By 1793, Robespierre’s idea for a sans-culotte army （literally meaning “without breeches,” the army was made up of common people rather than officers of the former ruling class） was realized, in order to enforce the new laws of the land. In July 1793, Robespierre was appointed to the Committee of Public Safety; in October, the Committee declared itself the acting revolutionary government.
While Robespierre was distrustful of the Catholic church’s power, he was not an atheist, and so established a form of deism, The Cult of the Supreme Being, in order to serve as France’s new state religion, seeing belief in a “higher moral code” as an essential tenet of a just republic.
While experts differ on a definitive start date for France’s Reign of Terror, most agree that its height was between the summers of 1793 and ’94, during which 16,594 death sentences were assigned, and an additional 10,000 prisoners died while incarcerated. Executions were usually public and completed by guillotine, and targeted the wealthy, clergymen, and those under suspicion of being counter-revolutionary.
. . .
Though Robespierre was technically an equal member of the Committee, his influence far outpaced any other single man in France at the time. It is because of the impact of his foundational beliefs, as well as his forceful propagation of The Cult of the Supreme Being, that so much responsibility for the Reign of Terror is attributed to him.
Eventually, Robespierre’s desire for ideological purity within the republic turned the people against him, and he and his allies were arrested and removed from Paris’s town hall. Robespierre and approximately 90 others were executed, effectively bringing the Terror to an end.
Robespierre was beheaded and buried in a common grave in Errancis Cemetery. His legacy, and the chasm between his ideals on paper and practices in actuality, remains a matter of historical controversy today.
february had received her share of 4:00 a.m. phone calls, but that never made them easier—the desolate ring cutting through sleep, the feeling of having gulped down her heart, of not recognizing her own extremities. The night her grandmother died she’d answered a call like this, another a few years later when her uncle was crushed between a tree and a drunk driver’s Land Rover. Back then it’d been down the stairs to the kitchen, linoleum cold on her bare feet while she spoke hoarsely into the receiver. She had been a child both times, but the calls had been meant for her, or at least her as a conduit through which information flowed to her mother and father.
Now her phone was a thin rectangle glowing through the blue-black of her bedroom, the caller ID flashing “RVSD Security.” She broke a sweat before she could even answer. Beside her in bed, Mel swatted at her own phone, then rolled over to glare at February when she realized it was much too dark for her alarm.
Sorry, February said, and jabbed at the accept button.
Ms. Waters? came the harried voice of her head of security. We got a problem over here.
Who is it? Mel hissed.
February gave Mel a “hang on” index finger.
What’s wrong, Walt? she said into the phone. Everyone okay?
Kids are fine. It’s your mother.
What? What do you need her for? What time is it?
No no, Walt said. She’s here. On campus.
What?
February leapt from the bed, but the sheet ensnared her ankle. She lurched backward and caught her toe on the bed frame.
Fuck! February said.
Mel groaned.
Ma’am? said Walt.
Sorry, not you. I mean yes, you too. Just— She ran to the edge of the stairs and looked down to find their front door wide open.
I’ll be right there.
Ms. Waters?
Yeah.
Maybe bring a bathrobe.
Walt hung up and February limped to the bathroom, threw her phone on a pile of dirty towels, and swaddled her bleeding toe in tissue, then pulled yesterday’s clothes from the top of the hamper.
What’s going on? Mel said.
My mother. She’s on campus.
What?
Walt has her. I’m taking your robe.
What can I do?
I don’t know, February said, and hurried down the stairs and into the night.
* * *
—
February found her mother in Walt’s office, wrapped in his rain slicker.
Thank god you’re here! He won’t read me my rights! Tell him I want a lawyer.
Sorry about the— Walt gestured to the slicker. She’s missing some pants.
You’re not under arrest. This is Walt, remember? From RVSD?
February watched her mother survey Walt, and for a moment she thought she saw a glimmer of recognition.
My sister is going to post my bail and sue this whole department.
February sighed, mouthed Sorry to Walt. He nodded.
Let’s go home, February said to her mother, holding out the robe.
Walt left the office and February removed his jacket. Wearing only February’s father’s old Cavaliers T-shirt, her mother looked very small. February wrapped her in Mel’s robe and took her elbow.
Thank you again, Walt, she said on the way out. I’ll call you later.
Good night, ma’am.
* * *
—
We need to talk, said Mel a few nights later, after dinner was cleared and February’s mother tucked safely into bed.
February had been working from home in the days since the incident, calling in to meetings via videophone, answering emails, and then forcing her mother to accompany her to Holden’s Hardware, where she purchased a pair of dead bolts and installed them on the front and side doors, just out of her mother’s reach.
I know, February said. I’m thinking we need a security system— and maybe something to put on the stove knob covers. Those babyproofing things?
Feb.
They make systems with webcams and everything, said February. We could keep an eye on the feed from work— You know that’s not going to cut it, said Mel. This could have been so much worse. What if she had walked out into traffic?
But—
You can’t just lock her in the house all day.
February tucked her feet up under her, willing the couch to swallow her whole. In her life’s biggest decisions, she had always consulted her mother, who had unfailingly given good advice. She had given February tips for navigating high school bullies, had helped her realize she wanted to be a teacher, had encouraged her to go back to school for administration. She had been good-natured as February dragged her through Cincy’s cluster of jewelry stores trying to find the perfect ring for Mel, offering opinions and serving as hand model. February was drawn to the larger jewels—it was, after all, supposed to be a kind of grand gesture. But it was her mother who first selected a smaller setting with a yellow diamond.
I don’t know. You’re sure it’s…fancy enough?
She has to wear it every day for the rest of her life—you don’t want to weigh her down, her mother said.
February had asked the saleswoman to take the ring out of the case for her, turned it over and over between her fingers.
Anyway, she’ll love whatever you get because it came from you.
I know.
But get the platinum band, she never wears gold.
How hadn’t February noticed that? It seemed so obvious once her mother said it.
Thank god you’re here, February had said.
I’ll take it, she said to the saleswoman.
Her mother had been right; Mel loved the ring. But that had been years ago. Now, even if her mom was lucid, what was February supposed to say—mind if we ship you off to the home?