cheeks.

Desmoulins. His dark hair is disheveled and overly long, as if it hadn’t only recently been chopped off to make space for the blade. His lips are moving with hurried emphasis. Saint-Just could almost hear the stuttered words, and has to fight to prevent his own lips from quivering in response.

For all that the sentence of Camille Desmoulins was more than deserved, Saint-Just suddenly feels understood, and he hates himself for how fervently he suddenly misses the life before – just, before. A year ago, no; at least thirteen months ago. Before Desmoulins, before the Brissotins, and before Marat too.

The same Marat, who abruptly pushes himself ahead from somewhere in the back of the small crowd, leans right against the mirror, shakes his head at Desmoulins, points straight at Saint-Just with his right hand and whips out a knife with his left from some obscure pocket of his tattered clothes. He lunges forward, attempting to push the knife through, straight into the room with the guards, and perhaps, if Saint-Just was quick enough?...

For a moment the entire reflection shudders, as if it were painted on water, a wave breaking against the shore, and then Desmoulins is dragging Marat away from the mirror, and the reflection stabilizes again.

Saint-Just nods at Marat and wishes he could give a military salute. Damned if his heart isn’t feeling lighter already. Damned if he isn’t glad to see Marat alive – well, not exactly alive, but fully himself in spite of such minor inconveniences as having been killed; and not in the slightest a martyr that they had made out of him; but then, David had been so desperate...

He doesn’t need to look at the table to understand that his feeling is shared by Maxime.

Desmoulins finally pulls himself together, runs his fingers through his hair, and determinedly strides to where Maxime’s body is reflected in the mirror. He puts his left hand down and frowns, with no sign of tears on his face anymore.

There is a commotion right behind Desmoulins, and Saint-Just can see a familiar figure of Danton in the mirror, pushing through the haze that has steadily been growing thicker.

Desmoulins doesn’t seem to notice. He grits his teeth and puts his hand straight onto Maxime’s cheek – this must hurt, Saint-Just almost lets out an indignant yell, remembering only at the last moment that it isn’t real, that it is only a reflection –

and he can sense Maxime’s whole body relax, his hand press at his fingers with a renewed vigor.

Maxime is looking at the mirror too.

That blighted Desmoulins, his eyes now completely dry, has bitten his bottom lip bloody, and is trying to crack a smile with what looks like an effort that is draining him of all his strength.

He is looking straight down, straight at Maxime, and his body shimmers, becoming more ghostlike than before – though they all must be ghosts anyway, Saint-Just will be one too before the evening. He briefly contemplates the idea and decides that he’d better not end up confined to a single mirror.

Desmoulins raises his head and stares straight at Saint-Just again, his dark eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

He raises his right hand, his left still held at Maxime’s cheek.

Suddenly Maxime moves, a minuscule twitch that sends sparks down Saint-Just’s body. He squeezes Saint-Just’s fingers as if startled.

Saint-Just is baffled. Just this moment nothing appears to have changed either in the actual room or in its reflection. The guards, as far as he can tell from the part of the corner that is reflected in the mirror, have brought in another bottle of wine, and are well on their way to finishing it.

And then Desmoulins smiles, and Saint-Just’s heart breaks before he understands the reason for it.

Desmoulins begins tracing letters with his fingers, straight onto the mirror.

There is an old, heavy signet ring on his index finger, and Saint-Just wonders where it has come from; he cannot remember seeing it when Desmoulins was alive.

At first the signs are gibberish; then Desmoulins shakes his head and apparently realizes that he has been writing in the mirror, so all the letters have to be reversed. Now he is rushing to finish, the fog in the reflection rising.

At least Maxime is breathing lightly, and is fully alert now, his eyes meeting Saint-Just’s in the mirror before they both look at Desmoulins’ hand again.

You have my heart, they read, and there is no need for explanation, for who the addressee is.

And then, with a direct look at Saint-Just, that black gaze that threatens to scorch Saint-Just’s heart to embers and coal, not all is lost.

Has he been listening? And – it is, they have lost –

...Courage, Desmoulins writes next, or something that ends with it, Saint-Just hasn't been able to see all that well, Desmoulins' hand is fading together with the letters, nothing but a shade of imagination by now, and Saint-Just can see Danton behind Desmoulins, can see him through Desmoulins, can almost hear him shout – you fool! Sound does not carry through the mirror, but Danton’s lips are easy enough to read, he had always been prone to overly enunciating his words.

Camille, Saint-Just wants to say, but he knows that nobody can hear him. Camille.

Saint-Just looks down at Maxime, at the peace in the green eyes, now filled with tears, which comes with such a shock of relief that his knees buckle and he has to focus to remain upright.

For a while, there is no need for words.

When Saint-Just raises his eyes back to the mirror, it only shows the reflection of their room.

He catches Maxime’s eyes once again, and feels his fingers twitching against his palm, and looks down to notice that they have begun tracing letters on the top of the table.