In terrible pain now and feeling a fatigue that ached and burned every muscle in his body, André couldn’t roll in time to dodge a third attempt. He knew this, and so he clenched his jaw and braced himself for the strike that would surely end his life. He thought of Remy, hoping that wherever he was on this bloodstained battlefield, his brother was still alive. Eyes lifted upward toward his killer and the heavens that he hoped would receive him, André’s vision went dark. The sun fled. Would Father be there to receive him?
But it wasn’t death that darkened André’s world. He blinked, unsure of what he saw. Over him, a massive shadow loomed and he heard the sharp bite of steel on flesh. The large Prussian standing over him began to moan, taking one shaky step forward as he dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, his skull nearly cloven in two.
André looked up at his deliverer and saw a familiar face atop a horse, the man eyeing him as he pulled his sword from the dead man’s skull.
“Is that you hiding down there, Valière?” General Kellermann reined in his stallion, which was pawing the earth in an attempt to rear up on its hind legs. Panting, Kellermann lifted his hat and flashed a wild smile down at André. “Better get up. It’s ours if we’ll take it.”
André shivered on the ground, his fingers touching the place where blood seeped from a cut on his cheek.
“Up, Valière!” Kellermann roared now, offering a hand to the young captain and lifting him to his feet. “You don’t want to miss the sight of all those devils on the run, not after you and your men did such a damned good job of holding our center.”
With that, Kellermann turned his horse, allowing it to rear up on its hind legs. Calling out to the soldiers all around him, the windmill silhouetted on the hillcrest behind him, he raised his sword. “The day is nearly ours. Let’s finish this! Vive la Révolution!”
Kellermann spurred his horse, charging the ragged lines of Prussians and Austrians who still fought. It seemed to André as if the entire French army took heart, his own breast surging with his last reserves of energy and resolve in response to Kellermann’s rally cry. His weary legs found new strength as he stood tall. Around him, the bloodied, grime-soaked soldiers followed the general, racing forward to pursue the faltering enemy. André saw in that moment, his eyes stinging from dirt and sweat, that the soldiers of the Republic—and the Republic itself—would not be defeated that day.
December 1792
The evening’s rumors had changed everything.
The ball was to have been a festive occasion, celebrating the dissolution of the monarchy and the victory at Valmy. The survival of the nascent Revolution. But as the chill of night settled over Paris, the snow-flecked Seine glistening like a vein of molten silver, the citizens’ hunger for bread was surpassed only by their hunger to hear the latest reports circulating throughout the city: would the king face the guillotine?
Following Paris’s bloody summer and the imprisonment of the royal family, the Jacobins had grown in number and consolidated power within the National Convention. The victory at Valmy had, for the moment, halted the threat of foreign invasion, allowing a band of radical and ambitious young lawyers to grab the reins of government, promising expanded suffrage, abolition of noble privileges, and a sweeping new constitution to rival any document that had come out of the Americas. And on this night in late December, all of Paris was humming with the rumors that the Bourbon king himself might face France’s new justice.
André had followed the case of King Louis XVI with sharp interest, keenly aware of its resemblance to his own father’s trial—if either event could truthfully be called a trial. André had even stood inside the crowded galleries on the final days of the king’s prosecution. There he had observed it all in quiet horror: the hostile audience members, all wearing the same red caps and tricolor cockades, their dirty faces angry and their minds decided long before the opening gavel had rapped.
It had been nearly too difficult to watch. The king’s cheeks—once fatted from sweets and caked in rouge—hung gaunt and ashen beside trembling lips. His voice quivered as he told the assembly how deeply he loved his subjects—former subjects, he corrected himself—and how willing he was to compromise with the new government. The jeers of the angry crowd were so overpowering that there was little hope of mounting a true defense. As the members and audience of the tribunal had sniggered and ridiculed, Louis’s eyes had gone vacant. If one had cared to look closely, they would have seen two misty windows into a soul that had been broken. Louis, so coddled and misled since birth, had not seemed to understand such rough treatment.
It had all been too much for André. Through his blurred vision, the pale face of the king became the stony face of his own father, and André excused himself from the courtroom before hearing the verdict.
Several days after attending the trial, André had been startled to receive an invitation to the National Convention soiree, a celebration of the new, popularly elected government. André suspected that Kellermann had arranged the invitation. The general was, for the moment, the most celebrated man in the Republic; he was the man who had defied and repelled the Prussian-Austrian menace, the “Savior of the Revolution.” In this mood, even the most radical Jacobin could stomach the presence of a few aristocratic officers for the evening.
Coming just two days after Christmas—or when Christmas had formerly been celebrated—the ball promised to be a festive occasion attended by the leading citizens of Paris. This being Year One of the new French Republic, all Christian holidays had been suspended, all church services canceled. Cathedrals and churches had been seized for the Republic and rebranded “temples of reason.” This was not to be a party celebrating Christmas but an event to celebrate the triumph of the ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity. And André, momentarily excused for his deceased father’s nobility, knew this to be an invitation that he would be unwise to refuse.
“Aren’t I lucky that my brother couldn’t find a date, and I get to attend as his guest?” Remy looked roguishly handsome in his military uniform and, as he stepped out of the rented fiacre, he nodded at a pair of women who walked arm in arm around the street corner. “We could ask those two gals if they’d like to join?”
André smiled at the two women as he stepped out of the fiacre behind his brother. He wore a similar blue coat with the bronze gorget denoting his rank as an officer. Men in blue coats, the adopted color of the French Revolutionary Army, were now ever present in Paris. “Just try not to get drunk and insult anyone important, Remy. We’re not exactly the citizens these people hope to see.”
“Without a woman, how else should I keep amused?”
André fidgeted with the buttons of his uniform as they crossed La Place de l’Abbe-Basset. “These Jacobins are not necessarily our crowd, and they don’t sound like the most cheerful bunch. We are here to pay our respects, and then we’ll leave.”
“I’ll drink their wine, dance with a few of their wives. Then I’ll leave.”
“If you leave it at acquainting and don’t take it further than that, then we might just be able to leave unnoticed and get on with our lives without these vicious lawyers threatening our heads.”
“If their wives take an interest in my head, then what can I do, big brother?” Remy laughed.
André ignored the last comment, tucking his hands into his pockets. The night air was cold and dry as they approached the monumental building on the far side of the square. After months of marching and sleeping in the woods and bogs of the French countryside, André marveled at the size and beauty of the building, even if he had seen it several times before. Despite the winter chill and brutal shortages of food and fuel, the city retained much of its charm.
The evening’s event was to be held inside the Panthéon, the colossal structure previously known to Parisians as the Abbey of Sainte-Geneviève; the cross at the front and the sculpture of its patron saint had been removed by the sans-culottes and smashed in the street. Perhaps a few glasses of wine would help A
ndré forget the fact that the building was now functioning as a mausoleum, the temple where the great Frenchmen of the new nation would be buried. He noted, as they approached, that St. Geneviève’s likeness had been replaced with a Greek-style statue bearing the cumbersome name of The Fatherland Crowning the Heroic and Civic Virtues.
André nodded at two guards standing at the entry, noting, with a twinge of relief, that their military uniforms gained him and Remy swift, unquestioned admission. Inside, the hall was cool and damp. The high-vaulted dome overhead was designed to wash the place in natural sunlight, but this evening the great hall was illuminated by dim, flickering candlelight.
The hall was sparsely decorated as if it were a Noël occasion: holly strung along the walls, polished candelabras running the lengths of long tables spread with pastries, wine, and punch. Throughout the crowd, André spotted several military uniforms, but the vast majority of men in attendance were dressed in civilian clothing. He saw spectacles, clean-shaven faces, and narrow shoulders that had never worn the uniform of the army. He was, after all, at a Jacobin event, surrounded by lawyers and aspiring statesmen of the new Republic.
The women at this soiree, André noted, appeared entirely different from the women who had frequented the feasts he’d witnessed as a youth. Scarlet satin and violet brocade had been replaced by sensible tones of muted beige and navy. Powdered white hair, curled and piled high atop the head, had been replaced with simple brown buns. Heavily rouged cheeks and cheery, sparkling laughter had been exchanged for serious, even stern, expressions and judicious political discussion. The Jacobins had very different taste in women and fashion, it appeared, than had the former dukes and counts of France.
Remy fixed his eyes on the far side of the party. “There he is, the Incorruptible himself.” André followed Remy’s gaze and immediately recognized Maximilien Robespierre, the leader of the Jacobin Club and therefore the de facto host of the evening. “He’s shorter than I thought,” Remy remarked.
André studied the man, agreeing. Robespierre’s appearance was, in every way, less impressive than the journal illustrations would have had him believe. The young lawyer had a narrow face, with feline green eyes and a pale, prominent brow. His skin was wan, as if he were in less than perfect health, and as he spoke to the constellation of admirers surrounding him, he twitched his limbs in uneven, jerky movements, as if not quite comfortable with the machinations of his own frame.
Robespierre was known as a great orator, André knew, but not entirely from his skillful delivery. His talent, rather, lay in the complexity of his arguments, the length and weightiness of his addresses to the Convention. André had deduced as much while watching him during the king’s trial. When he spoke, Robespierre never resorted to bombast or high volume; his long and circuitous arguments aimed their arrows at a man’s brain rather than his heart or gut. And he spoke quietly. So quietly, in fact, that the entire audience was forced to hush and lean forward in order to hear his words. Robespierre’s sentences were so long and labyrinthine that one rarely remembered, by the end of a statement, what its initial point might have been. This had the effect, André had realized, of so baffling the crowd that they credited their incomprehension to Robespierre’s superior intellect rather than the speaker’s meandering message. And thus, he frequently carried the day.
“Robespierre has been pushing for the guillotine ever since the start of Louis’s trial,” André whispered to his brother, still studying the distant figure. “Said he’d be happy to throw in the first vote.”
“I still can’t believe you went and watched that circus,” Remy said, scanning the hall for a glass of champagne.
“I’m sorry I did,” André replied, clenching his jaw. He had suffered more than one nightmare about the trial since that day. Only, in his dreams, it was usually his father who sat on trial before the panel of Convention members. And in one recent nightmare it had been André himself.
“Who is that beside Robespierre?” Remy asked.
André turned back toward Robespierre and his attendants. “Georges Danton, from the looks of it.”
“Ah, Robespierre’s closest ally.” Remy nodded. “He looks like he might have more success with the ladies than his short little friend.”
Danton was Robespierre’s foil in appearance. Where Robespierre was short and narrow, Danton stood tall and broad, his frame like a massive wrestler’s. He had round eyes and fleshy jowls, and when he opened his mouth, the sound of his deep laughter reverberated throughout the hall.
“And there is our commander,” Remy said, spotting the uniformed figure of General Dumouriez. “I think I need a drink before I offer my greetings.” With that, Remy glided away from his older brother’s side.
André stood alone, wishing he had gone with Remy to seek out that drink. Staring around the room, he was startled when he heard his name called out.
“How’s that scar healing, Captain Valière?”
André turned and saw General Kellermann approaching, his arm linked to that of a pretty woman of middle age. He, like André, wore his military uniform and his graying hair pulled back tidily by a ribbon.
“You’re looking quite a bit more cleaned up than the last time I saw you. I believe some Prussian gentleman was standing over you, trying very hard to lodge his bayonet in your skull.” Kellermann paused before André, smiling.
“I had him right where I wanted him, sir,” André quipped, and Kellermann let out a cheerful laugh. “But I am much indebted, all the same, sir.”
“If that was where you wanted him, I don’t think you wished to stay long on this earth.”
André’s face reddened as he nodded wordlessly.
“Believe it or not,” Kellermann continued, his tone light as he glanced at the woman beside him, “I was a young soldier once, too. And foolish. I remember a certain student at the military academy at Brienne. He was years older than me, and so very distinguished. I hoped that someday I might carry myself as he did.”
André shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of his superior’s meaning.
Now Kellermann’s eyes had lost the glimmer of lighthearted laughter, but instead appeared full of earnest meaning. André’s own stare slid downward toward his polished boots.
“In fact…” Kellermann continued. André looked up, trying to swallow but finding his mouth dry. “The one who really knew your father well was”—Kellermann turned—“speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear.”
Before André could make sense of what was happening, another man appeared beside him, prompting his spine to stiffen involuntarily. He looked into expressionless gray eyes, a mustached face. “Good evening, General Murat.”
“Nicolai, good to see you,” Kellermann said. “Doesn’t our young captain look dashing, all cleaned up?” He shifted his broad shoulders to make room for his friend in the small cluster of conversation.
“Cleaned up, and hopefully a bit less nervous,” Murat said, his thin lips spreading under his mustache into a poorly concealed sneer.
André slowly raised his chin, a small gesture of defiance, and said: “A ball makes some more nervous than a battle. Women can be more dangerous than an army of thousands.”
Kellermann laughed, offering his companions an affable grin. “Well said. And speaking of the fairer gender, where are my manners? Allow me to introduce my wife, Christianne Kellermann.”
The lady whom André now knew to be Kellermann’s wife extended a gloved hand, which he took and kissed. A countess, earlier in her life and her marriage. But now André said: “Citizeness Kellermann, it is an honor to meet you.”
“I have heard wonderful things about you, Captain.” Christianne Kellermann wore a kind expression and spoke in a soft voice, her manners controlled, almost timid. Quite the opposite of her gregarious husband. “My husband holds a high opinion of you.”
“An admiration which is surely exaggerated,” André answered, “when your husband has been deemed ‘Savior of the Revolution.�
� You must be proud, Madame Kellermann.”
“I believe you mean to say Citizeness Kellermann?” Murat’s voice had an edge to it, a perturbation that his tense facial features reinforced. André looked to him and stammered, caught off guard by both his hard tone and appearance.
Kellermann interjected, “Any man who stood with us at Valmy is a friend for the rest of my days.” Kellermann now looped his arm around his wife’s waist in a gesture of comfortable familiarity. “Valière held his line steady while many of the others were breaking. Our center was unshakable that day. Isn’t that right, Nicolai?”
Murat answered after a long pause, as if reluctant to agree on the point. “Indeed.”
Just then, André noticed a pretty young woman enter. She walked in on the arm of a man who appeared twice her age, her unlined face framed by blond curls pulled back and resting in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her cream-colored shoulders were visible above a gown of light blue silk, accented with a modest string of pearls at her throat.
Unlike the other women in the crowd, this lady did not look around at the hall, nor did she speak to her companion as he led her across the floor. Her lips remained pursed, free of either greetings or smiles, tilting downward in the slightest hint of a frown. And yet her sober, impassive face had an almost magnetic quality, drawing the gaze of more than one gentleman as she passed by; her elaborate dress and fine, delicate features caused her to stand out in this room as a lily might appear out of place in a field full of wheat.
The man beside the lady held her arm and now offered her a glass of champagne. Physically, he was in no way her equal. He had rings of doughy flesh lining his ample neck and a few strands of hair the color of ash. He made a quick comment to her and then followed it with a series of short, uneven chortles, and André wondered if he was made more nervous by the crowded party, or the company of the bored, beautiful woman on his arm. André noticed how General Murat’s eyes, too, watched this young lady’s entrance, fixing on her with an odd, intense expression.
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