It had been very hot all day. In the afternoon the sun beat down mercilessly on the arrested deputies and their guards. When they were turned away at the next prison and had to move on, he thought he was going to faint.
Now, it was night and the clouds were gathering over Paris. A storm was coming soonāit always clears the air. He stared out the window of the Town Hall, motionless, and the silence before the storm terrified him. He had been told that people had risen, but now, late at night, there was no one there. The few who had gathered to support them quietly dispersed again.
Suddenly, lightning lit up the sky and revealed their entire tragedy. He shouldn't have let the guards convince him, he shouldn't have left the prison. The people who loved him yesterday had abandoned them. Maybe that was a good thing. At least, maybe no more people would die with them.
Thunder rumbled somewhere nearby and a downpour began as if on command.
"There's no one there anymore," he said in a completely calm voice.
"No one," the other man replied stoically. He stood next to Robespierre, and their hands involuntarily met. Their fingers intertwined and pressed tightly. Even though they didn't talk about it, they needed each other now.
āOur last night, right?ā he said quietly, so as not to be heard by the men at the table, who were still hoping. They were writing call-to-arms to the sections as if it still mattered.
āI like these summer storms, donāt you?ā Saint-Just replied with another question. There was no need to say what was clear to both of them.
Robespierre didnāt answer either.
"I'd like to take you to the country with me sometime. The sky is much clearer there than in the city."
"Perhaps in the next life...," Robespierre smiled sadly.
āPerhaps so,ā Saint-Just smiled too. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, while lightning streaked across the sky outside.
"Maximilien, it's done. Will you sign it?" Augustin turned to him loudly.
"Of course, I'll sign," Robespierre let go of Saint-Just's hand and returned to the table. The other man watched the celestial spectacle for a moment longer.
You can barely catch your breath and the blood rushes wildly to your radiant face. You have a smile on your lips, while you are holding your sweetheart in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
Tonight you are all dancing and singing, even though you were fighting for your lives in the courtyard of Bastille a moment ago. The acrid smell of gunpowder still lingers in the air, and the head of Governor de Launny, impaled on a pike, looks down at you in amazement.
Smile, because today has brought the first victory to the common people, and you feel that something great and wonderful is just beginning.
IT'S A REVOLUTION! This is how they broke the news to the king.
So smile and rejoice in today's success, even if two of your neighbors lie dead nearby with a hole in their chests, even if tomorrow many more battles and hardships await you.
Smile, because the world you have known your whole life has just changed, and the oppressed have now risen as free citizens to welcome a new era of freedom.
[this one's because some ghosts stick around, even centuries later]
[this one's for bastille day on the year 1 of the republic]
[this one's for marat, on the anniversary of his death; and for the shattering brightness of life that persists; and for camille too.]
[this one's for marat, who isn't dead for as long as we still need him; in paraphrase of victor hugo]
Camille rushes out of the house before the coffee is served, before Lucile can walk back in from the kitchen, wrap her arms around him and put her head on his shoulder. He knows he might be hurting her, by denying her this chance at compassion, but if he remains at home for one more moment, he is going to choke, with all the words that had been piled up somewhere in his chest, and none of them rising high enough to reach his throat.
His neighbor gives him a cheery wave, but Camille cannot even return the good morning, and an emphatic, a festive one at that; a morning to be started with wine, if one so wished, a morning to celebrate their Revolution.
A morning to become a martyr on, and Camille wonders whether the history will fudge the dates a little.
A crisp, windy morning, shimmering in peach and mauve at the edge of the horizon, before turning into a clear blue, without a cloud, without even a wisp of fog; somehow even the factories have fallen silent in the city, and the streets might be deserted for all that Camille cares about them. When he sees a flag being hoisted on the pole, he starts running, and the morning turns into a blur around him, sunlit and merciless.
Camille stumbles over a rock and falls, gracelessly, limbs flying around, hitting his elbow on a hard edge; relishing how the pain spreads out. He lifts his head and the blur coalesces into shapes; he has caught the edge of a gravestone, in a cemetery that he canāt quite place. After all, isnāt it fitting, a cemetery?
Only, it wonāt be a graveyard so old that you canāt even read the names. It will be the Pantheon for you; and a funeral procession; and probably not for another day or two. Nothing less, nothing less for the Friend of the People and the martyr of the Revolution.
āYouād hate it,ā Camille whispers. āYouād demand the entire procession to be dismantled and the proceeds given to the people. Youād tell them to throw you into a sewer, for all you cared; and threaten to haunt them if they disobeyed.ā
The wind has been lost among the houses, and thereās no one in sight.
Camille turns away from the grave to look at the entrance; the name must be engraved above the gates, but itās not visible from inside the cemetery.
āYou must be disappointed in me, too, but, well, everyone is,ā Camilleās attempt at self-deprecation breaks off in what he valiantly tries to stop it from becoming a sob, āI canāt even write a proper eulogy for you; I donāt ā donāt know how -ā
I donāt know how to say that you are dead, the sentence is at the tip of Camilleās tongue, bright and sharp and cutting, but his voice refuses to obey.
I am not sure I quite believe it. I am not sure I ever will; whatever they end up doing with your body. Weāre all dead men walking, all of us in this Revolution, only some of us have dared to defy this, and you more than all the rest. Even now.
Camille feels a slight breeze at the back of his neck. Like a touch.
Not a single leaf has moved on the tree that grows right outside the gates, and all the birds have fallen silent.
āYouād pour me another cup of coffee,ā Camille has found his voice at last, but only the gravestones are listening.
āAnd tell me to get through the damned proofs, because the printer is waiting, and weāre late already.ā
āBecause weāre late already,ā Camille repeats, and wipes his eyes.
He thinks: if he turned, he could see the smile, brief and sarcastic and unmistakably proud. He smiles in return.
āSo if I donāt ā donāt ā oh, you know what I mean. You donāt get to leave either. We need you still, hell, weāll probably need you for centuries.ā
The dust swirls in the sunlight, as Camille leaves the cemetery, takes the first street out of the square, and begins the long walk home.
And finally, what if Marat were to return today? What could he think of the state of our planet in the second decade of the twenty-first century? He could read in the history books that the Great French Revolutionāhis Revolutionāis recognized as the watershed event in the making of the modern world. āBut what did it accomplish?ā he might ask. āIt rid France of a parasitic class whose right to rule was based upon aristocratic birthright and traditional privilege.ā āIs that all?ā āIt established legal and political equality, which then spread throughout much of Europe and the world.ā āLegal and political equality? What about economic and social equality?ā āNo, the situation in that regard is even worse than you remember it. Today, despite two centuries of mind-boggling technological progress, a handful of billionaires control most of the Earthās resources while billions of people remain mired in hunger, disease, oppression, and grinding poverty.ā Marat would surely be shocked and dismayed to learn that after more than 200 years his struggle for social revolution had lost none of its relevance and urgency. Where is the Peopleās Friend now, when we need him?
Jean-Paul Marat - Tribune of the French Revolution by Clifford D. Conner
On this day, 233 years ago, Marat was assassinated in his home.
Tomorrow begins the summer challenge for all writers and artists who love the French Revolution and want to have a little fun.
This summer, like every year, we will have several events to remember. Some of them bring us joy and others sorrow.
So, let's be creative and share with others our deepest feelings about these events.
For those who don't yet know how it works, I'll summarize it.
The challenge runs from July 14th to August 10th, which are important milestones for anyone interested in the revolution.
We've compiled the prompts you've sent me into the list above - one for each day. Choose any one of them that inspires you and write fiction or poetry, or draw a picture and post it on your blog. You can choose one prompt each day or contribute just once.
Nothing is mandatory, we want you to have fun.
To help us all enjoy it, please tag your posts with:
#frevsummer2026
If you have any questions, please message me.
I also want to give a special thank you to those who participated in any way in the preparation. You are amazing. <3
wishing for the day where people begin to write historical fiction about the french revolution in the perspectives of historical figures again because wdym iām stuck with the gods are thirsty and a place of greater safety??
[this oneās for camille, well over two centuries later.]
[this one's for the image of camille on my desk. and for the very dire need of courage and of words, to keep going.]
āWhat you have to understand is that I am a coward,ā he whispers, and his voice doesnāt catch even once.
āAre you that starved for compliments that youāre coming to me?ā Dantonās voice barely rises to make it a question. āIāve no time to shower you in reassurances.ā
āIām ent-tirely serious,ā here it is, the stutter, and soon Camilleās hands will fly into the untidy black hair and mess it up even further.
As if on cue, Camille raises his arms. Danton canāt decide if the familiarity is more exhausting or endearing.
āIāve always been a coward, since that day at the T-tuileries. I was so scared I would die without g-getting a chance to s-s-speak, without a chance to be heard, f-for once.ā
āSays the Lantern Attorney.ā
āWhat do words on a page matter when soldiers are on the march?ā
Danton would really much rather get back to reviewing his accounts, but apparently, Camille isnāt done yet.
That last phrase, though, it was too far out of touch even for Camilleās standards. All that man has ever done is spill words on the page, until it all but burst into flames, and watched the conflagration!
No, not that, not quite. Camille has probably not once stopped writing long enough to consider the death toll. Itās a miracle, this innocence, itās exactly why every issue of whatever he has picked the name of his most recent journal will be in the lips of half of Paris before nightfall.
Camille is still talking, and Danton wonāt even bother to ask Camille to repeat what he has missed, lost in thought. Heāll consider doing whatever Camille needs. Whether he will do it, that will be a matter of his own.
āIām sure I will,ā Danton says, and adds for good measure. āAnd I think, weāre all scared for our lives, these days; though not all of us would admit it.ā
āWhat does that have to do with anything!ā Camille jolts as if he was a puppet that got its strings tangled up by a rather impatient puppeteer. āI said ā oh, donāt pret-tend t-to listen, I said, Iām scared for what will become of us.ā
āIf we lose the war?ā
āIf we lose it. If we win it. D-donāt you understand, this is why I need to keep writing.ā
āWhat was it that you just said? What do words on a page matter...at war?ā Danton canāt help himself.
āBut now thatās all I have,ā Camilleās voice drops, and Danton wonders if he is going to start crying.
It has happened before, once or twice; Camille cultivates a far more dramatic persona than he truly is; but he does cry, and Danton will forever be jealous of that.
āBut now thatās all I have,ā Camille repeats, all traces of stutter having disappeared again. āI wouldāve made a fine martyr, that day at the Tuileries, but ā but, a republic has no need for martyrs.ā
Thereās enough fury in Camilleās voice that Danton sighs, a token to placate Camille, whose friendship with Marat had never ceased to surprise those who knew both men well, and nowā¦ Well, Camille is definitely one to wallow in mourning.
Also, Danton disagrees, but whatās the point in dragging out the argument.
People will always need martyrs; but they will need stories too, and Camilleās pen turns history into a story. For better orā¦ no, for the worst. At least for those who had become the targets of his vehemence...for himself, too.
āSo what do you need from me, then?ā Danton asks.
āOnly the t-truth,ā Camille smiles. āI d-donāt know why itās so easy for M-maximilien, he doesnāt accept anything but the t-truth and doesnāt speak anything but it either, of course, heās ā well, heās got h-help, the C-committee, Saint-Just, C-couthon, everyone, but itās like Iām f-forever walking in the shadow.ā
Danton shrugs. He makes no promises, but Camille will assume he has.
And well, he will try. For Camille. To the extent that he can. He briefly wishes he could still lie to himself, and swallows the lump in his throat.
And Camille isnāt done talking yet.
āItās as if that day at the Tuileries was only time when I looked around and everything was ā was bright, was sharp, was its own true color. Nothing has ever come close to it. And I guess I sh-should say that Iām s-scared to never feel it again, but, but, thatās not true. Not quite. Itās more that Iām s-scared that nobody else will. Itās why I k-keep writing.ā
Camilleās coat is black, but Danton fancies he could catch a glimmer of green, in the sunlight through the window.
He knows Camille will rush out soon, and the faint amusement that he will inevitably feel for a moment afterwards will taste bittersweet at the back of his throat, like almonds. And then he has another speech to make, for the evening.
All his speeches, all Camilleās pamphlets. He wonders if any of them will be remembered even in the next year, when an image comes unbidden to his mind, of this shadow world of Camilleās stretching far into the distance, and other men dressed in shabby dark coats walking through the garden, their gait just as uncertain and their faces just as tense, but they are holding pamphlets in their hands, and out of their trembling lips falls the name of the republic.
For context: this came out in 2011 in Australia. Same-sex marriage would not be legalized until December 2017.
It was only legalized in 8 US states (the 8th only a few months before), and wouldnāt be legalized nation-wide until 2015.
It was only legal in TEN COUNTRIES in 2011. We wouldnāt hit 20 countries until 2017. (Australia was 23rd)
As of today (April 14, 2026), I believe only 38 countries have fully legalized same-sex marriage. Out of somewhere around 200 countries in the world. Thatās only ~19% of countries.
See my long ramble after the pages on my personal findings/ interpretations as we lead up to Champ de Mars Massacre lol
To an extent this whole event is gonna be told via my interpretation, and I can't help but be informed by modern tactics that politicians pull when they don't like the kind of change people are asking for (hello Palestine Action). So, the first two pages are my own words. However, the next two pages are shortened speeches/reports from the National Assembly, and contemp accounts of ppl who were on the ground as the protest was being planned the day before (yes, they wanted to emphasise that it was to be a peaceful protest).
So I felt in the end it was important to emphasise in the comic: the day before Champ de Mars, many members of the National Assembly- and the Feullients- chose to paint a certain narrative of petitioners and any societies (ie. Jacobins and Cordeliers) supporting the petitioners, and from there justify using *any means possible* to crack down on anyone who chose to protest/petition.
I think his time with the armies shows the depths of his care & dedication far beyond the ideological & political and into the practical. How modern/post-revolution writers depict this is also an interesting barometer of how much they give a shit about real people. Because sometimes it's "He showed up and had a bunch of people brutally executed" when really it's "He also released people/tried to stem corruption/attended to the practical needs of soldiers like getting them shoes BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T HAVE SHOES and weapons BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T HAVE GODDAMN WEAPONS?!?! LIKE THEY WERE LITERALLY SENT TO FACE PROFESSIONAL ARMIES WITHOUT WEAPONS/PROPER/WORKING WEAPONS?!?! and he fought side by side with them", and it just breaks my heart that they had someone who was all of that and and they lost him.
This might be Morton's influence, which is (mostly) so humanizing, but I feel like in the armies, you get to see who he is; all the talk and writing becomes real and you see the magnitude of what was lost when they cut him down.
Dracula Daily can be for anything in the public domain.... so why not some non-fiction? LEF will send out, approximately weekly, a letter (of varying length) relevant to the French Revolution on the relevant date. We will begin on 14 Juillet 1789 and slowly make our way to 1794. People can hop on and off the train at any time, and "necroposting" is completely fine.
You can participate by:
subscribing to the Substack (salutpublic.substack.com)
discussing the letter of the week on Tumblr with the tag "#liberty epistolary fraternity" (all kinds of posts are welcome! meta, art, shitposting, etc are all contributing. have fun with it!)
interacting with other people's posts
submitting letters you want to see to this Tumblr with an ask (please do this hehehe)
Because of the long cycle of this subscription, every new month there will be an "off-season" letter, which can be from any point in the French Revolution, or outside within reason, so you can expect four regular letters and one additional letter every month.
LEF is at this moment a solo project by @entropicbunny, in pursuit of accessibility, because BnF's user interface could never. Any questions, requests, etc can come to this blog or the above handle.
(you can also help out! finding and translating letters is always extremely helpful & guarantees any letters' place in it <3) (also please do in general because otherwise it's not impossible for me to forget saint-just's first letter to robespierre, etc, etc.)
