“Well,” said Laclos, mildly, “be kind enough to call him hither, and tell him what we require. You will dictate, Brissot, will you not?”
Feeling sure that the conversation concerned me, I approached.
They told me what was required. It would give me an active participation in what was going on, so I was quite willing.
M. Brissot dictated.
As it was not permitted to make a copy of the petition, I can only give it from memory. It was well and strongly worded; it had, metamorphically speaking, two heads; the one reproached the Assembly with timidity, and the other accused them of having not dared to usurp the King’s so-called prerogative, and asserted, at the same time, that the King’s supposed deprivation of his regal rights by the Assembly was, in reality, a sham.
As I was writing these words, Brissot still dictating, Laclos arousing himself, placed his hand on Brissot’s arm, and said, “Citizen Brissot, I doubt whether the friends of the Constitution, who compose the greater number of our club, will sign, unless you make a slight alteration in the words, but which will not alter the meaning.”
“What alteration?” demanded Brissot.
“Were I in your place, I would insert, after ‘his original dignity,’ these words, ‘by constitutional means.’”
Brissot reflected a moment, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders he said, “I see no objection.”
Then he continued dictating to me.