#the directory

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.