The young Representative of Blérancourt strode through the halls of Revolutinary power, a somewhat enigmatic smile on his handsome face. The few women he passed offered him everything from appreciative looks to flirtatious winks -- he was only 25, after all, a figure of power, and one whose handsome profile and shoulder-length brown hair simply made the package that much more irrisistable. Antoine Saint- Just did not seem to even notice them. Antoine Saint-Just had much more important things on his
mind.
He'd only been in Paris a month or so, but already he'd made a name for himself. Truthfully, he'd made his name known in France the year before, when he'd written and published "Esprit de la Révolution et de la Constitution de France." The only thing that kept Blérancourt from sending him to Paris then was his age -- to serve as a Representative, he had to be 25 years old. Now, in 1792, he'd passed that landmark with only days to spare. And here he was. Working alongside Robespierre.
Antoine Saint-Just arrived at his destination and knocked on the door.
I sat in my office, just as I always have. Just as I always will. Why anyone decides to come bother me when Jean is not around, I will never understand.
These invalids of France need to understand one thing: I am a recluse.
Standing, I move over to the door and whip it open. My eye brows in the middle and my greying hair is not tied back. I must look wild.
Checking the looking glass, positioned just so I can see, I notice the young man I have sent for. Antoine. He's arrived.
Opening the door, I tell him to come in. No sense for small talk. No sense for greeting, it takes up too much effort. "Follow me." It was all I said and all I will say. He sought me out as much as I did him. There was work to get done.
Antoine nodded a greeting, already familiar with Robespierre's economy of words, and walked alongside him to wherever their destination happened to be. Maximilien's appearance was wilder than he was used to seeing, but it didn't give him pause. They all had important things on their minds.
"The English are grumbling again," he noted as they walked. "I am not convinced that our army is ready to defend our shores if they decide to declare war, nor our navy ready to stop them from blockading our ports. Too many of our officers are aristocrats themselves."
"Who's in charge of this?" I couldn't believe it. I sit behind public officials all day, whispering ideas into their dim minds for to complete these tasks.
I waste my breath.
"Who ever is in charge of this, fire them. You want the job?"
I was never a man to waste words or time. Antoine knew why he was coming here. And I knew why I needed him. Let's see if he lasts long enough to not see the blade meet his neck.
"I'll take it," he answered immediately. The very thought of the job was pleasing. He couldn't yet move against the most popular of the leaders of the military -- aristocrats who had pledged their loyalty to the Republic -- because they still enjoyed too much popular support. But Antoine knew they would slip and show their aristocratic loyalties at some point. It was only a matter of time.
"It will mean some upheaval in the ranks. When I am finished the ranks will be a meritocracy, the best weapon to defend the Republic."
I knew he would.
Nodding, I listened to him. He certainly could talk a good talk. That has never, and will never impress me and I planned on making that clear.
"Say what you like. Predict what you want. I am not interested in such things."
Young ambitious fool. Let's see if he can complete a simple chore.
"There is a man I want you to keep an eye on. He belongs to the Third Regiment group. Deputy Paul Déroulède. Go find him. Make a relationship or whatever you need to do. Observe him. Report back to me or better, to Jean."
"Oh, one last thing, if you ever breathe a word of my involvement, I will have your neck for treason. Take leave."
I turned away from him and sat down at my desk. As far as I was concerned, this conversation was over.
Antoine arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. So that was the way it was to be, was it? He wasn't used to being dealt with so coolly. Even his opponents back home had treated him with respect.
But this was not Blérancourt, and Robespierre was not some provincial. He'd accept the disrespect... for now.
With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and left. Now to find out what he could about Deputy Paul Déroulède.