“One day three years ago, my eldest boy comes running through the door, screamin’ like he seen the ghost of St. Paul resurrected. He’s hollerin’ ’bout Pa being trampled. So, not having the faintest idea of what he was goin’ on about, I handed my babies over to one of my daughters and I took off down the fields. I couldn’t run awful fast, you see, because I was pregnant with this one ’ere.” The widow gestured at the little child squirming in her lap. “But when I get there, I find my Ole Jacques…” Now the widow paused, bringing the handkerchief once more to her eyes. “There he lay, flat on his back on the ground, dead from a horse’s hoof to the heart.” The widow paused, making a sign of the cross. Jean-Luc did not find it necessary to tell her that such Catholic gestures were now very dangerous.
“Citizeness, I am so sorry to hear it.” Jean-Luc sighed, his voice quiet. “But how did it happen?”
“My boys saw it happen, not me. They been down the fields, the three of ’em. It was April, so they had just set about with the sowing. Down from the house in a great hurry come the marquis and a number of his lackeys. The marquis were always riding by, snooping about on his way to the hunt or into town, so my Jacques don’t think much on it, and he tell the boys to keep working. Strong lads they were. But then the marquis halted his horse right before them and started bothering my Jacques, going on about rent, claiming we was late on our payments. That was a bald-faced lie, you see. My Jacques never missed a payment in his life. We was honest folk who paid our dues, and the marquis knew it!”
Jean-Luc nodded slowly. “Understood. Please continue—what happened next?”
“So, my husband gets to defending himself before the marquis and his ruffians. He weren’t one for getting harassed by a good-for-nothing nobleman who toys with his tenant farmers for sport. So, the way my sons tell it, the marquis gets to shouting, and so my husband starts shouting back. Only defending hisself, mind you. Next thing they knew, the marquis has his whip flying, begins beating my husband and my husband’s poor farm horse. My sons tried to stop the seigneur, but his guards held ’em back.” The widow again paused, collecting herself.
“The marquis must have hit the farm horse one too many times, because next thing they know, the old cob is rising up, hooves in the air like he’s just been visited by the devil himself. Pretty close to the devil, that marquis, if you ask me. My husband tried to calm the beast, before he took off across the fields and caused some real trouble for him. But you see…when the horse landed…” Her voice trailed off. Jean-Luc gave her a moment, but he needed to hear it, for the legal record.
“The horse trampled your husband, Citizeness Poitier?”
“Aye.” The woman nodded, her voice feeble as Jean-Luc recorded the exchange.
After a pause, the widow looked up, her eyes steeped with moisture but fierce, as if inflamed by a growing thirst for vengeance. “But you see, the whole business were made up—the charges that we was late on payments.”
“Yes, you mentioned that your husband had never been late on his payments. Can you please explain that matter a bit further? Why do you believe that the Marquis de Montnoir would have leveled those false charges against your husband?”
“I know exactly why he done it.” She nodded. “The Marquis de Montnoir were a cruel man by nature. Always had been, to hear my husband tell it. But his meanness aside, the lord was angry at us that spring season. Ask anyone on the land; he had it out for my poor husband.”
“Why would the Marquis de Montnoir have targeted your husband in particular, Citizeness Poitier?”
“My husband had married our eldest girl, Sylvie, off to her sweetheart without telling the marquis. Did it while the marquis had been away the previous winter. You see”—and now she leaned close, making sure that none of the other clerks in the room might hear what she had to tell—“we often heard rumors. Nasty, filthy rumors.”
Jean-Luc’s pulse quickened. “Rumors of what sort?”
“We’d heard from more than one tenant farmer that the marquis claimed the Droit de Seigneur.” She paused, her eyes full of meaning, and Jean-Luc realized in that moment that she was not an unintelligent woman. Unsophisticated, to be sure. But this simple woman had known life and the world in a way that undoubtedly made her more accustomed to cruelty and hardship than he, or anyone else in this office, was. “You know, Citizen St. Clair, about the ‘Lord’s Right’?”
Jean-Luc lowered his eyes, nodding. He knew of the ancient tradition of Droit de Seigneur. But he had always believed it to be an antiquated legend, a horror story told by those who despised the noble classes and sought justification for the recent bloodletting. He had never imagined that it was still practiced so recently, and certainly not this close to Paris.
“Well, my Jacques weren’t going to let the Marquis de Montnoir defrock his own daughter. He was a lecherous man, he was, always tormenting the farmers’ daughters, and certainly he took no pleasure from that cold fish of a wife. But my Jacques wouldn’t stand for it. So he married Sylvie off and never told His Lordship.” Now the Widow Poitier pressed her forefinger onto the desk between them. “So, you can reckon how roiled Seigneur was when he found out he’d been denied Sylvie’s wedding night.”
Jean-Luc lowered his quill, his mouth suddenly dry like starched cloth. “Citizeness Poitier, I think I shall go fetch us some water. Can I bring you some?”
“I would not turn down a spot of wine,” the woman answered, shrugging her shoulders. Jean-Luc nodded and rose to fetch them their drinks. When he returned, he also carried with him the latest rolls of prison records.
Offering the widow her cup of wine, he placed the book between them and opened it. “So, you believe that the Marquis de Montnoir is recently removed from his lands?”
“That’s what I heard. ’Course, he ran us out of our cottage the day Ole Jacques died. We’ve been drifting about, living off the mercy of relatives whenever we can. But there are just too many mouths to feed, you see. We don’t want to scrounge off the charity of others. My sons, and my daughters, too, we just wish to work for someone who would have us. To make an honest living, that’s all. And we was hoping, now that His Lordship is no longer haunting those lands, that we might have the good lord’s blessing of returning to our rightful home.”
“I see here, from the prison intake records, that you are correct, Citizeness Poitier. The Marquis de Montnoir has been transferred to the prison at La Force. It says here that his home and lands are now in the possession of the Republic.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means that the lands and château once owned by the Montnoir family are now the property of the French people.”
“Well, does that mean they will let us back into our home?” The widow’s brow crumpled in childlike hope. Jean-Luc felt a swell of anger at the fact that such a woman and her children had been so unjustly treated.
“To be honest with you, citizeness, I’m not certain,” Jean-Luc answered, slamming the book shut. “But I intend to do everything I can to get you home.”
The widow sighed. “You know, Citizen St. Clair, our Revolution has allowed for a strange wind to shake the trees, if you take my meaning. Oh, if Ole Jacques could imagine this. A lawyer, giving the boot to a seigneur and his rotten family and making way for common folk like us to return.” The old woman took a small sip of wine, offering Jean-Luc a timid smile.
Jean-Luc’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the woman across from him, her words uncharacteristically sage. “Well, it is the purpose of our Revolution, citizeness, to bring the sacred ideals of liberty, equality, and brotherhood to this land. And I do believe your family has every right to move back into your home.” He paused, folding his hands before him on his desk. “But, if you don’t mind my asking, madame, er, citizeness. How is it that you came to know of me and seek out my services?”
The widow nodded. “I stood outside this building for days, knowing it to be full of lawyers. I asked—begged—so many men, fancy types in wigs, to take my case up. They a
ll shrugged me off. Said, ‘The only man in this building who’ll take on a charity case is that Jean-Luc St. Clair.’ And so I found you. Knew you were my only chance for justice.”
Jean-Luc nodded, lowering his eyes, noting silently that he’d have to tell his fellow lawyers to stop sending such cases his way. And yet he felt oddly satisfied as well, hearing that his colleagues believed him willing to fight for the lowest citizens. Marie would be proud, if he could find a way to relate this to her.
“Well, here we are,” he said, looking back to his new client. “I trust that, with justice on our side, we have a duty to fight.”
“God bless you, kind sir, for trying. And God willing, you shall succeed. Oh, now, I know we aren’t supposed to pray to God anymore and do away with the old superstitions…trust only in reason and the law, and all that. But old habits, you know. In any event, you’ve saved us. Given me hope once more in this cruel country. And who knows…” She rose from her chair, her stout frame appearing rusty with age and hardship. “Perhaps someday I shall be able to save you.”
September 1792
André Valière was shaken from sleep by the bone-thumping roar of a distant cannon. Its jarring announcement silenced the birds that had begun to warble around camp just before sunrise, and he poked his head out of the flap of his tent. Looking to the west, he swore he heard the cannon answered by a few barks of musket fire.
And then an eerie silence settled back over the camp. André saw through the gauzy light of early dawn that his men were beginning to stir. They emerged from under their blankets, hair tousled and faces crinkled from sleep, to huddle around the campfires. He himself had had trouble falling asleep and had drifted off into fretful dozing well past midnight. Now, having heard these first preludes of the coming battle, André knew that remaining in bed was futile, and he dressed.
The camp rose with the sun. A bugler sounded the order to rouse the last few slumbering men. André made quick work of a small square of bread and a cup of watered-down coffee. “Eat whatever you have,” he called out to his men, wiping away the last crumbs of his breakfast. “No point saving your rations now, lads. By nightfall, we’ll be in a new village, where they’ll have fresh meat and ale.” André paused at a campfire where half a dozen of his men were coaxing a fresh flame from last night’s ashes.
“Or we’ll be food for the worms,” Corporal Leroux muttered, loud enough for André to hear, as he poked a stick at the gray heap of cinders before him.
“I have no intention of dying, nor should you, nor any of you,” André answered with a false measure of confidence, remembering Kellermann’s heartening advice from the night before.
“Captain Valière, they’ll keep you alive for the pretty ransom they’ll get on your head.” A young Parisian in his company by the name of Therrien, his cheeks smooth and his hair combed neatly, looked up, smiling in an easy, friendly manner.
“No, not today. Those bastards won’t be taking prisoners,” Leroux said, shaking his head. “Even a marquis would catch the royal treatment.” He swiped a finger across his neck.
André ignored the comment as he walked on, making his way past more of his men clustered around small fires to the southern border of the camp. Here, several of his fellow officers had already begun to gather their companies into marching columns. André greeted them and looked out over the landscape, which was brightening under a strong, determined sun. In the distance, open fields of wheat shone golden in the warm late-summer morning. The dewy sheen across the ground was drying quickly and rising up in a soft veil of mist.
“It’s going to be a hot one today, gentlemen.” An officer standing nearby had his soldiers moving into two crisp lines, as the men bucked and fidgeted like jumpy horses. André turned and was pleased to see his sergeant, the competent man by the name of Digne, inspecting his group’s weapons and kit and growling last-minute instruction to those whose equipment was less than perfect.
Where the army had begun assembling, on the southwest corner of the camp, a line of trees marked the entrance to a small forest. A large tricolor banner was now unfurled and marched to the front, the old fleur-de-lis banners of the monarchy having been replaced, and a small company of drummers and fifes played beneath it. Off to the right, a priest in a black robe and collar held Mass. In most parts of the country, God and Christ had been driven away around the same time the king and queen had been imprisoned, but on a day such as this, a few local priests had convinced the generals to look the other way. A boy no older than twelve, dressed in a green overcoat and overlarge blue pants, fidgeted nervously as he stared down at his drum set.
“Captain Valière!” André heard his name and turned to see his two sergeants approaching, fully dressed in their white uniforms.
“Sergeants.” André straightened his posture, assuming a mask over his facial features that he hoped adequately veiled his nerves. “Are the men ready?”
The first, by the name of Thibaud, nodded. “Dressed and equipped, Captain.”
“Bayonets ready at the waist, each man with thirty cartridges,” Sergeant Digne added. “And, er, they’ve been issued the tricolor cockade for their uniforms, per regulation, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Thibaud, Sergeant Digne.” Apart from their names, André knew little about these two men who served under him, as they had only just been assigned to his company several weeks earlier on the march into this province.
André looked out over the rows of men that filled the staging area of the camp just short of the woods. “It’s time. We’ll get the men into formation now.”
“Yes, Captain.”
To the left a company in tight file formation marched up, dressed in the career white uniform. Beside them the bluecoat militia looked on, attempting to mimic their order and formation. An unmanned horse whinnied loudly, pawing at the dirt and prompting several nearby blue-coated guardsmen to step nervously backward.
“You think they’ll be all right out there?” Thibaud jerked his chin toward the growing cluster of militiamen. One of their commanders had just unfurled a large banner that read “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” André said, looking at their threadbare blue coats and punctured, barely serviceable boots. He removed his hat and wiped his brow.
“Holding against the Austrian line will be slightly different from slapping around an old Parisian warden,” Digne said. “The ones who survive will come out with a bit more hair on their nuts—”
“When we reach the tree line,” André interjected, steering his two sergeants back toward the morning’s tasks, “the company will march double file until we clear the woods. We expect to find the enemy waiting on the far side of this forest, in the open pastures.”
Both sergeants nodded, chastened, as André continued. “The wheat will be high this time of year, but dry enough, given the weather. General Kellermann says there is a windmill on the top of the ridge. When the battalion forms into line, we’ll make our position in the front, before the windmill.”
Sergeant Digne let out a slow whistle. “Christ in heaven, sir, they’re putting us in the front? What did we do to piss them off?”
“We won’t be passive observers today, that’s for certain.” André leaned his head to the side, placing his tricorn hat on top.
A pulse of agitated anticipation hummed across camp as the artillery barrage began. André, with his company formed into two tight files, each forty-five men long, looked to the crest of the hill from where the firing originated. Each boom was followed by a burst of smoke and a flight of birds, startled from their nests into fleeing the violent cacophony. For a moment, André envied those birds, able to quit these lush woods and fields before the golden ground became drizzled in red. But then he recalled his courage; his whole career had prepared him for this moment.
André squinted his eyes and focused on the tree-lined crest, where the French artillery barrage originated; somewhere, behind those stately oaks and che
stnuts, stood Remy. “Stay safe, brother,” André mouthed to himself, as he offered a silent prayer that he’d see his brother that evening.
All around him now, companies formed into their narrow marching files, and André’s men folded in seamlessly beside them. When the bugler sounded, André clenched his jaw tight, speaking in a cool tone: “Right, lads, you heard it. Now we move.” Sergeant Digne barked the command and the company began marching forward.
As they crossed the wood-line, quitting the open fields of the previous day’s camp, the determined morning sun was almost entirely blocked out by the thick leaf cover that hung heavy on the surrounding boughs. In this copse the air was cool and damp, smelling of loamy earth and sap-filled bark. Mingled in with that sweet, pleasant scent was the unmistakable aroma of sulfur, wafting from the nearby cannonade.
André slapped a mosquito at his neck, removing his palm and seeing the first blood to color his skin that day. Already, his neck was lined with a filmy layer of sweat. He took a sip of water from his canteen, knowing that the day would be a hot one and that the heat from a battlefield sapped a soldier’s energy as much as combat. “Take a drink if you need it, lads, but no more than a few sips,” he said, hoping his men had filled their skins that morning with water instead of wine.
Finally, just when it seemed that the shade and the shroud of smoke around them might prevent any vision at all, André began to detect spears of light ahead, piercing the tree cover. They were approaching a clearing. Behind them now, the artillery barrage had lessened to a dull thud, muffled by the distance and half a mile of thick forest.
André guided his men directly toward the clearing. The soldiers blinked, some of them holding hands up to block the direct sunlight that felt oppressive after the soft, damp shade of the forest. As the company passed out of the trees, André felt as if he had entered another world; he and his men suddenly seemed uncomfortably exposed. His senses were heightened, his focus sharper than it had ever been.
Where the Light Falls Page 6