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Group: Moderator
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Member No.: 18
Joined: 21-February 08

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Character Name: Lucie Simplice Camille Benoist Desmoulins
Canon/Original: Canon
Gender: Male
Age: 34
Political Sect: Jacobin
Physical Description (five sentence minimum): “Interesting” would perhaps be a fair word to describe Camille’s appearance. While it would be unfair to call him ugly, nor could one honestly call him handsome. He is of average height, skinny, with shoulder length, dark brown hair he wears loose and unpowdered. His dark eyes gleam with flashes of cleverness or malevolence, whichever you would like to call it, and his thin lips are equally prepared to burst into a grin or twist into a sneer. Although he does not dress with the affected shabbiness of some revolutionaries, the past few years of financial stability have not been sufficient to erase some lingering traces of poverty from his earlier days that occasionally appear in his posture or expression, clinging to him like a shadow. He often appears anxious or agitated and has difficulty remaining still for long stretches of time.
Personality (fifteen sentence minimum): Camille is the enfant terrible of the Revolution. He is in turns brilliant and self-destructive, arrogant and insecure, eloquent and immature. Acknowledged as one of the principal authors of the Revolution, his first concern is always to serve it, as well as the Republic. However, it is not always easy for him to determine the best way to do this. In person, his personality can be passive and pliable. He seeks guidance and protection from other men who are more natural leaders than he, such as Mirabeau, Danton, and Robespierre. His deep insecurity stems from his family’s longstanding, bitter disapproval of his lifestyle and his failure to conform to their bourgeois expectations. In order to prove himself, he is prone to rash, impulsive actions which he may regret later. He is emotionally unstable and at the moments when he is most upset his repressed childhood stammer reveals itself. Luckily, he finds comfort in the arms of his beloved wife, though he can be a less than constant husband. In writing, however, Camille loses his inhibitions- he is clever, eloquent, and confident… Though he can be sarcastic and cruel as well. Overall, Camille has a great sense of joie de vivre. He fully believes the purpose of the Revolution is to bring people happiness, so he is distressed to find the opposite occurring. Recently, he has begun to try to move away from the powerful men he has followed in the past to be recognized as his own agent, acting and speaking for himself, but he is finding that to be a dangerous path…
History (fifteen sentence minimum): Camille Desmoulins was born on March 2, 1760 in Guise, a small town in Picardy. His family was not wealthy; his father was only a minor official of the town and he was the oldest of seven children. Fortunately, Camille’s precociousness and intelligence caught the eye of some wealthy relatives who managed to obtain a scholarship for him to the prestigious Collège Louis-le-Grand in Paris. At school he met another scholarship student, Maximilien de Robespierre, and the two became close friends. Also during his school years, Camille developed the stammer that would haunt him for the rest of his life. No one knew what caused it and Camille absolutely refuses to speak about it even as an adult, by which time he had learned to suppress it except in the most emotional moments. Nevertheless, he was a gifted student and graduated with a degree in law at age 25.
Rather than return to Guise, which he found so dreary and dull, Camille eagerly stayed in Paris to practice law. Unfortunately, so did every other young lawyer. Paris was swamped with lawyers and Camille was not a particularly good one anyway. His stammer prevented him from effectively pleading cases and, in all honesty, his personality was not particularly suited to work as a lawyer. He dreamed of being a writer. He worked here and there a clerk to support himself while he wrote pamphlets that printers rejected for being too radical. He quickly sunk into extreme poverty, keeping himself afloat only by constantly writing to his father to beg for money.
During this time, Camille was hired by Claude Duplessis, a wealthy civil servant, to tutor his two daughters, Lucile and Adèle. Camille took the post and quickly became enamored with Monsieur Duplessis’s wife, Annette, a woman in her early 40s holding onto her beauty with a great deal of success. Despite Camille’s attentions, Annette never seriously considered taking him as a lover- she was far too sensible a woman. However, she looked on him fondly and did her best to protect him in their family after her husband began to grow suspicious of him. Under the guise of tutor and student, and as a family friend, Camille’s relationship with Lucile became friendly and gradually his affections shifted from mother to daughter. This was too much for Monsieur Duplessis, who promptly banned Camille from ever setting foot in his house again. Alas, it was too late; Camille and Lucile were in love.
Upon the announcement of the meeting of the Estates General, Camille flung himself into the spirit of political reform sweeping France. He ran for election as a deputy to the Third Estate in Guise, but lost. This only cemented his bitterness towards his home town and he threw himself into Parisian popular politics, spending his days at the Palais Royal where he joined the masses of popular orators declaiming from atop tables outside of cafés. He often traveled to Versailles to witness to meeting of the Estates General. He was pleased to discover his old school friend, Maximilien de Robespierre, serving as a deputy of Arras. Due to these frequent trips to Versailles, Camille was among the first to discover that the King had fired Necker, the popular finance minister.
On July 12, 1789, Camille rushed back to the Palais Royal, where he leaped upon a table and announced that the King had fired Necker and that the citizens of Paris must arm themselves against an attack from the royal troops surrounding Paris. Two days later the Bastille fell. The Revolution had begun, and so had Camille’s career. He was swept into the circles of the early Revolutionary elite, liberal aristocrats like the Duc d’Orléans and the Comte de Mirabeau invited him to their homes and took him under their wings. Suddenly Camille’s pamphlets were no longer too radical to print and he began the successful newspaper La France Libre and published the cruelly amusing pamphlet La Lanterne, written in the voice of the most popular lamppost used by the mob for lynching unpopular officials. Despite the success of his writings, recognition did not bring financial success and he remained in poverty.
Around this time, Camille made the acquaintance of Georges Jacques Danton, a successful lawyer with a similar lust for life, who had all the commanding presence and authority Camille lacked. They befriended each other and while Danton made his name through popular oratory, Camille made his through his increasingly radical journalism that gave him as many enemies as admirers. He pursued his suit of Lucile through the secret help of her mother, for while her father could no longer say he was a nobody without prospects, he was not keen on admitting a crazy revolutionary into the family. Nevertheless, love prevailed and at the end of 1790, Camille and Lucile were married and in July, 1792 they had a son, Horace.
After August 10 and the downfall of the monarchy, Camille became secretary to Danton’s Minister of Justice under the Provisional Government. He was elected as a deputy to the National Convention, where he enthusiastically embraced the newly born Republic, voting for Louis XVI’s death at his trial. As the Convention divided between the Montagnards and the Girondins, Camille aligned himself with the Mountain. In service of the Mountain, Camille wrote the pamphlet Brissot Demasqué that compiled a laundry list of the Girdonins’ crimes against the Revolution. It was a great success and helped lead the Girondins to the Tribunal. However, Camille began to regret what he had done and when all of them were condemned to death he broke down, screaming that he had murdered his friends. From this moment on, Camille’s faith in the Revolution was irrevocably shaken. While some of his friends were sucked deeper into the ideology of the Terror, others found themselves in prison for conspiring against the government.
Once more, in December 1793, Camille took up his pen to begin Le Vieux Cordelier, a newspaper calling for moderation of the Terror and supporting Danton’s call for a committee of clemency. The initial issues were supported by Robespierre himself because they attacked the Hébertists, their mutual enemy who called for an intensification of the Terror. However, Camille began to see things in a new light. All his life he had been protected by his friends, dismissed as “just Camille,” acknowledged as too clever for his own good and not to be taken seriously. With Le Vieux Cordelier he is beginning to demand to be taken seriously. In the third issue he attacked extremist members of the government, coming ever closer to attacking the government itself, which cannot be accepted… He is quickly finding himself in political peril, his membership in the Jacobin Club on the verge of being revoked, and his revolutionary credentials questioned. Yet he relies upon his friendship with Robespierre and his appeal to the French people for support. Surely they would not abandon him…
Sample RP:
| QUOTE | It was almost three o’clock on a hot, humid afternoon in the Palais Royal. The gardens and shops were packed today, as if all of Paris had the insensible notion of packing itself outdoors on this most unpleasant day. The crowd was uneasy, the gay amusements of the Palais were mere distractions to the thoughts on everyone’s mind. Tempers flared over a spilled drink or accidental bump, porters and shop men picked fights with each other, the public prostitutes wove through the crowds calling raucously at would-be clients.
At this moment, Paris is cracking beneath their feet as people try to go about their daily business, straining to keep their façades of blissful ignorance. This famed breaking point, the last sigh of a sinking ship before the mast sinks into the sea, is here and now under the broiling July sun. Until now, rebellious whispers had been just that, carried from ear to ear on the breeze, but the wind was now whipping into a storm. Yet why should it collapse now? The crowd is full of women and children. There is nothing to drag the populace away from safe routine.
Rumors fly about so quickly you hear a new story each time you turn a corner. For every anxious citizen there is a surly soldier. The disconsolate French Guards had deserted their posts in favor of everyday amusements, or speculation on the fate of Paris. Now looming in the background were the Swiss Guards of the King, speaking rapidly in their own language and darkly carrying out their duties. Their ever-watchful eyes fall upon Paris as heavily as the humidity. For how long were they there? How long would they need to be there? Only till they had completed their task, people said, the massacre of patriots. The King was nervous about Paris, ever since he had given in to the National Assembly… They had defied the King, God’s chosen, it was rebellion, it was treason. The wind whispered it was revolution. The Queen wanted him to murderer the patriots of Paris, they said. No one was quite sure who “they” were, but it everyone knew it to be true. The Swiss troops will come out of the Champs-de-Mars, there will be arrests, roundups, executions of anyone accused of sedition; men, women and children. It would certainly be tonight, or perhaps tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. Would the King profane the Sabbath with the spilling of the people’s blood? Though that blood was not yet spilled, the stench carried on the wind with the stories. The only friend of the people with any power was good Monsieur Necker, the finance minister. He would protect the citizens of Paris. Eyes were wide fear and jaws were locked as people attempted to go about their day, knowing perhaps it would be their last.
At that moment, a wild looking man rushed into the Palais Royal. His slight frame was not the kind that could move crowds, so he dogged and ducked through the sea of faces towards the Café du Foy. Camille Desmoulins had just returned from Versailles with the latest news from the Estates General. He reached the du Foy panting and gasping.
“Listen to me!” He tried to shout, it came out little more than a hoarse whisper. Life went on as usual. “Listen to me! Citizens!” He tried again, regaining his voice, but the effect had been lost.
Camille panicked and lurched towards an empty table. His actions seemed both foreign and rehearsed. He did not know what he was doing, yet in his mind he saw the entire scene and felt he had spent his life waiting for it. If he could get the first word out, then the first sentence, he could do it better than anyone in the. This was the moment God had saved for him.
“Citizens!” He cried out again, scrambling up a chair and onto the table. It wobbled precariously beneath him and he stumbled, but recovered himself. If he had fallen, he knew that it would not have been talked of that much, people would have just sighed and said, “Well, it was Camille, after all.” He reached into his coat pockets and drew out two pistols and raised them above his head. He took a sharp breath and began again. His voice did not trip upon itself and he did not stutter.
“Citizens, listen to me! I have come from Versailles!” And suddenly the world froze. It seemed a thousand eyes were fixed upon him, anxious faces stared up and to Camille’s surprise he realized he could recognize some of them. And there in the back, watching with their narrow, hawk-like eyes, were the police and the King’s informers. But now it was merely a matter of who struck first; it was a time to kill. In sheer terror, Camille began…
“I have come from Versailles! The King has dismissed Necker!” There was a collective gasp from the crowd, but Camille scarcely noticed. “The friend of the people and of Paris has been dismissed! This is the sign for a Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of patriots!” Again the crowd gasped, but this time in horror, pressing closer to each other and to the table. Camille’s did not know what he was saying, he took his words from the fear in the eyes gaping up at him. “The battalions of foreign soldiers, the Swiss and Germans… Those mercenaries of the King! They will come to Paris tonight and they will cut our throats! Citizens, we have only one chance to save ourselves!” His throat seized up and his body trembled. His eyes were wild and only the shaking of the table beneath him could convince him he was still in his own body. He took a breath.
“To arms!”
The sea around him roared and before his eyes Camille saw it change from a crowd into a mob.
“To arms!”
The police lurched forward, reaching for their own pistols. In just these minutes, Camille has become guilty of a long list of capital offenses. His fate was now in the hands of the crowd, whether or not they would let the police take him. He knew what fate awaited him in their hands.
“The police!” He shouted, pointing one of his pistols in their direction. “They have come for me because I am speaking out for liberty and for the people of France! They shall not take me and they shall not silence me! If I die, it must be by my own hand!” This decision took less than a second as he lowered his other pistol towards his head, hoping it would be quick. But the mob was not yet so thirsty for the blood of its leader. It snarled and advanced on the police, who beat a hasty retreat out of the Palais Royal, no doubt to alert their superiors of their hopeless cause.
“Brothers, we know our enemies, but we must also know our friends! Let he who is prepared to fight show it…” His mind froze, but the words kept coming. He reached up over his head and, though his hand was partially filled with the pistol, he broke off a clump of leaves from the chestnut tree drooping lazily above him. “Show it by wearing this green cockade!” He pressed it to his chest. Were his pistol to go off, he would end messily, but he did not feel he could let it go. “Green! The color of liberty!”
Within moments, dust swirled around him as hands reached up to strip the tree of its leaves; the first martyr of the revolution. He reached out to the mob, roaring around him, coaxing and leading it on. He did not know where and it did not matter. Cries and moans and bloody oaths swirled up around him, but his blood had turned to stone. No one will lead him away from this moment, back to safety, now that his name is in their mouths and his words are in their heads. At this moment, he will live forever.
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"I dreamed of a republic the world would adore. I never knew men could be so cruel and unjust."
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