The Fall of Robespierre

A Story by vigor

a stylized, inaccurate depiction of the collapse of the french revolution. light. silly.

Max sipped quietly on a cup of warm tea as he gazed wistfully out of his second-story window. "There's fighting in the streets, Henri," he murmured, speaking more to his tea than to the butler.

"Yes, sir," the butler said. Max held out his arm, cup in hand; the butler slowly refilled it. "Anything else, sir?"

Max didn't answer, nor did he move his eyes from the street scene. At last he turned and spoke. "You're a good man, Henri."

The butler bowed deeply. "Thank you, sir."

"What do you think of all this?" Max turned back to the window.

The butler paused. "Sir," he began, "if I may be frank – "

"You know you can always be frank with me."

"Yes, of course." Another pause. "Sir, the revolution has turned on itself."

Max's eyes widened and jaw clenched in anger. His face was towards the window, and the butler didn't notice these alarming changes in Max's countenance. "Why do you say that?" inquired Max, in a cool, even voice.

"They've been down there fighting for the past few weeks, sir," the butler continued. "Hundreds are being guillotined daily. And it's not even the aristocracy we're hurting anymore, we've killed them all – "

"And good riddance, too!"

" – we're killing off the third estate now, sir. We're sucking away France's lifeblood. A man cannot go out into the streets today without fearing for his life."

"Only a traitor has need to fear the swift execution of justice!"

The butler paused. "Sir, I am but a humble butler, and surely there is no need to hear any more of my foolish utterances."

"No, go on," said Max coolly, but the butler could see his fist clenched around the arm of his sixteenth-century mahogany chair. "Your utterances… amuse me."

The butler opened and closed his mouth a few times. "Sir," he said finally, "I make no claim to be the wiser of the pair of us, but you are losing favor with the common people. There's talk on the streets sir, they want your head." The butler watched nervously as Max's knuckles grew whiter. "You're even losing favor among your dearest friends. Jacques-Louis David lost his head today, and – "

"David was a filthy traitor !" Max shouted, staring coldly out of the window, cheeks burning, eyes wide, body rigid. Little flecks of spit dotted the glass. "He will burn in hell!"

The butler gulped. "Sir, I – "

"Continue, Henri."

"Last week, sir, you had Jean-Luc Picard killed – "

"Another filthy traitor, Picard."

"Picard, who had stood by you from the beginning, who defended you in the face of all other doubt, even he turned against you."

"Picard was a traitor from the beginning," Max said icily. "He's lucky no one saw through his façade earlier."

"What more danger is there, sir?" the butler persisted. "When the King and the top estates are all left without their heads – "

Max whirled around and leapt from his chair, so violently that his wig nearly flew off. He raised an accusing finger at the butler. "You idiot!" he roared. "You blind, blabbering fool! Have you no understanding whatsoever of the nature of our revolution? It's a war, Henri, a war against the old, decrepit aristocracy to build a new, glorious France for her own people!"

The butler was at once terrified by Max's outburst and distracted by something different out of the window. "Sir, the crowd seems to be encroaching rather closely," he warned.

"How does one rebuild a nation when her nation is filled with enemies and traitors?" Max continued, storming violently around the room, causing the china in the upper shelves to clatter. "We'll be doomed from the start if we let our guard down for a moment! We cannot pave the way for another monarchy! We must have France-loving French or none at all!"

"Sir, the crowd appears to have broken down the door," said the butler. Above Max's yelling, the butler could detect a din down below – pots clanging, shouts, screams. He placed the pitcher on a side table and began to inch his way toward the closet.

"And if a man is an enemy of our glorious new state," continued Max, "if he wants to see her shackled to a king, then I say, let him walk in fear down our streets! I say, let his head roll! Let him burn forever in hell's eternal fire! The glorious Republic will dance on his grave! The flower of liberty will be nourished by his blood!"

"Very good, sir," called Henri, his voice muffled from inside the closet. He could hear the shouts getting nearer; he could hear heavy footsteps on the stairs.

"And by God," Max declared, "by God, if any man wants me dead, let him come and try to kill me! I remain here, unharmed in the grace and favor of our just Creator, and France will rebuild itself under my guidance! Her enemies will triumph above tyranny once and forever!"

"Quite right, sir."

The door burst open. The shouting mob of commoners flooded in.

"All hail our glorious revolution!" cried Max, as he was hoisted onto the shoulders of the mob and carried off towards the streets. "Vive la France!"