#Lucille’s journal

[emoacademic]

[daystothebestday]

I finally finished scheduling all of this! so tedious..

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Historians having takes on frev women that make me go 😐 compilation

Sexually frustrated in her marriage to a pompous civil servant much older than herself, [Madame Roland] may have found Danton’s celebrated masculinity rather uncomfortable. Danton (1978) by Norman Hampson, page 77.

The Robespierres sent their sister to Arras because that was their hometown, the family home, where they had relatives, uncles, aunts and friends, like Buissart who they didn’t cease to remain in correspondence with, even in the middle of the Terror. There, among them, Charlotte would not be alone; she would find advice, rest, the peace necessary to heal her nervousness and animosity. Away from Mme Ricard, who she hated, away from Mme Duplay, who she detested, she would enjoy auspicious calmness. It is Le Bon that the Robespierres will charge with escorting their sister to this neccessary and soothing exile. […] If there is a damning piece in Charlotte Robespierre's case, it is this one (her interrogation, held July 31 1794). She seems to be caught in the act of accusing this Maximilien whom she rehabilitates in her Memoirs. She is therefore indeed a hypocrite, unworthy of the great name she bears, and which she dishonors the very day after the holocaust of 10 Thermidor. Charlotte Robespierre et Guffroy (1910) in Annales Révolutionnaires, volume 3 (1910) page 322, and Charlotte Robespierre et ses mémoires (1909) page 93-94, both by Hector Fleishmann.

Elisabeth, as she was popularly called, was barely past her twelfth birthday, younger even by three years than Barere’s own mother when she was given in marriage. On the following day the guests assembled again in the little church of Saint-Martin at midnight to attend the wedding ceremony of the handsome charmer and the bewildered child. Dressed in white, clasping in her arms a yellow, satin-clad  doll that Bertrand had given her — so runs the tradition — she marched timidly to the altar, looking more like a maiden making her first communion than a woman celebrating a binding sacrament. Perhaps the  doll, if doll there was, filled her eye, but certainly she could not fail to note how handsome her husband was. Bertrand Barere; a reluctant terrorist (1962) by Leo Gershoy, page 32.

The young nun who bore the name of Hébert did not hide her fate. She did not wish to prolong a life stifled from her childhood in the cloister, branded in the world by the name she bore, fighting between horror and love for the memory of her husband, unhappy everywhere. Histoire des Girondins (1848) by Alphonse de Lamartine, volume 8, page 60.

Lucile in prison showed more calmness than Camille. Before the tribunal, she seemed to possess neither fear nor hope, she denied having taken an active role in the prison conspiracy. What did it matter to her the answer they were trying to extract from her? They said they wanted her guilty? Very well! She would be condemned and join Camille. This was what she said again when she was told that she would suffer the same fate as her husband: ”Oh, what joy, in a few hours I’m going to see Camille again!” Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un couple dans la tourmente (1986) by Jean Paul Bertaud, page 293.

What did it matter to Lucile whether she was accused or defended? She had no longer any pretext for living in this world. She was one of those heroines of conjugal love who are more wife than mother. Besides, Horace lived, and Camille was dead. It was of the absent only that she thought. As for the child, would not Madame Duplessis act a mother's part to him? The grandmother would watch over the orphan. If Lucile had lived, she could have done nothing but weep over the cradle, thinking of Camille. Camille Desmoulins and his wife; passages from the history of the Dantonists founded upon new and hitherto unpublished documents (1876) by Jules Claretie.

Having been widowed at the age of 23 [sic] years, Élisabeth Duplay remarried a few years later to the adjutant general Le Bas, brother of her first husband, and kept the name which was her glory. She lived with dignity, and all those who have known her, still beautiful under her crown of white hair, have testified to the greatness of her sentiments and austerity of her character. She died at an old age, always loyal to the memory of the great dead she had loved and whose memory she, all the way to her final day, didn’t cease to honor and cherish. As for the lady of Thermidor, Thérézia Cabarrus, ex-marquise of Fontenay, citoyenne Tallien, then princess of Chimay, one knows the story of her three marriages, without counting the interludes. She had, as one knows, three husbands living at the same time. Now compare these two existances, these two women, and tell me which one merits more the respect and the sympathy of good men. Histoire de Robespierre et du coup d’état du 9 thermidor (1865) by Louis Ernest Hamel, volume 3, page 402.

Fel free to comment which one was your favorite! 😀

[emoacademic]

On desktop you can use any color you want by switching the editor from "rich text" to "HTML"!

Just copy can paste (span style="color: #000000") "example" (/span) and replace the () with <>

And this website does gradients for you!

Pro tip: Tumblr has removed the menu option for the color yellow but not the color itself. You can go back to a previous yellow post, edit it and copy a yellow letter to use yellow again in a new post, just be sure to hit your left arrow key to go back into the yellow section of the text after pasting. Good luck.

[fullpetal-alchemist]

[labyrinthofcrystals]

fellas is it a fic if it's through journal entries and only your OC's POV

[yourchaand]

maybe I should have wanted less

but maybe you should have given more

atleast enough to fill the bowl in me

the same way I filled yours



was it really much

that I asked for,

some company,

to be assured?



was it really much

that I asked for,

to be loved,

to be adored?



did it kill you to pour respect?

not a drop my bowl bore

yet I filled from an empty jug,

into a barren hole



maybe I should have wanted less

but maybe you should have given more

my bowl remains still empty

atleast now I don't fill yours

-icy (@yourchaand)

[emoacademic]

I would have preferred if you had loved me less and understood me more.

Rien ne va plus, Margartia Karapanou, 1991

[invinciblle]

Issue 1 of Sauce Presents, from me, Sauce (it’s a nickname that never died). Happy New Year of the Gregorian calendar, posted a day late!

Some of the specific drawings are taken from my personal life: the transcendental sisterhood in the bakery I work at, the toddler cousin I recently connected with via my "newly acquired" step-aunt and uncle, the sheer amount of dog walking and cat sitting I did while suffering financially (lol still ongoing who am I kidding) during my many moves this year, etc., and much more. I love noticing things. I'm so grateful to have a glimpse of hope. Refusing to define myself by and limit my self-observation to "benchmarks" and societal notions of "success" and "achievement" and "productivity" is a constant struggle, but it has freed me from so much doubt. I simply don't give a shit about what those people think of how I am! I couldn't say that a year ago. In the words of Courtney Barnett, "Time passes; shit happens."

No reposts; no editing. Talk to me! Let's be friends.

[crushing-on-nico-di-angelo]

2023

invitation, mary oliver // the unabridged journals, sylvia plath // happy xmas, john lennon // north country, mary oliver // i am running into a new year, lucille clifton // salt, nayyirah waheed // diaries of franz kafka // bird by bird, anne lamott // sunrise, louise glück

[enlitment]

i am curious about robespierre and camille and “doomed by the narrative”, if you are free i would love to learn some more about them since i only have basic frev knowledge!

- @iron--and--blood

Thank you so much for the ask! ✨

The short version is that they started off as school friends and got separated for a couple of years after finishing their studies. Then the revolution started in 1789 and brought them together again by uniting them in their shared goal, only to completely tear them apart in 1794. And by ‘completely tear them apart’, I mean that Robespierre was one of the people who signed the decree for Camille’s arrest which led to his execution in 1794. Talk about star-crossed…

The answer would not have been possible without this great article by @anothehumaninthisworld btw! Definitely go read it if you haven’t already and are craving more information.

Both Camille Desmoulins and Maximilien Robespierre studied at Lous-le-Grand, the former Jesuit school, in Paris. Camille was 2 years younger than Maximilien, but they definitely knew each other, and there is a strong suggestion that they were friends back then. Later, Robespierre calls Camille his ‘study companion’, ‘college comrade’ and (and this will be important later, so just put a pin in that) ‘a talented young man without mature judgement’. Their favourite topic to discuss with each other was apparently the Roman Republic - because of course it was. I also like to imagine they bonded over their enthusiasm for classical authors!

Although two years is not that much of an age difference, a lot of people (including Przybyszewska, who takes it to the max) picked up on the fact that their dynamic was kind of like this:

picture by @did-slid-skid (hope it’s okay to share it, if not then I’ll take it down. Give it a like here!)

…and it sort of continued to be like that until the bitter end, but let’s not get ahead too much.

Once the revolution kicked off and Camille started publishing his first newspaper, he seems to have tried to capitalise on the fact that he knew Robespierre,whose political career at that time was already gaining significant traction (in a bit of ‘I’m so proud of my famous talented friend! Just look at Robespierre! And have I mentioned he is *my* friend?!’ kind of way). At this point, Camille might have had an incentive to exaggerate their closeness a bit to help his own journalistic career.

But I think it’s fair to say their relationship became closer once again sometime during 1790 since Robespierre was not only a witness at Camille’s wedding to Lucile, but he also became a godfather to Camille’s and Lucile’s son Horace, according to some sources. And if not a godfather, then definitely at least an occasional babysitter.

Also not super relevant from a historical perspective but the wedding scene in La Revolution Francaise is very cute, despite the film's many issues:

Then, around late 1793 and the first half of 1794, things got really messy. I mean, they were always really complex of course, it was the revolution and fractions kept forming and falling in quite a rapid succession. I mean messy specifically in regards to Camille. To put something really complicated as simply as possible, Camille started to be associated with the Indudgents/Dantonists - a name coined for the political fraction which included figures like Georges Danton and Fabre d'Églantine, who was involved in a massive corruption scandal.

Around that time, Camille also started publishing a newspaper – La Vieux Cordellier – which criticised the actions of the Committees and as such, came to be seen as something that was actively undermining the authority and the efforts of the revolutionary government.

There was quite a heated public exchange between Camille and Robespierre in January 1794 at the Jacobin Club. It also marks one of the greatest instances of what I like to call ‘using Rousseau as a weapon”.

Basically, Robespierre ordered Camille to destroy the copies of his journal, to which Camille replied by quoting Rousseau and saying "to burn is not to answer." It's important to know that Rousseau was *the* hero of Robespierre - a fact of which Camille was fully aware - so this was meant to cut deep. It must have stung!

Robespierre then replied “Learn, Camille, that if you were not Camille, one could not have so much indulgence for you”. This to me really illustrates the nature of their relationship at this point in time.

I am not sure how much of this is actually historically accurate and how much is my view based on the interpretations of their relationship in the media, but the sense I get is that Robespierre was quite protective of Camille until he felt like he had no choice but to move against him.

Despite the small age difference, there seemed to have been kind of an older, wiser person in a protective role/younger man led astray (or, if you want to go the Przybyszewka's route, acting like a brat) dynamic. Robespierre is quoted referring to Camille as a ‘spoilt child’. I mean, Camille might have been one of the first people to be called enfant terrible (I swear I saw it somewhere and did not hallucinate it, right?), despite being a man in his 30s.

Camille's whole vibe is somehow 30+ going on 14. Like that's pretty much a historical canon.

But then, in one way or another, the situation reached a point where for Robespierre, the importance of preserving the revolutionary cause outweighed the importance of friendship with Camille - his old college comrade. (DOOMED BY THE NARRATIVE!)

In March 1794, Robespierre, as a member of the Committee of Public Safety, was among the people who signed Camille’s arrest warrant and thus, with a stroke of a pen, sealed his fate.

blood and ink parallel etc etc you get it ~

According to Robespierre’s sister, Charlotte, Maximilien tried to visit his friend in prison. I'm including a longer version of the quote because it is fascinating! Przybyszewska includes this supposed event in her play, The Danton case. It is also something which I may or may not have capitalised on in my own writing. Ahem.

"all I know is that my brother had much love for Camille Desmoulins, with whom he had studied, and that when he learned of his arrest and his incarceration in the Luxembourg he went to that prison in the intention of imploring Camille to return to the true revolutionary principles he had abandoned to ally himself with the aristocrats. Camille did not want to see him; and my brother, who would probably have defended and perhaps saved him, abandoned him to the terrible justice of the Revolutionary Tribunal."

An important question though is whether we can trust Charlotte as a source here… (most likely no?) If it were true though, it just screams doomed by the narrative (and own hubris?) to me.

Lucile Desmoulins, Camille’s wife, meanwhile tried to plea for Camille’s release by writing to Robespierre and trying to remind him of his and Camille’s friendship:

Have you forgotten these ties which Camille can never remember without tenderness? You who prayed for out union, who took our hands into yours, you who have smiled at my son and whom his infantile hands have caressed so many times (…) Even if he (…) hadn’t been as attached to the republic, I figure his attachment to you would have functioned as a substitute for patriotism, and you think that for this we deserve death?

(I’m not crying you’re crying)

Lucile’s letter, however, did not help to change Robespierre’s mind and overturn the decision. On 16 Germinal Year II (5th of April 1794), Camille Desmoulins was executed, along with other Dantonists.

Just one more line that always makes me sad, to really rub it in as a special treat – from Camille’s letter to his wife from prison:

“I have dreamed of a Republic such as all the world would have adored. I could never have believed that men could be so ferocious and so unjust.”

Or, as @anotherhumaninthisworld aptly puts it in the tags, Camille and Maximilien’s relationship essentially boils down to this:

(Really funny, but ouch.)

Their relationship also features prominently in the works by S. Przybyszewska, an early 20th century Polish playwright who very much picks up on the potentially queer vibes of Camile's and Maximilien's dynamic and just runs with it. She's much loved by the French Revolution Tumblr fandom for writing what is essentially a beautiful extremely angsty historical RPF in the 1920s.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

How close Desmoulins and Fréron were? And what did they think of each other? I'm asking because I discovered they managed a journal together, La Tribune des Patriotes.

The seventeen year old Fréron was enrolled as a paying boarder at the college of Louis-le-Grand on September 30 1771, and just a day later, the eleven year old Camille was as well. I have however not been able to discover any evidence indicating the two were friends back then, or even an instance of one referring to the other as ”college comrade,” something which Camille otherwise is proven to have done with a whole lot of other fellow students. Perhaps this should be read as a sign the two did not know each other back then, six years after all being a rather big age difference for kids. They also don’t exactly appear to have been the same type of student, Desmoulins winning a total of four prizes during his time at the college and Fréron zero, and their teacher abbé Proyart admitting (despite his massive hostility) that student Camille had ”some success,” while Fréron ”showed few talents” and ”was cited as a rare example when speaking of laziness and indolence.” (for more info on the school days of them and other Louis-le-Grand students, see this post).

Fréron graduated from the college in 1779, Camille five years later. I have not been able to find anything suggesting they had anything to do with each other in the 1780s either. But on 23 June 1790, one year into the revolution, we find the following letter from Fréron to Camille, showing that the two by this point have forged a friendship. Judging by the content of the letter, said friendship was probably much grounded in their joint status as freshly baked patriotic journalists (Desmoulins had founded his Révolutions de France et de Brabant in November 1789, Fréron his l’Orateur du Peuple in May 1790):

I beg you (tu), my dear Camille, to insert in your first number the enclosed letter, which has so far only appeared in the journal of M. Gorsas; its publicity is all the more interesting to me as I have just, I am assured, been denounced to the commune as one of the authors of l’Ami du Roi. It is a horror that I must push back with all the energy I can. If you cannot insert it in full, in petit-romain, at the end of your first number, at least make it known by extract; you would be doing me a real service. It’s been a thousand years since I last saw you; I have had a raging fever for more than a fortnight which has prevented me from returning to Rue Saint-André; but I will go there next Saturday. Ch. de La Poype came to your house with a letter from M. Brissot de Warville, but he was unable to enter. It was to talk to you about a matter that you no doubt know about. If patriotic journalists don't line up, then goodbye freedom of the press.  A thousand bonjours, my dear Camille  I am very democratically your friend,  Stanislas Fréron. 

l’Orateur du Peuple has unfortunately not gotten digitalized yet, so we can’t check if Fréron wrote anything about Desmoulins there that could tell us more about their relationship. But in Révolutions de France et de Brabant we find Camille listing Fréron among ”journalists who are friends of truth” (number 37, August 9 1790), calling him a patriot (number 33, July 12 1790), protesting when national guards were sent to seize the journals of Fréron and Tournon (number 63, February 7 1791) and when the numbers of Fréron and Marat got plundered (number 83, July 4 1791), as well as republishing parts of the journal he finds inspiring (number 83, number 85 (July 18 1791). In both number 1 (November 28 1789) and number 65 (February 21 1791) Camille republished a poem he had written in 1783 that mocked Fréron’s father, the famous philosopher Élie Fréron, as well as his maternal uncle Thomas-Marie Royou, him too a member of the counter-enlightenment (and who, as a sidenote, had also been one of their teachers at Louis-le-Grand). Given Fréron’s open hostility towards both his father and uncle, it does however seem unlikely for this to have had any negative effect on their relationship.

Just a few days after the letter from Fréron to Desmoulins had been penned down, we find the two about to enter into partnership. On July 4 1790 the following contract was signed between Camille, Fréron and the printer Laffrey (cited in Camille Desmoulins and his wife: passages from the history of the dantonists (1874) by Jules Claretie), establishing that from number 33 of Révolutions de France et de Brabant and onwards, Fréron will be in charge of half the pages of the journal, while he from number 39 and forward will be in charge of an additional sheet particulary devoted to news:

We, the undersigned, Camille Desmoulins and Stanislas Fréron, the former living on Rue du Théâtre Français, the latter on Rue de la Lune, Porte St. Denys, of the one part; and Jean-Jacques Laffrey, living on Rue du Théâtre Français, of the other part, have agreed to the following: . 1. I, Camille Desmoulins, engage to delegate to Stanislas Fréron the sum of three thousand livres, out of the sum of ten thousand livres, which Jean-Jacques Laffrey has bound himself, by a bond between us, to pay me annually as the price of the editing of my journal, entitled Révolutions de France et de Brabant, of three printed sheets, under the express condition that said Stanislas Fréron shall furnish one sheet and a half to each number, and that during the whole term of my agreement with said Laffrey.  2. I, Stanislas Fréron, engage to furnish for each number of said journal of Révolutions de France et de Brabant, composed of three sheets, one sheet and a half, under the direction of the said Camille Desmoulins, with the understanding that this sheet and a half shall form one half of the three sheets of which each number is composed. I engage to deliver a portion of the copy of this said sheet and a half on the Wednesday of each week , and the rest during the day on Thursday, and this counting inclusively from the thirty-third number until the close of the agreement between Camille Desmoulins and Jean-Lacques Laffrey. 3. I, Jean-Jacques Laffrey, accept the delegation made by Camille Desmoulins of the sum of three thousand livres, payable, in equal payments, at the issue of each number, to Stanislas Fréron, to the clauses and conditions hereinunder; and I engage, besides, to pay to said Stanislas Fréron the sum of one thousand livres, also payable in equal payments, on the publication of each number, which thousand livres shall be over and above the said salary of three thousand livres on condition that the said Stanislas Fréron shall furnish to the journal an additional sheet per week which shall be devoted to news to begin from the thirty-ninth number, which commences the approaching quarter.  And I, Stanislas Fréron, engage to furnish , at the stipulated periods  the said sheet over and above, in consideration of the sum of one thousand livres, in addition to the three thousand livres delegated by Camille Desmoulins. Done, in triplicate, between us, in Paris, July 4, 1790. Stanislas Fréron, Laffrey, C. Desmoulins.

According to Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un rêve de république (2018) by Hervé Leuwers, nothing did however come about from this contract, Révolutions de France et de Brabant continuing to rest under the authority of Camille only, while Fréron instead kept going with his l’Orateur du Peuple. Why this project never saw the light of day one can only speculate in…

When Camille and Lucile got married in December 1790, Fréron neither signed the wedding contract on the 27th, nor attended the wedding ceremony on the 29th. Following the marriage they did however become neighbors, the couple moving to Rue du Théâtre 1 (today Rue de l’Odeon 28), and into the very same building where Fréron had gone to live a few months earlier.

In number 82 (June 27 1791) of Révolutions de France et de Brabant, Camille writes that he a week earlier, the same night the royal family fled Paris, he left the Jacobins at eleven o’clock in the evening together with ”Danton and other patriots.” The Paris night comes off as so calm Camille can’t stop himself from commenting on it, whereupon ���one of us, who had in his pocket a letter of which I will speak, that warned that the king would take flight this night, wanted to go observe the castle; he saw M. Lafayette enter at eleven o’clock.” According to Hervé Leuwers’ biography, this person was Fréron, though I don’t understand exactly how he can see this…

A little less than a month later, July 17 1791, Fréron and Camille find themselves at Danton’s house together with several other people discussing the lynching of two men at the Champ-de-Mars the same morning. At nine o’clock, Legendre arrives and tells the group that two men had come home to him and said: We are charged with warning you to get out of Paris, bring Danton, Camille and Fréron, let them not be seen in the city all day, it is Alexandre Lameth who engages this. Camille, Danton and Fréron follow this advice and leave, and were therefore most likely absent from the demonstration and shootings on the Champ-de-Mars the very same day (this information was given more than forty years after the fact by Sergent-Marceau, one of the people present, in volume 5 of the journal Revue rétrospective, ou Bibliothèque historique : contenant des mémoires et documens authentiques, inédits et originaux, pour servir à l'histoire proprement dite, à la biographie, à l'histoire de la littérature et des arts (1834)).

In the aftermath of the massacre on Champ de Mars, arrest warrants were issued against those deemed guilty for them. On July 22, the Moniteur reports that the journalists Suleau and Verrières have been arrested, and that the authorities have also fruitlessly gone looking for Fréron, Legendre, Desmoulins and Danton, the latter three having already left Paris. Both Fréron and Camille hid out at Lucile’s parents’ country house in Bourg-la-Reine, as revealed by Camille in number 6 (January 30 1794) of the Vieux Cordelier. The two could resurface in Paris again by September.

On April 20 1792, the same day France declared war on Austria, Camille and Fréron again put their hopes to the idea of a partnership from two years earlier. That day, the two, along with booksellers Patris and Momoro, signed a contract for a new journal, La Tribune des Patriotes, whose first number appeared on May 7 (they had tried to get Marat to join in on the project as well, but he had said no). In the contract, Fréron undertook to each week bring 2/3 of the sheets, Camille the rest. According to Leuwers, Camille did nevertheless end up writing most of it anyway. The journal did however fail to catch an audience and ran for only four numbers.

On June 23 1792 Lucile starts keeping a diary. It doesn’t take more than a day before the first mention of Fréron, in the diary most often known as just ”F,” appears — ”June 24 - F(réron) is scary. Poor simpleton, you have so little to think about. I’m going to write to Maman.” One month and one day later Camille tells Lucile, who is currently resting up at Bourg-la-Reine after giving birth, that ”I was brought to Chaville this morning by Panis, together with Danton, Fréron, Brune, at Santerre’s” (letter cited in Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un rêve de république). Lucile returned to Paris on August 8. In a diary entry written by her four months later it is revealed that both Fréron and the couple were at Danton’s house on the eve of the insurrection of August 10 — ”F(réron) looked like he was determined to perish. "I'm weary of life," he said, "I just want to die." Every patriot that came I thought I was seeing for the last time.” She doesn’t however, and can in the same entry instead report the following regarding the period that immediately followed the successful insurrection:

After eight days (August 20) D(anton) went to stay at the Chabcellerie, madame R(obert) and I went there in our turn. I really liked it there, but only one thing bothered me, it was Fréron. Every day I saw new progress and didn't know what to do about it. I consulted Maman, she approved of my plan to banter and joke about it, and that was the wisest course. Because what else to do? Forbid him to come? He and C(amille) dealt with each other everyday, we would meet. To tell him to be more circumspect was to confess that I knew everything and that I did not disapprove of him; an explanation would have been needed. I therefore thought myself very prudent to receive him with friendship and reserve as usual, and I see now that I have done well. Soon he left to go on a mission. (to Metz, he was given this mission on August 29 1792) I was very happy with it, I thought it would change him. […] F(réron) returned, he seems to be still the same but I don't care! Let him go crazy if he wants!…My poor C(amille), go, don’t be afraid… 

Following Fréron’s return from his mission, he hung out with the couple quite frequently. On January 7 1793 we find the following letter from him to Lucile:

I beg Madame Desmoulins to be pleased to accept the homage of my respect. I have the honour to inform her that my destination is changed, that I shall not go to the National Assembly because I am setting out for the countryside with MM Danton and Saturne (Duplain). Will she have the goodness to present herself at the assembly, before ten o’clock, in the hall of deputations; she is to send for M. La Source, the secretary, who will come to her, and she will find a place for her by means of the commissary of the tribunes. I renew the assurence of my respectful devotion to Madame Desmoulins.  Stanislas Fréron. Kindest regards to Camille.

Two weeks later, January 20, Lucile writes ”F(réron), La P(oype) came in the evening.” The day after that Fréron writes her the following note: ”I beg the chaste Diana to accept the homage of a quarter of a deer killed in her domains. Adieu. Stanislas Lapin.” This is the first known apperance of Fréron’s nickname within the inner circle — Lapin (Bunny). In Correspondance inédite de Camille Desmoulins(1834), Marcellin Matton, friend of Lucile’s mother and sister, writes that it was Lucile who had come up with this nickname, and that it stemmed from the fact Fréron often visited the country house of Lucile’s parents at Bourg-la-Reine and played with the bunnies they had there each time. In her diary entry from the same day, Lucile has written: ”F(réron) sent us venison.” The very next day she writes the following, showing that Fréron, as she already put it in December, ”appears to still be the same”:

Ricord came to see me. He is always the same, very brusque and coarse, truly mad, giddy, insane. I went to Robert’s. Danton came there. His jokes are as boorish as he is. Despite this, he is a good devil. Madame Ro(bert) seemed jealous of how he teased me… F(réron) came. That one always seems to sigh, but his manners are bearish! Poor devil, what hope do you hold? Extinguish a senseless r [sic] in your heart! What can I do for you? I feel sorry for you... No, no, my friend, my dear C(amille), this friendship, this love so pure, will never exist for anyone other than you! And those I see will only be dear to me through the friendship they have for you. 

One day later, January 23, Lucile writes: ”F(réron), La P(oype), Po, R(obert) and others came to dinner. The dinner was quite happy and cheerful. Afterwards they went to the Jacobins, Maman and I stayed by the fire.” The day after that she has written the following, and while it’s far from confirmed Fréron is the one she’s alluding to here, it would fit rather well with the previous entries:

What does this statement mean? Why do I need to be praised so much? What do I care if I please? Do you think I’ll be proud of a few attractions? No, no, I know how to appreciate myself, and will never be dazed by praise. To you, you’re crazy, and I’ll make you feel like you need to be smarter.

Lucile’s diary entries abruptly end on February 13 1793, and a month later, March 9, Fréron was tasked with going on yet another mission by the Committee of Public Safety. This time, it would be a whole year before he was back in Paris again. It is probably during this period the following two undated letters from Fréron’s little sister Jeanne-Thérèse, wife of the military leader Jean François La Poype, were penned down and sent off to Lucile (both cited within Camille Desmoulins and his wife… (1874) by Jules Claretie. I also found a mention of a third, unpublished letter with the same sender and receiver):

Coubertin, this Monday morning.  How good you are, my dear Lucile, to take such pains to answer so punctually, and to relieve my anxiety! I rely upon your kindness to let me know any good news when you know it yourself. Neither my husband nor my brother has written to me; but, according to what you tell me, M. De la Poype will be with you immediately. Scold him well, I beg, my dear Lucile, and beat him even, if you think it necessary; I give him over to you. Goodbye, dear aunt; I embrace you with all my heart. Do tell me about your pretty boy; is he well? We shall, I hope, see him at some time together. Be the first to tell me of my husband's arrival ; it will be so sweet to owe my happiness to you! Fanny is perfectly well. I received most tenderly the kiss she gave me from you. My compliments to your husband.  Fréron de la Poype. 

Here I come again, beautiful and kind Lucile, to plague you with my complaints, and the frightful uneasiness by which I am tormented. The letter your husband had the kindness to write to me does not allay my grief; he tells me that my brother has given him news of my husband, but he had not heard from him before his departure. He has not been absent long enough to have had time to give us news of himself since he set out. I do not hide from you, dear Lucile, state; for pity's sake, try to restore composure to my heart; let me owe tranquillity to you. They say the enemy is within forty leagues of Paris; if this is so, the country will not be safe. Will you promise to warn me of danger, and to receive me into your house? I count upon the friendship you have always been willing to show me, and I shall throw myself into your arms with the greatest confidence. I beg you to give my compliments to your dear husband.  Fréron de La Poype.  Coubertin, near Chevreuse.  The 5th.  Madame Desmoulins. 

On October 18 1793, Fréron too picks up his pen again and writes the following two letters, one to Camille and one to Lucile. He is at the time in Marseille preparing for the siege of Toulon, a subject which he spends the majority of the ink on discussing, but also blends this with nostalgic remarks. Fréron addresses Camille with tutoiement, but Lucile with vouvoiement. The parts in italics got censored when the letters for the first time got published in Correspondance de Camille Desmoulins(1834):

Marseille, October 18 1793, year 2 of the republic one and indivisible Bonjour, Camille, Ricord will tell you about a lot of things. Our business in front of Toulon is going badly. We have lost precious time and if Carteaux had left La Poype to his own devices, the latter would have been master of the place more than fifteen days ago, but instead, we have to hold a regular siege and our enemies grow stronger every day by the way of the sea. It is time for the Committee of Public Safety to know the truth. I am going to write to Robespierre to inform him about everything. You may not know everything that has happened to me; I have upheld my reputation as an old Cordelier, for I am like you from the first batch; and although very lazy by nature (I say my fault), I found in the great crises a greater activity than I would have believed. But it was a question of saving the south and the army of Italy; because I am not talking about my skin; for a long time [unreadable word for me] have been an object of [unreadable word] for the counter-revolutionaries without [unreadable word]. I will prevent Toulon from forming its sections and consequently from opening its port to the English and from dragging us, at the onset of winter, into the lengths of a murderous siege. La Poype commands a division of the army in front of Toulon; you have no idea how Carteaux makes him swallow snakes: he had seized the heights of Faron, a mountain which dominates a very important fort from which one can strike down and reduce Toulon. Well! Carteaux left him at this post without reinforcement, and he was obliged to evacuate it. Carteaux would rather have the capture of Toulon delayed and missed twenty times than allow another to have the glory. Speak, thunder, burst. La Poype did not contradict himself for a single moment; you know him, he has not changed. I am perhaps a little suspicious: that is why I abstain from writing on his account; but ask all those who come from here and they will tell you what the patriots think. Did you learn from Father Huguenin that I had printed in Monaco six thousand copies of your Histoire des Brissotins which I distributed profusely in Nice and in the department of Var? You did not think you would receive the honors of printing in Italy. You see it's good to have friends everywhere. I have been very worried about Danton. The papers announced that he was ill. Let me know if he’s recovered. Tell him and give him a thousand regards from me. I look forward to seeing you again, but this after the capture of Toulon; I dream only of Toulon; it’s my nec plus ultra. I will either perish or see its ruins. Is Patagon (Brune) in Paris? Remind me of him. Farewell, my dear Camille, tell me the story of Duplain Lunettes. Is it true that he is in prison? Attacking Chaplain! ah! he is such a good man! Tell me the reasons for his detention. Has he really changed? This is inconceivable. We are doing a lot of work here; we are impatiently awaiting the troops which were in front of Lyon and the siege artillery which we lack; without that the only thing we would make in Toulon would be clear water.  Answer me in grace; Ricord will give you my address.  I embrace you.  Fréron.  PS. You have known for a long time that I love your wife madly; I write to her about it, it is indeed the least consolation that can be obtained for an unhappy bunny, absent since eight months. As there is a fairly detailed article on La Poype, I invite you to read it. Adieu, both of you, think sometimes of the best of your friends; answer me as well as Rouleau (Lucile). 

Marseille, October 18 1793, year 2 of the republic one and indivisible How lucky Ricord is! So he is going to see you again, Lucile, and I, for a century, have been in exile. Communications between the southern departments with Paris have been closed for more than three months. Ever since they’ve been restored, I have wanted to write to you. A hundred times I have picked up the pen, and a hundred times it has fallen from my hand. He is leaving, this fortunate mortal, and I finally venture to give him this letter for you, the content of which he is unaware about. May it convince you, Lucile, that you have always been in my thoughts! Let Camille murmur about it, let him say all he wants about it, in that he will only act like all proprietor; but certainly he cannot do you the insult of thinking that he is the only one in the world who finds you lovable and has the right to tell you so. He knows it, that wretch of Bouli-Boula, because said in your presence: "I love Bunny because he loves Rouleau." 

This poor bunny has had a great deal of adventures; he has traversed furious burrows and he has stored up ample stories for his old age. He has often missed the wild thyme which your pretty hands in small strokes enjoyed feeding him in your garden in Bourg de l’Egalité. Besides, he was not below his mission, exposing his life several times to save the republic. In seeking the glory of a good deed, do you know what sustained him, what he always had before his eyes? First, the homeland, then, you. He only wanted and he only wants to be worthy of the both of you. You will find this romantic bunny and he is not bad at it. He remembers your idylls, your willows, your shrines and your bursts of laughter. He sees you trotting around your room, running over the floor, sitting down for a minute at your piano, spending whole hours in your armchair, dreaming, letting your imagination travel; then he sees you making coffee at the roadside, scrambling like an elf and cussing like a cat, showing your teeth. He enters your bedroom; he stealthily casts a longing eye on a certain blue bed, he watches you, he listens to you, and he keeps quiet. Isn’t that you! Isn’t that me! When will these happy moments return? I don’t know, I am now pressing the execrable Toulon, I am determined to either perish on its ramparts or to scale them, flame in hand. Death will be sweet and glorious to me as long as you reserve a tear for me.

My heart is torn, my mind devoted to a thousand cares, My sister and my niece, little Fanny, are locked up in Toulon in the hospital like unfortunates; I can't give them any relief and they may lack everything. La Poype, who adores her, but still more his homeland, besieges and presses this infamous city; he cannons and bombards it without reserve, and, as the price of such admirable devotion, he is calumniated, he is hampered, his efforts are paralyzed, he is left devoid of arms, cartridges, and artillery; they water him with bitterness, they cast doubts on his civism; and while Carteaux, to whom Albitte has made a colossal reputation, but who is in a condition to take Toulon no more than I am the moon, seeks, through the lowest jealousy, to lose him in the mind of the soldier, sometimes by passing him off as a counter-revolutionary, sometimes by spreading the rumor that he has emigrated and fled to Toulon. He alone attempts daring blows, and having made himself master of a fort which dominates Toulon, he would have taken that town in a week, if Carteaux had sent him the reinforcements he in vain asked for. One thing that must not be forgotten is that in the army of Italy, the traitor Brunet, the federalist Brunet, made La Poype pass for a Maratist and an outraged montagnard. Why? Because the staff of which he was the chief, had been composed by him only of Marseillois from the 10th of August and of Cordeliers. This is the truth. Make it known to your husband. Prevent from being oppressed the most patriotic general officer perhaps of all the armies, who has never contradicted himself; who has sacrificed his wife and child to the homeland; who began by besieging the Bastille with Barras and me; who since has not varied; who has worked for a long time with l’Orateur du Peuple; who was decreed in the affair of the Champ-de-Mars, etc, etc. I leave it to your so persuasive mouth to assert these titles.

I embrace you, divine Rouleau, dearer than all the rouleaux of gold and crowns that could be offered to me. I embrace you in hope, and I will date my happiness only from the day when I shall see you again. Remind me of your dear maman and of citizen Duplessis. Will you answer me? "Oh! no, Stanislas!”  Please answer me, if only because of La Poype. Show my letter to Camille, for I do not wish to make a mystery of anything. 

Lucile wrote a response to Fréron that has since gone missing, but it was clearly satisfying for him judging by his next letter, dated December 11 (incorrectly September 11 in the published correspondance) 1793 and addressed to Lucile:

No, my answer will not be delayed by eight months as you put it; the day before yesterday I received, read, reread and devoured your letter; and the pen does not fall from my hands when it comes to acknowledge receipt. What pleasure it gave me !... Pleasure all the more vivid than I dared to hope! You think, then, of that poor bunny, who, exiled far from your heaths, your cabbage, your wild thyme and the paternal dwelling, is consumed with grief at seeing the most constant efforts for the glory and the strengthening of the republic lost... They denounce me, they calumniate me, when all of the South proclaims that without our measures, as active as they are wise and energetic, all this country would be lost and given over to Lyon, Bordeaux and the Vendée. I did not deign to answer Hébert (Fréron (and La Poype) had been denounced at the Jacobins on November 8 by Hébert, who said he ”was nothing more than an aristocrat, a muscadin”). I thank your wolf for having defended me, but he, in his turn, is denounced. They want to take us one after the other, saving Robespierre for last. I invite your wolf to see Raphaël Leroy, commissioner of war for the Army of Italy, who saw me in the most stormy circumstances and the most critical situation in which a representative of the people has ever been. He will say if I am a muscadin, a dictator and an aristocrat. This Leroy is one of the first Cordeliers. Camille knows him; no one is in a better position to make the truth about La Poype and me triumph.

I dare say that never has a republican behaved with more self-sacrifice than your bunny. The fact that La Poype is my brother-in-law was enough for me to make it a rule to keep him away from all command-in-chief, albeit his rank and his seniority, but even more his foolproof patriotism called him there. From then on I foresaw everything that malevolence would not fail to spread. I’d rather be unjust towards La Poype, and make obvious privileges, than I’d give arms to slander, and make people suspect even that the most vicious motives of ambition or of particular interest were involved in my conduct for some reason. When Brunet was dismissed, what better opportunity to advance La Poype? He came to command naturally and by rank. He was the oldest officer-general of the army of Italy. Well! I dismissed him and we named the oldest member of the same army, a man who had only been a general of division for a fortnight, and yet La Poype wanted to sacrifice his wife and his child, saving the national representation, with the certainty that both were going to be delivered to the Toulonnais, which did indeed happen. And these are the men that the most execrable system of defamation pursues! Vulgar souls, muddy souls, you have lent us your baseness; you could not believe, still less reach the height of our sentiments; but the truth will destroy your infernal machinations; we will do our duty through all obstacles and disgusts; we will continue to be useful to the republic, to devote ourselves to its salvation; we will sacrifice our wives and our sisters to it; we will make to our fellow citizens the faithful presentation of our actions, our labors and our most secret thoughts, and we will say to our denouncers: have you produced more titles than us to the public esteem?

Dear Lucile, tell your wolf a thousand things from me; make sure he puts forward these reasons based on notorious facts. Pay him my compliment on his proud reply to Barnave; it is worthy of Brutus, our eternal model; I am like you; a gloomy uneasiness agitates me; I see a vast conspiracy about to break out within the republic; I see discord shake its torches among the patriots; I see ambitious people who want to seize the government, and who, to achieve this, do everything in the world to blacken and dismiss the purest men, men of means and character. I am proof of that. Robespierre is my compass; I perceive, in all the speeches he holds at the Jacobins, the truth of what I am saying here. I don't know if Camille thinks like me; but it seems to me that one wants to push the popular societies beyond their goal, and make them carry out, without them suspecting it, counter-revolution, by ultra-revolutionary measures. What has just happened in Marseille is proof of this. The municipals who had dared to give the order to two battalions of sans-culottes whom we had required to march on Toulon, not to obey the representatives of the people, and who, for this audacious and criminal act, were dismissed by us, were embraced and applauded in the popular society of Marseilles, as the victims of patriotism. Fortunately we have stifled any counter-revolutionary movement; the largest and most imposing measures were taken on the spot. Many intriguers who only saw in the revolution a means of making a fortune, or of satisfying revenge or particular hatreds, dominated and led society astray, all the more easily because they are interesting in the eyes of the people through the persecutions of the sections and a few months in prison. Do you believe that there were secret committees where the motion was made to arrest the representatives of the people? Within twenty-four hours, we have mixed up all these plots: Marseille is saved. It must be observed that this new conspiracy broke out the very day when the English pushed three columns upon our army before Toulon, and seized the battery of the convention, from which they were repulsed with a terrible loss on their side.

It is not useless to notice again that the aristocrats, the emissaries of Pitt, the false patriots, the patriots of money who see their small hopes destroyed by these acts of vigor, repeat with affectation what has been said about me by Hébert at the rostrum of the Jacobins. But the vast majority of true republicans do me justice. This is the harm produced by vague denunciations, made by a patriot against patriots. I see it well; Pitt and the people of Toulon, who doubt our energy because they have tested it on more than one occasion, want, by all possible means, to keep us away from the siege of Toulon, because it is known that we are going to strike the great blows. Well! let us be reminded; we are ready. The national representation did not cross our heads like so many others. Don't come here, lovable and dear Lucile, it's a terrible country, whatever people say, a barbaric country, when you've lived in Paris. I have no caves (cavernes) to offer you, but many cypresses. They grow here naturally. Tell your glutton of a husband that the snipes and thrushes here are better than the inhabitants. If it weren't so far from here in Paris, I would send him some, but you will receive some olives and oil. Farewell, dear Lucile, I am leaving immediately for the army. The general attack is about to begin; it will have taken place when you receive this letter. We are counting on great successes and to force all the posts and redoubts of the enemy with the bayonets. My sister is still locked up in Toulon. This consideration will not stop us: if she perishes, we will give tears to her ashes; but we will have returned Toulon to the republic. I thank you for your charming memory; La Poype, whom I do not see, because he is in his division, will be very sensitive to it. Farewell once again, madwoman, a hundred times mad, darling rouleau, bouli-boula of my heart; this is a very long letter; but I gave myself up to the pleasure of chatting with you, and I took the night for it. Tell loup-loup to write to me; he's a sloth. With regard to your reply to this one, it will probably take a year to arrive. What does it matter to me! On the contrary. It's clear as day. I remember those unintelligible sentences; I remember that piano, those melodies, that melancholy tone, abruptly interrupted by great bursts of laughter. Indefinable being!... Farewell.  I embrace the whole warren and you, Lucile, with tenderness and with all my soul.  Stanislas. 

PS - Don't forget me to the baby bunny (Horace) and his pretty grandmother Melpomène. I would also like to hear from Patagon (Brune), Saturn (Duplain) and Marius (Danton). The latter must have received a letter from me. I will write to him again. Make sure Camille communicates  the parts of this letter regarding La Poype, and that his eloquent voice pleads the cause of a friend always worthy of him, always worthy of the Cordeliers. Remind us of his memory, for we love him and are attached to him for life. Consternation is in Toulon. We have killed the English, at the last incident, all their grenadiers. The Spaniards are assassinating them with their stilettos. They have already stabbed thirty of them. It’s now or never to attack. So I am leaving; the cannonade will begin as soon as we will have arrived. We are going to win laurels or willows. Prepare, Lucile, what it is you intend for me. 

In the fifth number of the Vieux Cordelier, released January 5 1794, Camille did like Fréron had asked and defended both him and la Poype, clearly using Fréron’s letter as a source:

Note here that four weeks ago, Hebert presented to the Jacobins a soldier who came to heap pretentious praise on Carteaux and to discredit our two Cordeliers Fréron and La Poype who nevertheless had come close to taking Toulon in spite of envy and slander; because Hebert called Freron, just as he called me, a ci-devant patriot, a muscadin, a Sardanapalus, a viédasse. Take note citizens that Hebert has continued to insult Fréron and Barras for two months, to demand their recall to the Committee of Public Safety and to commend Carteaux, without whom General La Poype would perhaps have retaken Toulon six weeks ago, when he had already seized Fort Pharon. Take note that when Hébert saw that he could not influence Robespierre on the subject of Fréron because Robespierre knows the Old Cordeliers, because he knows Freron just as he knows me; note that it was then that this forged letter signed by Fréron and Barras arrived at the Committee for Public Safety, from where no one knows; this letter which so strongly resembled one which managed to arrive two days ago at the Quinze Vingts, which made out that d’Eglantine, Bourdon de l’Oise, Philippeaux and myself wanted to whip up the sections. Oh! My dear Fréron, it is by these crude artifices that the patriots of August 10 are undermining the pillars of the old district of the Cordeliers. You wrote ten days ago to my wife ”I only dream of Toulon, I will either perish there or return it to the republic, I’m leaving. The cannonade will begin as soon as I arrive; we are going to win a laurel or a willow: prepare one or the other for me.” Oh! My brave Fréron, we both wept with joy when we learned this morning of the victory of the republic, and that it was with laurels that we would go to meet you, and not with willows to meet your ash. It was in the assault with Salicetti and the worthy brother of Robespierre, that you responded to the calumnies of Hébert. Things are therefore the same both in Paris and Marseille! I will quote your words, because those of a conqueror will carry more weight than mine. You write to us in this same letter: I don't know if Camille thinks like me; but it seems to me that one wants to push the popular societies beyond their goal, and make them carry out, without them suspecting it, counter-revolution, by ultra-revolutionary measures. What has just happened in Marseille is proof of this. Oh well! My poor Martin (this could be a reference to the the drawing ”Martin Fréron mobbed by Voltaire” which depicts Fréron’s father Élie Fréron as a donkey called ”Martin F.”), were you therefore pursued by the Père Duchesnes of both Paris and Bouches-du-Rhône? And without knowing it, by that instinct which never misleads true republicans, two hundred leagues apart, I with my writing desk, you with your sonorous voice, we are waging war against the same enemies! But it is necessary to break with you this colloquium, and return to my justification. 

The very same day, Fréron wrote a third letter to Lucile. Again, the parts in italics were censored when the letter was first published in 1836:

You did not answer me, dearest Lucile, and my punctuality has so dumbfounded you that your astonishment still lasts. You had deferred my answer to eight months; you see if you are a good prophetess. I inform you with a sensitive pleasure (which you will share, I am sure) that my sister and my niece did not perish; that they found a way to wear themselves out in the dreadful night which preceded the surrender of Toulon. She is about to give birth. I informed her of the interest you took in her sad fate; she was very sensitive and asks me to show you her gratitude.  Answer me then, lazy that you are, and ungrateful, which is worse. One breaks the silence after a year, after centuries, and one gets, as thank you, a few words written in distraction, Bouli-Boula, what does it do to me? The bunny is desolute; he thinks of you constantly; he thought about you amid bombs and bullets, and he would have gladly said like that old gallant: Ah! if my lady saw me!  I realize with sorrow that you are upset, since Camille has been denounced by the same men who have pursued me at the Jacobins. I hope he will triumph over these attacks; I recognized his original touch in a few passages from his new journal; and I too am one of the old Cordeliers. Farewell, Lucile, wicked devil, enemy of bunnies. Has your wild thyme been harvested? I shall not delay, despite all my insults, to implore the favor of nibbling some from your hand. I asked for a month's leave to recover a bit; for I am exhausted with fatigue; afterwards I fly back into the bosom of the Convention, and I stealthily amaze myself on the grass with Martin on the paths of Bourg d’Égalité, under the eyes of la grande lapin? and in spite of your pots of water.  You'll have neither olives nor oil if I don't get a response from you. You can tell me whatever you like but I love you and embrace you, right under the nose of your jealous loup-loup. Goodbye once more.  Do not forget me to our shared friends. What has become of citoyenne Robert? A thousand things to your old loup-loup; I wanted to write to him, but time is short and the mail rushes me. Tell him to keep his imagination in check a little with respect to a committee of clemency. It would be a triumph for the counter-revolutionaries. Let not his philanthropy blind him; but let him make an all-out war on all industrial patriots.  Goodbye again, loveliest of rouleux. My respects to your good and beautiful maman. Give my regards to the baby bunny (Horace).  The letter reached Lucile within a week, but it’s with a tone less playful than Fréron’s that she answered it with on January 13 (cited in Camille Desmoulins and his wife (1874) by Jules Claretie):

Come back, Fréron, come back quickly. You have no time to lose; bring with you all the old Cordeliers you can meet up with; we have the greatest need of them. If it had pleased Heaven not to have ever dispersed them! You cannot have an idea of what is going on here! You are ignorant of everything, you only see a feeble glimmering in the distance, which can give you but a faint idea of our situation. Indeed, I am not surprised that you reproach Camille for his Committee of Clemency. He cannot be judged from Toulon. You are happy where you are; all has gone according to the wish of your heart; but we, calumniated, persecuted by the ignorant, the intriguing, and even by patriots; Robespière (sic) your compass, has denounced Camille at the Jacobins; he has had numbers 3 and 4 read, and has demanded that they should be burnt; he who had read them in manuscript. Can you conceive such a thing? For two consecutive sittings he has thundered, or rather shrieked, against Camille. At the third sitting Camille's name was struck off. Oddly enough, he made inconceivable efforts to have the cancelling reported; it was reported; but he saw that when he did not think or act according to their the will of a certain number of individuals, he was not all powerful. Marius (Danton) is not listened to any more, he is losing courage and vigour. D'Eglantine is arrested, and in the Luxembourg, under very grave charges. So he was not a patriot! he who had been one until now! A patriot the less is a misfortune the more.  The monsters have dared to reproach Camille with having married a rich woman. Ah! let them never speak of me; let them ignore my existence, let me live in the midst of a desert. I ask nothing from them, I will give up to them all I possess, provided I do not breathe the same air as they! Could I but forget them, and all the evils they cause us! I see nothing but misfortune around me. I confess, I am too weak to bear so sad a sight. Life has become a heavy burden. I cannot even think - thinking, once such a pure and sweet pleasure alas! I am deprived of it… My eyes fill with tears… I shut up this terrible sorrow in my heart; I meet Camille with a serene look, I affect courage that he may not lose his keep up his. You do not seem to me to have read his five numbers. Yet you are a subscriber. Yes, the wild thyme is gathered, quite ready. I plucked it amid many cares. I laugh no more; I never act the cat; I never play my piano; I dream no more, I am nothing but a machine now. I see no one, I never go out. It is a long time since I have seen the Roberts. They have gotten into difficulties through their own fault. They are trying to be forgotten.  Farewell, bunny, you will call me mad again. I am not, however, quite yet; I have still enough reason left to suffer. I cannot express to you my joy on learning that your dear sister had met with no accident; I have been quite uneasy since I heard Toulon was taken. I wondered incessantly what would be their fate. Speak to them sometimes of me. Embrace them both for me. I beg them to do the same to you, for me.  Do you hear! my wolf cries out: Martin, my dear Martin, here, thou art come that I may embrace thee; come back very soon. Come back, come back very soon; we are awaiting you impatiently. 

In number 6 of the Vieux Cordelier, released January 30 1794, Camille responds to Fréron’s critique regarding a committee of clemency while informing him that his father-in-law has gotten arrested: 

Beware, Fréron, that I was not writing my number 4 in Toulon, but here, where I assure you that everyone is in order, and where there is no need for the spur of Père Duchesne, but rather of the Vieux Cordelier's bridle; and I will prove it to you without leaving my house and by a domestic example. You know my father-in-law, Citizen Duplessis, a good commoner and son of a peasant, blacksmith of the village. Well! The day before yesterday, two commissioners from Mutius Scaevola's section (Vincent's section, that will tell you everything) came up to his house; they find law books in the library; and notwithstanding the decree that no one will touch Domat, nor Charles Dumoulin, although they deal with feudal matters, they raid half the library, and charge two pickers with the paternal books. […] An old clerk's wallet, which had been discarded, forgotten above a cupboard in a heap of dust, and which he had not touched or even thought about for perhaps ten years, and on which they managed discovered the imprint of a few fleur-de-lis, under two fingers of filth, completed the proof that citizen Duplessis was suspect, and thus he was locked up until the peace, and seals put on all the gates of this countryhouse where you remember, my dear Fréron, that we both found an asylum which the tyrant dared not violate after we were both ordered to be seized after the massacre of the Champ-de-Mars. 

Fréron was back in Paris by at least March 14, less than a month before the arrest of Camille and Lucile. He is not confirmed to have tried to do anything to save his friends. Following their death, he does however appear to have laid low. He is not proven to have spoken at the Jacobins following March 26, and so far I haven’t found any recorded apperances at the Convention either. I don’t think it would be completely out of the blue to speculate in whether his choice to play an active role in the fall of Robespierre (he was one of nine deputies designated in the thermidorian pamphlet Conjuration formée dès le 5 préréal [sic] par neuf représentans du peuple contre Maximilien Robespierre, pour le poignarder en plein sénat (1794) to on May 24 1794 have formed a plan to stab him to death, and also spoke against the robespierrists during the session of 9 thermidor) to some extent was motivated by the urge to avenge his dead friends, especially since I can’t find any instance of Robespierre openly denouncing Fréron or anything to that effect.

When Fréron shortly after thermidor revived his journal l’Orateur du Peuple, he used it to rehabilitate Camille’s memory, but also used said memory as a weapon against the Jacobins. These are all mentions made of Camille and Lucile in the part of the journal currently digitalized:

[The Jacobin Club] threw from its bosom and sent to the scaffold the unfortunate Camille Desmoulins, who was guilty of no other crime than of having wanted to uncloak and put an end to those of this detestable faction.  Number 7 of l’Orateur du Peuple (September 26 1794).

Camille Desmoulins to the Jacobins of Paris: Citizens, I come to open your eyes to the abyss that is growing under your feet. I have just lifted you from the lethargic sleep into which it seems that a genius enemy of our joy and your safety had plunged you. Frenchmen, wake up! Never have the scroundels that do not show themselves, but who make their numerous beutenans act, according to the expression of Legendre, been more, in labor of the counter-revolution. They feel themselves lost, carried away, like in spite of themselves and tears; so to speak, in the tumbril of public opinion. [”Camille” then goes on to conduct Fréron’s politics for approximately seven pages, most of the entire number.] As it’s Robespierre who signed my passport for the other side, and who had the attention to send my wife there too eight days later, it’s him I must thank him for the good that I have now. […]  Number 9 of l’Orateur du Peuple (September 28 1794)

Have they (the Jacobins) overlooked and denounced the abhorrent tribunal of Robespierre and his co-dictators? No, they’ve even sent innocents there, such as Phelippeux [sic], Camille Desmoulins and many others.  Number 28 of l’Orateur du Peuple (October 19 1794)

In Réponse de Fréron, représentant du peuple, aux diffamations de Moyse Bayle (1795), we also find the following passage:

You (Bayle) who plunged the dagger (for your pen was the knife of our colleagues) into the bosom of Camille and Phelippeaux [sic]: your features cannot freighten me; I am stronger than your insults. […] A constant truth today, in Toulon, is that at most there were a hundred and fifty rebels immolated in the national revenge. In this regard, I appeal to my colleagues Barras, Ricord, Crevés, Rovére and all the inhabitants of the Medi: if I had only told Moyle Bayle this small number, we would have been recalled and guillotined as moderates and as being necessarily the same as this poor Camille, of the indulgent faction. 

And in Mémoire historique sur la réaction royale et sur les massacres du Midi (1824, published posthumously?) he writes:

During a dinner at citizen Formalguès’ where I found myself together with Legendre, Tallien, Barras and other deputies, the conversation fell on Camille Desmoulins, this child so naive and spiritual, murdered for having proposed a committee of clemency. I tell Lanjuinais, whom Camille had pleasantly called le pape of the Vendée, and who was sitting in front of me: ”But, Lanjuinais, if the poor Camille had lived, would you have him guillotined?”  ”Unquestionably,” responded the jansenist.  As I was very glad that other witnesses heard, from Lanjuinais' own mouth, this sweet monosyllable, in which his beautiful soul was depicted, I turned a deaf ear and began my sentence again. "Without difficulty, there is no question," resumed the holy man in an impatient tone; and thereupon one rose from the table, he made the sign of the cross, joined his hands, and said his graces. 

Furthermore, Fréron stayed in touch with Lucile’s mother Annette Duplessis, helping her get back the objects confiscated by the state after Camille and Lucile’s execution, obtaining the pension their son Horace in 1796 had been promised by the Council of Five Hundred, and making sure Horace got a good education at the Prytanée Français (former Louis-le-Grand):

I have just written to Fréron, as we agreed. This is what I think you ought to ask of him:  1. Being your children’s friend, that he should take all neccesary steps in Horace’s favour with the committees.  2. That he should claim for him the family papers and his father’s manusscript.  3. That he should claim for Horace the family books; they also will be useful for his instruction; they are indispensable for the supply of his wants; besides, this justice has already been done to Citizen Boucher’s widow, therefore there is a precedent for it.  Committees composed of the friends of justice ought to be proud to being useful to the orphans of patriots. Fréron and his friends cannot refuse to act in concert with you. Greetings and friendship.  Brune in a letter to Annette Duplessis, March 3 1795

22 vêntose year 8 I’ve spoken to the Minister of the Interior, Madame, about your (votre) position and that of Horace with so much interest that you inspire in me. He finds it right that the son of Camille Desmoulins enters the Prytanée Français. He told me about it, but it is essential that the child knows how to read and write perfectly before his admission. I will have the honor of seeing you over the next décade, and we will discuss together the procedure to follow; I do not doubt for a single moment the success, based on the way the minister responded to me. You personally have not been forgotten. I told him (because he was unaware) that the National Convention had granted you a pension, which was not paid, and has never been paid, I fear. He is equally prepared to make you receive it. You must send me, 1. the Convention’s decree or the copy of it; 2. your demand or petition, without forgetting to specify since when your pension has not been paid. Citizen Omae? will arrive in 15 days. Yesterday I saw his wife who had just learned of the news through a letter he sent her this Thursday. A thousand hugs to the charming little Horace, and a thousands attachments to his good maman. On the first fine day I’m going to early in the morning read and re-read all the packages from Bourg Égalité and the idyll of the most lovable woman I have known. Salut and respect.  Fréron. Fréron in a letter to Annette Duplessis, March 13 1800

Aside from these two letters, there’s also several unpublished ones, one dated February 20 1795 through which we learn that Fréron, with the help of deputies Aubry, Tallien, Ysabeau and Rovère obtained a reprieve on the sale of Camille’s confiscated bed and libary, which they managed to save for Horace, one dated March 1 1795 and co-authored by Fréron and Laurance to the commissioners handling the sale of the property of convicts of the section of the Théatre-Français, one dated June 17 1800 from Fréron to Annette regarding Horace’s schooling (all of these were mentioned in Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un rêve de république), and finally one dated April 27 1800 Fréron adressed to Duplain, promising his support to Napoleon so that Horace could enter the Prytanée Français (mentioned in Journaliste, sans-culotte et thermidorien: le fils de Fréron: 1754-1802 (1909).

Finally, according to Marcellin Matton, Fréron named his two children Camille and Lucile in honor of his dead friends. However, I’ve not found any information about said children (which, if they existed at all, must have been illegitimate since Fréron never married) anywhere, neither in Fréron’s family tree nor in the 1909 biography, so perhaps Matton is mistaken here…

[muddyorbsblr]

the final Lady Sharpe part 4: something to look forward to

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Part of the 500 Follower Celebration Requested by: @ellooo0ooo

Summary: You and Edith make significant progress on your mission to put Lucille behind bars; Thomas makes a confession before you go to sleep

Pairing: Thomas Sharpe x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: ghosts; a lil bit of steam [let me know if I missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: Reader & Thomas are married; more pining; simp Thomas

The ink had dried enough on the final document you were working on duplicating for tonight that you could group them together and place the original papers back in Lucille's hiding place. Tomorrow morning if ever she were to check on them, she would be none the wiser of what had been transpiring over the last two weeks. You repeatedly clenched and unclenched your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them after writing with barely a pause for break over the last few hours.

"Tomorrow we'll be done with all the documents," you whispered into the silence, feeling Edith's presence nearby as you made your way to Thomas' workshop. "I'll need you to show me where the phonograph cylinders are hidden, and if you know which one has Lucille's demented confession…"

"I'll show you the way," she confirmed. "And I'll make sure that none of the more…how do I put this…bloodthirsty spirits don't touch you. They tend to be a bit overly protective of their turf."

"The what?" You froze in place at her mention of bloodthirsty spirits. You had enough of a fright when you'd first "met" her and Enola, you might not survive encountering their less agreeable companions. The feel of someone nudging you from behind had you moving down the corridor again.

"Don't you worry about them, Y/N. I'll do my part to keep them away, explain to them that you're our friend, and you'll put an end to Lucille's lifelong murder spree. It might take time for them to fully understand, but they will."

Once you crossed the threshold to Thomas' workshop, you heard the exaggerated groan that belonged to your fleeting husband. Checking the candle in your hand, there was only about a thumb's worth left.

"Right on schedule," Edith remarked before you felt a nudging sensation on your shoulder. "You know he must really care for you if he's willing to endure being with her for the sake of your safety. Before she made him go back out into the city to find a new wife--well, a new victim, he looked gaunt. Almost like he found his life grotesque. Then he came back here with you and…there was color in his face again. Like he's allowed himself to live while he wooed and married you. There's a happiness in him when he's with you that I only ever saw glimpses of back when I was--"

Her words fell dead, but you had a feeling you knew what the sentiment was. Back when I was alive. Back when I was his wife.

"Why Miss Edith Cushing, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were playing matchmaker with your ex-husband and his current charlatan of a wife," you mumbled, trying not to look to deeply into her words, her testimony of Thomas' time before you. You were already having enough trouble keeping your affections for him at bay whenever he engaged in your routine of a kiss to cap off the night, marking yet another rung on the progression ladder. Lucille's incarceration becoming ever closer.

You decided to hide the duplicated papers in between the pages of his sketchbook, thinking the chances were slim that Lucille would look into them since he only kept concept art of the toys he wished to work on within it. Flipping through the pages to evenly distribute the additional papers, you found a set of sketches that had absolutely nothing to do with toy designs.

The last few pages that he'd worked on in the journal were filled with sketches of you. Some depicted you asleep, others as if the image he had in mind was of you next to him at the dining table. And a full page that showed the bedroom you shared with the baronet, you perched on the edge, a light wash of orange painted on the page, like the scene was illuminated by firelight.

That was the day you arrived at Allerdale Hall. The fleeting moments of desirous bliss you had before reality came crashing down on you.

"You say this marriage is all an act for you both now, but it doesn't look that way. Not from where I'm standing…well, floating." Both of you shared a chuckle before she posed a question at you. "Y/N something I noticed at night when he makes his way back to you…there's an excitement in him, as if he can't move fast enough."

"I--I didn't know about that part," you answered her in hushed tones as you made your way to your shared bedroom, maneuvering the barely moonlit halls with what little candlelight remained. "I usually try not to look at him before we sleep. I fail, of course, but I make the effort. Granting his request for a kiss after he washes the night off of him was already a miscalculation on my part--"

"Completely understandable miscalculation," she quipped, managing to quietly open the bedroom door wide open. "Far too handsome for me to even think of knowing any better back then."

"My thoughts exactly," you mumbled, stepping into the bedroom and disposing of the used candlewax before stretching and allowing yourself to relax from the night's clandestine activities. "Goodnight, Edith."

"I'll talk to the spirits inhabiting the corridor where the cylinders are hidden," she offered, a faint whispering joining her once again before you heard her echoing chuckle. "It seems your husband's rushing to make his way to you. You still have quite the night ahead. Goodnight, my friend."

You could feel the fatigue setting in as you let the tub fill for Thomas' bath before putting away your tools and your blades, mentally preparing yourself for another night of insufficient sleep. Just as you had for the better part of the last two weeks.

Right as you made your way back to your side of the bed and shook your hair loose from your bun, Thomas walked through the open door. You gave him a small smile. "I should be done with the documents tomorrow, Edith and I will work on transcribing the recording cylinders that can lead the case more to Lucille than you two days from now at the latest."

"That's wonderful news, darling," he beamed at you, running his gaze over you briefly before walking toward the bathroom. "I shall see you in a few moments," he told you, his voice echoing across the tiles. A few seconds later the sound of the water sloshing and a sinfully satisfied groan filled the room as he sat into the tub. "You truly are a godsend, my wife. Thank you."

You did your best to ignore the fluttering in your stomach hearing him call you that. You wouldn't hear it for much longer with the progress you were making. "You're welcome," you answered back, fighting back your own sounds of relief once your back hit the bed and you allowed yourself to finally relax for the night.

The cumulative efforts of the last dozen or so days seem to have finally taken its toll on you, your eyes fluttering shut as soon as your head hit the pillow. You hadn't been able to hear the sound of Thomas padding his feet on the floor and back to you, or his little gasp as he saw you in your slumbering state.

"No…" he sighed, climbing into bed with you. "Y/N, darling, please tell me you haven't completely fallen asleep yet," he said softly, brushing your hair away from your face.

"Hmm?" You leaned in to his touch, feeling a strange sense of comfort when your cheek rubbed against his slightly calloused hand. "'M awake…" you mumbled, slowly opening your eyes. He gave you a tender smile when your eyes met his, and you couldn't help but return it.

It was only in these moments just before you both went to sleep, your parts in this perilous operation done for the night, that you could allow yourself to almost feel as if you were a normal married couple. Just laying in bed together before going to sleep, sharing a quick goodnight kiss before he pulled you into his arms, cradling you against his chest.

Perhaps even indulge yourself, even for a moment, in the dangerous truth that once this was all over, you would miss these fleeting moments of peace with him. You'd miss how he held you through the night and how you'd wake up wrapped in his arms. How in the last few days he would greet you in the morning with a soft kiss to your nose before you both made your way out of bed and stepped out of your room.

You would miss him when all this was over. When you'd both signed the divorce papers and went on your separate ways, and you were back in your apartment in the city, going to bed alone, you would miss him.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, a small sound coming from the back of his throat as he sighed into the kiss, almost as if he was relieved. "This is the only thing getting me through the nights," he said solemnly, settling more comfortably into the bed as he kept kissing you. "Knowing that this was what awaited me when I get back."

Instead of your usual night routine of a few kisses and he would pull you into his arms, both of you falling asleep to the sound of the other's breath evening out, he moved his body closer, kissing his way to your neck, his hand traveling down the side of your body until it settled at your waist. His lips began to trace along the neckline of your nightgown, the contented hums against your skin combined with the feel of his lips on you had you struggling for breath. "Thomas--"

"It should be you," he whimpered, his exhales warming your skin. "I should be spending my night with you. Laying with you." He kept on kissing along your neckline, his other hand pulling along the string that exposed your décolletage and he immediately pressed his lips to your chest, above your heart. "You're my wife, I should be with you."

He kissed his way back to your lips, your shock from his confession letting his tongue slip past your lips and tangle with your own. It was like flames licked all along your body at the contact, both of you moaning into each other's mouths as your fingers weaved into his onyx curls.

"Thomas, wait--" you tried to say, placing your hands on his chest in a paltry attempt to get him to pause for a moment, failing to fight against your eyes fluttering closed and your entire body melting under him the moment his tongue delicately ran along the roof of your mouth.

"I want to lay with you," he said once he pulled away, looking at you with those wide pleading eyes that likened him to a pup asking for a treat. "May I?"

For the love of all things good in this world say yes, you hissed at yourself. You struggled to breathe properly, fighting against every instinct to give in as he repeatedly whispered "please" into your skin. Trying to not let the curiosity and desire consume you and see how far your husband was willing to go.

This was the fantasy you wanted to lose yourself in, where by some miracle when all this was over and you both made it out alive, that you'd found something with each other that neither of you wanted to lose. That after all this perhaps you could have a life together, preferably far away from Allerdale Hall and the figurative and literal ghosts that roam the corridors.

The fantasy that perhaps when you were both safe from Lucille and she was serving her time behind bars, locked away where she couldn't harm anyone anymore, that Thomas might not want to sign the divorce papers. Because maybe he was falling in love, too.

"We've come so far already, we can't afford to lose focus now," you answered him, your voice coming out so small it was like the words all but refused to get through the lump in your throat. "Once all this is done, and we're free of her, you'll be free to do whatever you please…with whomever you please."

The last part left a bitter taste in your mouth, like it physically pained you to say the words.

"You're right," he sighed, leaning away enough so that he could look at you. The expression on his face was akin to that of a wounded pup, making the guilt and regret from your decision overwhelm your system. "Of course." He moved over to his side of the bed, taking a breath before hesitantly touching his fingers to yours. "May I still hold you?"

You didn't think twice, moving over to him and settling into his arms. "Yes, of course." The words refused to be spoken, but you'd found a strange comfort in his embrace. That despite the very real danger you both found yourselves in, and the looming dire consequences of Lucille and the business end of her cleaver if you made so much as one misstep on this perilous endeavor of yours, you felt almost a safety in his warm embrace.

And while no one would ever be able to get you to admit it, it made getting up out of bed in the mornings near impossible. You didn't want to leave him. You wanted him all to yourself.

All the more reason why you needed to be done with this and go your separate ways. You should never be so selfish as to beg him to stay with you and deny him yet another freedom. So much had already been stolen from him.

He brushed a lock of your hair away from your face before asking softly, "How long do you reckon before Scotland Yard comes here after you send the papers?"

"Not long," you answered him, your words full of confidence in your peers. "I'll include a summary of my findings to help them through the papers I've sent them, process them faster. I'll also try and emphasize the urgency of our situation, that we're currently living in a manor with a woman that has the intention and means, not to mention the stomach, to kill me. That we have very good reason to believe our lives are in imminent danger. Should get them moving pretty quick."

"And what are we to do until they arrive?" You could feel him tensing as he anticipated your response.

Bile flooded your stomach from what you had to tell him. "We keep routine." His beautiful face looked so pained as you said the words. "She has to believe that there's nothing wrong, that everything's going to plan. If she gets even the slightest whiff that we're up to something and she kills me. Maybe even you if she finds out that you helped."

He took a shuddering breath, pulling you closer against him so he could press a kiss to your forehead. "Let's hope they move quickly then," he mumbled against you, pressing more kisses on the same spot as he took calming breaths. "I can barely stomach any more of it." His breath hitched at his words, his tone rife with shame.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, placing your hand on his chest, feeling his pulse sprinting like a madman. "This burden shouldn't be on you. Never should have been. She's stolen so much from you…" Your sentiment caught in the back of your throat as you did your damnedest to fight back tears. "I'll do my best to make sure she doesn't steal any more of your life away."

"What if she figures out what we've been up to? Or if she gets impatient and realizes there's no money coming after all this time?"

It took you a moment before you could answer, the implication hanging over you both now like the Sword of Damocles. "Then Scotland Yard will arrive here to a corpse. Either mine or hers."

Tears welled in his eyes as he pulled you closer, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. "I won't let her hurt you, I swear it." He stole a few more kisses from you before he cradled your head against his chest. "You should sleep, I can feel how tired you are."

"Exhausted," you confessed, settling into his embrace, the comfort from his hold blanketing over you as your cheek rubbed against the soft hairs on his chest. "Goodnight, husband."

You couldn't resist calling him that. In a few short weeks you'd never be able to again.

He pressed his lips to the top of your head, stroking your hair before he whispered, "Goodnight, my darling wife."

As the minutes passed, and the only sounds that filled the bedroom were your breathing and the crackling of the fireplace, Thomas found himself unable to succumb to sleep just yet. He was still riddled with so many questions that he couldn't bring himself to ask you quite yet.

What if by some freak accident of a chance, Lucille comes across one of your colleagues when she runs her errands in the city and they were to mention who you were, and what you did before you married him? What if now that she was armed with this new information, she deemed you too much of a threat and decided to do away with you like she'd done with so many other innocent women?

What if she decided to make it even worse, and ordered him to kill you instead? Spout some nonsensical notion that he needed to get his hands dirty this time around so she could see if he still had the stomach for it?

He knew he wouldn't be able to hurt you, that he would be completely unwilling to. But would he be able to protect you against Lucille?

And the question that had him looking upon the coming weeks with a mix of dread and hope, all depending on how you would react if he were to even muster up the courage to say the words: What if you stayed together after this fleeting partnership of yours? What if you were open to exploring what a life together would truly be like? Move away from Allerdale Hall and find a place in the city?

"What if I begged you not to leave me?" he whispered into the empty silence, stroking the backs of his fingers along your cheek. "What if I've fallen in love with my wife, and I want to turn our marriage into something real?"

A/N: *popping out my head from my writing hidey hole* Well hi there! Been a long while since I updated this story, but I can promise you now…I didn't abandon it 🫡 And we're picking up with our precious meow meow baronet big tiddy goth husband really showing his hand here that he's catching feelings 🥹

everything taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @anukulee @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog

[museofthepyre]

CAMP HERE & THERE SWAP! AU!!!

EVERYONE GATHER ROUND I NEED TO INFODUMP. This is going to be a long post, bear with me.

In this AU (constructed alongside the lovely @cecilsrandomeverything) is a protag/ antag swap AU, wherein Sydney and Elijah swap narrative roles, and so do Jedidiah and Adam. The rest of the cast are just swapped with their obvious counterparts (Joshua/ Yvonne, Rowan/ Juniper, Fennell/ Soren, etc)… though, there is also the less obvious swapping of Warren/ Matthew, and Lucille/ the Gravediggeress.

Titles:

Elijah, "The Angel"

Sydney, "The Miracle"/ "the Black Cat Man"

Adam, "The Vivisector"

Jedidiah, "The Horologist"

Ms. Graves, "The Sentinel"

And Lucille, "The Puppeteeress"

General Plot:

Everything pre-limn is almost exactly the same. Jedidiah and Sydney live their messy little lives, until Sydney starts wilting— Jedidiah delves into dangerous unknowable ‘magic’ in attempts to save him, but it’s not working. It’s only making him worse, and his time is running out. In a desperate Hail Mary effort, Jedidiah kills and resurrects Sydney… successfully*.

Sydney wakes up in hospital, having emerged from a long coma. The first thing he sees is a figure standing over him, haloed by the bright white lights of a hospital ceiling. Sydney saw an angel… tending to him with caring and dutiful hands, guiding him back to the realm of the living. He could feel a bruise-like ache throughout his body from where death itself had gripped him. He… had died. He knew he died, and that’s all he was certain of in that moment. He’d kissed heavens gates, and still retracted his lips from the cold metal… It left the taste of copper in his mouth. But now, somehow… he was alive again. He was alive enough to look up, all milky-eyed and dreary, at the angel who awoke him. He who preformed a miracle… divinity caged within a human vessel. Sydney felt he owed this angel a debt… he knew it would only be a matter of time before his body began to fail again. A good long life was just never in the cards for him. As he stayed in hospital, barely conscious or coherent, he came to believe that his saviour would only suffer the same fate. The body is a prison, its betrayal is inevitable and indiscriminate… even the most beautiful and holy creatures are not exempt. The body is a curse, and so, Sydney knew what he had to do with his new fleeting life.

Jedidiah must have messed up the ritual. Sydney came back, yes, but he came back wrong. So, so terribly wrong… he still… looked… dead. He was clueless to his situation, all spacey and confused… his memories were scrambled and blurry, and Jedidiah saw no spark of recognition when their eyes met. Seemingly, like a newborn fawn, Sydney had imprinted onto the first thing he saw (Elijah, who in this AU is a normal nurse). Jedidiah couldn’t accept this ending. He left Sydney there in the hospital, entrusting his care to the nurses while he isolated himself to research. He threw himself deeper and deeper down the rabbithole of forbidden magic, until he was in so deep that he could no longer see the sky above. He became lost within the unknowable… he let it consume him. He’d let it transform him. Whatever the Conductor was: some spector of the astral plane, visiting dreams to share unknowable knowledge with those who sometimes recognize his form… that’s what Jedidiah became. Jedidiah A A Martin is missing, with no body to be found. His childhood room (which he had been staying in during all this) was found in-tact, showing no sign that Jedidiah had packed up to leave. On his desk were journals filled with unintelligible writing, which slowly devolved into frantic scribbles with each passing page. Soon after… Sydney went missing too! What odd timing… he seems to have up and vanished from his hospital bed at the same time that two nurses left the job.

Elijah and Adam, who’d been college roommates a few years prior— with Elijah studying nursing, and Adam studying psychiatry. They were friends in all respects… which Elijah found himself feeling lucky for. He’d always struggled to keep friends, so when someone as sociable and charming as Adam took an interest in him… he felt indebted to the kindness. Elijah (as he does in normal CHNT) struggles with mental health… he really clung to Adam, and Adam was just as eager to be there! There to listen to him vent, help him stay grounded to reality, offer up advice, and to ask questions… lots of questions. So so many questions. After a few years, Elijah found himself feeling like Adam’s personal case study rather than a friend. As if the most interesting thing he could offer was a mind so profoundly broken that it was a spectacle to observe- something to be poked and prodded at, to see how it’ll react… but that’s impossible, Adam was his friend! He’d confided so much in this person, how could he not be? Adam told him not to seek therapy elsewhere, since Adam would help him for free! And, yknow, you can trust him, he has a psych degree. When the stress of working in hospital got to be too much for Elijah, and he began to think about staying with family for a bit… Adam was quick to provide an alternative. Adam was a social guy with many strange and unusual connections, and he just so happened to have the perfect suggestion! A much less stressful nursing position, at a summer camp run by a “Ms. Graves”, whom he raved about with high regards. They could go together! Take a little break, get away from it all… and so they did.

At Time of Series:

Adam and Elijah are co-nurses at Camp Here & There, or well… Adam is more of an assistant nurse at this point. He seems utterly distracted by Elijah’s condition, poking and prodding his way into the man’s head with words like cold, sterile medical tools. Pinning him down to an inescapable sort of “friendship”, even though their relationship feels like nothing more than an artificially preserved husk. Adam is still always nice, but Elijah can never tell if it’s genuine or not. He misses when their conversations felt warm, he misses when he felt like a friend rather than a case study… or a paranoid asshole for doubting Adam’s sincerity. He puts on a cheerful face for the kids, and while some find him to be a bit *too* cheerful, they can tell he really does care. He’s well-spoken and delivers the morning announcements with a theatrical flare! Sometimes he’s a little too eager to share his feelings, but he does mean well. The kids really like him overall, they think he’s nice!

Adam is like an illusive celebrity around the camp, he’ll show up and be very energetic and engaged for a short period of time, winning the favour of all the kids with his fun fun chaos-enabling… and then he’ll disappear! Back to his office, leaving Elijah to clean up the mess he made. Nobody knows what he’s up to in that office. Last time Elijah got a peek, he saw the walls COVERED in framed pinned insects and taxidermy… and stacks of notebooks, the ones he’s always scribbling into after speaking with Elijah. Adam seems to know a lot more than he’s letting on.

Jedidiah is missing. It’s actually his college that made report of this, after he ghosted all his classes and no professors could reach him. Nobody could track down his mother either, and his father… his father had already passed. Elijah sees someone in his dreams sometimes, a dishevelled man wearing a lab coat and too many watches. His presence is accompanied by cacophonous rhythmic ticking, like multiple clocks all overlapping at different paces. He tells Elijah things he can’t know… he speaks like a frantic and incoherent madman, it’s all so bizarre. And yet, Elijah can’t help but think he looks oddly familiar.

Then there’s Sydney, who… just up and vanished from his hospital bed. Who knows where that guy is. Although there has been a mysterious figure spotted lurking around the campgrounds… draped in layers of tattered black fabric, covered in moss and mushrooms, and wearing a strange black cat mask. They’ve been caught leaving random things outside of Elijah’s bedroom in the nurses cabin… little shiny rocks, bones, pinecones… one time an entire fairy ring grew around the cabin overnight. Nobody knows what he wants, but it’s been reported that those who see him are overcome with an overwhelming existential awe… dread and wonder in equal amounts, makes you want to sob your eyes out for the universality of pain, and dance for the love of the sunlight. The only exception to this is Elijah, who upon seeing the ‘Black Cat Man’, feels a strange sense of obligation— of care and concern, for a reason he can’t pinpoint. His guard lowers and all sense of danger melts away… he feels compelled to care for this stranger, like he would a patient. A patient who can do him no harm, still and quiet in their hospital bed. Of course, the questions and red flags all come back once the Black Cat Man is out of sight... but which reality is he to trust?

Running the camp is Ms. Graves, a mysterious lady who is rarely seen or heard from. She only seems to communicate through written letters or using Adam as a proxy. She’s just a busy lady… she really is lovely to her staff!

There are also rumours floating around regarding the crawling fields beyond camp. A desolate span of colourless grasslands infested by bugs of all sorts, wherein the fabled “puppeteeress�� dwells. Nobody has ever seen her, but they have seen those handsome wooden mannequins she enchants to do her bidding! They show up on the outskirts of camp quite often… their eyes may look inanimate, but you can still feel them watching!

Ok ramble over for now. I may be back with character doodles later. Also if you’ve read a suspiciously similar fic on AO3 with this exact setup, but it’s the au’s version of “the ceremony”… yes that is me :3 hello :3

[fizzyorange-v2]

q!slime on grieving and raging and grieving:

"It wasn’t even on purpose. I know that… I know it was an accident but… that doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t make me forgive it."

1 - Anonymous, Diary of an Oxygen Thief // 2 - Pablo Neruda, The Song of Despair & art  by @propheticscrewup // 3 - Renton, Trainspotting // 4 - Pierce The Veil, A Match into Water & Han Kang, Human Acts // 5 - art by @stoicmike //  6 - Japanese Breakfast, Boyish & twinnedpeaks & art by @fridgrave // 7 - Anonymous, Diary of an Oxygen Thief // 8 - @/traumatizeddfox // 9 - @/rbhvelo // 10 - @/traumathoughts & Lucille Clifton, leukemia as white rabbits // 11 - The Mountain Goats, Training Montage // 12 - Natasha Trethewey, Waterborne // 13 - Trista Mateer, The Dogs I Have Kissed // 14 - @/comelywords on instagram // 15 - Max, Mad Max: Fury Road // 16 - David Mitchell, Slade House // 17 - @/stigmatawife // 18 - Fortesa Latifi, The Truth About Grief // 19 - Carole Maso, The Art Lover // 20 - Mahmoud Darwish, Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982 (tr. Ibrahim Muhawi) // 21 - Mitski, A Burning Hill // 22 - Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous // 23 - ojibwa // 24 - Kate Bush, Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God) // 25 - Anaïs Nin, "A Journal of Love": The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934-1937 // 26 - Nikki Giovanni, Mirrors // 27 - Virginia Woolf, A Passionate Apprentice: The Early Journals, 1897-1909 // 28 - Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar // 29 - Rudy Francisco, Scars / To the new Boyfriend & Amie Kaufman, Illuminae // 30 - ojibwa & ??? & art by @lemonsilly

special thanks to @propheticscrewup @fridgrave @lemonsilly for the art :D !!!!