Sophie broke the silence between them. “It was strange not to have Christmas this year, wasn’t it?”
André nodded, turning back to look into her pale, unblinking eyes.
“I sang carols to myself anyway. I didn’t care, and no one else had to hear them.” She smirked, shrugging her shoulders. Her frame looked so small in his uniform jacket. “Maman used to sing carols to us in the sleigh on the way to Christmas Mass. I especially loved the one about the shepherds who walked through the night to see the little infant.”
André knew the tune of which she spoke, and he began to sing from his own childhood memory: “All through the day, and all through the night.”
She joined him, their voices weaving into one melody: “With nothing to guide them but heaven’s light.”
Looking at each other, they both began to laugh at the same time.
“So you know that one?” Sophie blinked, her head dropping to one side. She looked charming, even in his military jacket.
“Of course I do. Remy used to sing carols until my father would lose his temper and send him out of the room.”
Remy. André felt a tinge of guilt—he should probably go find his brother and ensure that he hadn’t gotten himself into trouble elsewhere in the city. He had known, before they’d arrived this evening, that Remy had been in the mood to fight. But when he looked down at Sophie, her cheeks tinged pink by the frigid night air, her light eyes fixed on his with sudden interest, André found himself not yet ready to leave. Not until she did.
“Remy is, I take it, the man who hoped to dance with me before?”
“I think every man inside that hall hoped to dance with you.”
She studied him now, and, as if reading his thoughts, she asked: “Are you worried about him?”
“Every day,” he answered. “But somehow, he always manages to sort things out.”
A sly grin pulled on her lips, and she asked: “Do you wish to dance with me, Officer Valière?”
He gazed at her, hoping that she didn’t hear the clamoring of his heart against his rib cage. “Yes, Countess,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet.
“I thought I asked you not to call me ‘Countess,’ ” she said, breaking his gaze.
“Oh, yes…sorry.” He had never been a natural charmer; no, that was Remy.
Perhaps sensing his bashfulness, Sophie turned to him and smiled. Feeling fortified by this encouraging glance, André was just about to take her hand and ask for that dance when he heard footsteps approaching. They were not alone.
“So this is where you’ve scurried off to.”
Though it was too dark for him to immediately recognize the figure approaching, André knew the voice.
“Uncle Nico,” Sophie said, just as General Murat’s shadowed face became visible in a pool of light cast by the nearest streetlamp. “How wonderful to see you.” She attempted, and failed, to bring a tone of cheer to her voice.
“Hello, So-So.” Murat leaned down and offered his pale cheek for a kiss. She obliged, appearing so small, suddenly, beside her uncle’s tall uniformed frame.
“I see you’ve met one of my men, André de Valière.” Murat turned his stare on André, his eyes two pools of gray ink.
Sophie turned to André, her face confused at the surname he had only partially disclosed. “I…yes, I have. He was kind enough to escort me outside for some fresh air. I was feeling a bit overheated in the hall, Uncle.”
“Yes, it looked as if you were quite warm as I was walking up.” Murat’s eyes rested on André’s jacket, draped over Sophie’s shoulders. “My niece is a widow, Captain de Valière,” Murat said. “I am her guardian.”
“I had just finished telling him about Jean-Baptiste, Uncle Nico,” Sophie interjected, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
Murat kept his cold gaze fixed squarely on André. “So, it looks like one brother tried and failed to gain your attention this evening. And now the other is hoping to…” Murat didn’t finish his thought. André balled his fists hard, his nails digging into the flesh of his palms.
Murat continued, turning to his niece. “So-So, you left the hall without hearing Citizen Robespierre’s address.”
“I needed some air,” she repeated, her voice quiet.
“Well, I suspect you’ve gotten quite enough. It’s getting late; I shall take you home.”
“Uncle, I’m fine, really. I’d like to stay a bit longer, if you don’t mind.”
Murat spread his thin lips to protest, but just then, a herd of bodies poured forth into the square from the front door of the Panthéon. André turned to look and saw the figure of Robespierre emerging first, with Danton just a step behind him. After them came a dozen other members of the National Convention. General Kellermann, too, was exiting and André saw him running toward a waiting fiacre.
“What’s this?” Sophie asked, turning to her uncle.
“Christophe?” Murat called toward Kellermann’s retreating frame. André seized this brief opening to lean close to Sophie and whisper, “Can I see you again?”
Sophie turned to answer, but before she could speak, her uncle had slid in between them. “Sophie, come.” His jaw clenched, Murat clamped his large hand on his niece’s elbow, a gesture that might have signified gallantry if not for his sharp stare and insistent tone. “Come, niece, the night could very well turn dangerous. I will get you safely home.”
Glancing once more at André, Sophie hesitated a moment and then accepted her uncle’s outstretched arm. With Sophie secure in his grip, Murat called once more toward his colleague. “Kellermann, what news?”
Kellermann turned as he strode quickly toward his coach. “The National Convention has convened an emergency midnight session.”
Even from that brief reply, André understood perfectly well his meaning; there was only one thing that would pull the men from their party to the halls of the assembly for a spontaneous meeting. That night, the National Convention of France would vote whether or not to behead their king.
March 1793
Yet again, Jean-Luc St. Clair’s colleagues were watching the young lawyer with droll expressions, entertained by the tearful woman sitting at his desk.
“Citizeness Poitier”—Jean-Luc spoke in a hushed tone, hoping to have a calming influence as he did so—“it was my pleasure to represent you. I am just happy that you and your children may, at last, return to your home.”
“You don’t understand, Citizen St. Clair. If my Jacques was here today, he’d embrace you until he’d half-crushed the life out of you!” She reached across the desk, taking her lawyer’s hands in her rough palms. “How can we ever repay you?”
He smiled at her tear-streaked face, his shoulders slackening. “Seeing justice done for our citizens, at last, is reward enough.” Though, truth be told, a small financial reward would not have gone unappreciated; Marie had told him just yesterday that they were behind on what they owed both the landlord and the baker.
After several more entreaties, and a few more sobs, Jean-Luc was finally successful in seeing Madame Poitier down to the square, where she bid him farewell with a hearty hug and a promise that, should he ever need accommodations near Massy, he was always welcome in her family’s cottage.
“Bet you’re glad to be done with that one.” Gavreau was leaning on Jean-Luc’s oak desk, waiting for him when he reentered the crowded office.
Jean-Luc sighed, taking his seat and sweeping up the scattered documents of Madame Poitier’s case. “I’m glad that she can return home. I just hope the government official who has moved into the Montnoir estate will be a better landlord.”
“If not, she can always come back here for another round of charity. You can’t seem to turn ’em away.”
Jean-Luc shrugged off the comment, still sorting the case files for storage.
“Nearly done?” Gavreau had his coat on and buttoned, an eager look on his face.
“Give me twenty minutes.” Jean-Luc looked at his manag
er, who scowled and walked away.
Jean-Luc never organized his papers until he was done with them. Now that they no longer served a purpose, they would be preserved and filed in a precise and logical manner; it was while he worked that he appreciated chaos. Scrawling a quick note to Marie, Jean-Luc called over one of the office errand boys. “Will you deliver this to my wife?” He handed over a sou and the note outlining his victory for the Widow Poitier, reminding Marie that he would not be home for supper. Grabbing his coat, he rose from his chair and walked to meet Gavreau.
“So, where are we going?” Outside, in the last moments of sunlight before dusk, the square was packed with men and women of all ages—wine-sipping sans-culottes, vendors selling underripe fruit, various laborers taking advantage of one of the first days in which the coming spring seemed not so far off. The lights in the nearby windows and guesthouses were beginning to flicker over a sea of brown coats and red caps.
“It’s a small place on Rue des Halles. Maurice picked it,” Gavreau replied as they pressed forward into the throng.
Jean-Luc nodded, adjusting his coat and wishing he’d had Marie press his suit before this meeting.
Gavreau turned to his colleague, a teasing grin on his face. “Your first meeting with a big shot of the new government, eh? Don’t be nervous, St. Clair.”
“I’m not,” Jean-Luc lied.
The rendezvous was to take place across from the market square called Les Halles, at a spot aptly named the Café Marché. When they arrived, the hotelier informed Gavreau that the third gentleman already awaited them, and he guided them toward a table in the rear of the dim room, removed from the other diners.
Seated in the corner was a thin, elderly man in a plain black suit, fitted with a tricolor cockade on his left breast pocket. Maurice Merignac stood when he noticed the two men approaching. A ponytailed wig of orange curls framed a pale face—one that didn’t appear to often see sunlight. The head beneath the bright wig was, Jean-Luc guessed, bald.
“Citizen Merignac, it is good to see you,” Gavreau said, eagerly shaking the older man’s hand.
“And you, citizen.”
“Allow me to introduce one of my brightest and most promising young associates, Jean-Luc St. Clair.”
Merignac turned his small, dark eyes on Jean-Luc as he extended a hand. “Citizen St. Clair.”
“Citizen Merignac.” Jean-Luc took the man’s outstretched hand, which felt cold. “It is an honor to meet you.”
The three men took their seats around the small table, and a carafe of red wine was promptly set before them. The attendant informed them that the chef had prepared a fish stew that evening, and they might select either turnips or potatoes to accompany it. All three asked for the stew with potatoes, and then they were left alone in the privacy of their corner.
“So, how is your esteemed boss?” Gavreau asked. “He’s the talk of the journals these days. Seems that he’s influencing everything from grain prices to the war effort, even to which noble neck should remain and which should be cut off?”
In response, Merignac simply nodded, one slow, reverential movement of the head. The flicker of the lone candle on the table glimmered on his face, illuminating what appeared to be drawn cheeks and tired, deep-set eyes.
“Merignac and I go back—what is it, twenty years?” Gavreau took the carafe of wine and poured them each a full cup. “Back to the days when all we thought about was chasing skirts. ’Course, that’s all I’m still thinking about, though Merignac has moved on to much loftier pursuits.” With that, Gavreau erupted into a loud, uninhibited chortle and began to gulp his wine.
Merignac offered a curt nod in response, and Jean-Luc thought to himself that he could not imagine such a man ever chasing women. Merignac edged his chair just an inch away from his old acquaintance, as one would slide away from a foul smell, and turned his gaze on St. Clair. “Tell me, Citizen St. Clair, how long have you worked for the new Republic?”
“We’ve been in the city for a year and a half.”
A lone dark eyebrow slid up Merignac’s pale, papery brow. “ ‘We’?”
“My wife,” Jean-Luc explained. “And little boy.”
Merignac nodded. “From where did you come?”
“The south, near Marseille.”
“I thought I detected the southern accent.” Merignac nodded. Jean-Luc, slightly embarrassed, reminded himself to curtail the lethargic southern drawl that he thought sounded dreadfully unsophisticated compared to the fast, clipped cadence of the Parisians.
“I, too, come from the south,” Merignac said, leaning forward and offering his first smile. “As does Citizen Lazare.” Instantly, Jean-Luc felt more at ease.
“And what a year this one has had since coming up from the south,” Gavreau interjected, putting a hand on Jean-Luc’s shoulder. “Busy from dawn ’til dusk. I can barely tear him away from his desk to dine with me.”
Merignac kept his gaze fixed on the younger lawyer. “Are you a member of the club?”
“The Jacobin Club? Yes, I am,” Jean-Luc replied. His membership was little more than nominal, a requirement he’d had to fulfill in order to acquire his position in the new government. But the membership fee of twenty-four livres had not been appreciated by Marie, to be sure.
“Good.” Merignac nodded, and silence spread once more over the table.
Given that it was late winter, and the days were still short, the room began to darken as the sky outside grew black. The server appeared, relighting the candle in the center of their table, which had been extinguished by a sharp draft.
“Let there be light, eh?” Merignac nodded toward the server before looking back at Jean-Luc, his eyes attentive. “Have you ever been over to the Rue Saint-Honoré?”
“To Jacobin headquarters?” Jean-Luc now lifted his wineglass, shaking his head. “No.”
“It is no great distance from here.” Merignac folded his thin hands on the table before him, not touching his wine. “I could show you in sometime, if you’d like. Citizen Lazare spends much of his time there these days. When he’s not sitting through speeches at the Convention or at trial.”
Jean-Luc glanced toward Gavreau, whose face betrayed the same surprise that Jean-Luc now felt. And then, turning back to Merignac, Jean-Luc nodded. “That would be an honor. Thank you.”
And then, as if seeing with stark clarity the question on Jean-Luc’s mind, Merignac added: “My esteemed superior is always willing to meet a bright young man employed in the service of the Republic. He is generous—very generous indeed—with young talent. He calls such men as you”—and now Merignac leaned forward—“ses petits projets.”
His little projects.
Jean-Luc nodded just as the server returned, refilling Gavreau’s wineglass and depositing their bowls of fish stew. Merignac took his linen napkin in his spindly fingers and tucked it fastidiously into the collar of his suit before he reached for his spoon.
Taking just the smallest, slowest bite of his dinner, Merignac looked up at Jean-Luc. “Robespierre is someone you’ll want to meet, as well. But you already know that.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if meeting two of the most powerful men in Paris was as easily done as introducing oneself to a neighbor or passerby on the street.
Jean-Luc followed the elder man’s lead, hungrily spooning himself a bite of the thin, watery stew. It needed salt and butter, and he tasted very little fish; Marie was correct to complain about Parisian seafood. Turning his focus back to his companions, he said: “I think that a great number of people would like an audience with Citizen Robespierre, as well as Citizen Lazare.”
Merignac swallowed, his spoon suspended in his fingers as he spoke. “They are quite sought-after these days.”
“Beloved, you might say,” Jean-Luc added.
“Indeed, Robespierre is…well, he’s an interesting fellow. His rise to power was quick. Many believe that he is unstoppable.” The room was now completely dark, illuminated by only a dozen flickering candles
. The dim lighting gave the orange of Merignac’s wig a peculiar fiery appearance against which his pale skin seemed paper-thin, almost translucent.
“Do you know what they’ve begun to call Robespierre?” Merignac cocked his head. “ ‘The Incorruptible.’ But I’m not so sure of that. My employer believes that no man’s virtue is beyond corruption. It’s simply a matter of finding his weakness.”
Jean-Luc looked down at his stew, slightly startled by the remark. Gavreau, perhaps feeling uncomfortable with the silence, slurped his wine and muttered: “I know mine pretty well, you might say.” Only Gavreau laughed at his own joke.
“The thing that Robespierre recognized,” Merignac continued, ignoring Gavreau, “and that the fool of a king never did, is that anger is so much more potent than love. The Bourbon tried to appeal to people’s better natures. He told them he loved them as a father loves his children. They don’t want to hear that. They are hungry and enraged and they want someone to tell them that they are right to be so.”
Jean-Luc sat silently, considering this.
“We’re both from the south, Citizen St. Clair,” Merignac continued. “A region perhaps most famed for its maritime industry. I would liken public opinion to the headwinds caught in a great sail. The brilliance of Robespierre is that he has caught the wind of the people’s rage and desperation and has directed it with great agility and cunning. True, if managed poorly it can turn on those who wield it—like our ill-fated monarch. But, if harnessed properly, that force can power the machine of progress. As Citizen Lazare likes to say: ‘Progress comes from change, and change is generated by force.’ Why not harness the power of the people and generate force from all of this splendid chaos?”
“Hear, hear!” Gavreau bellowed, slamming a fist into the table. Jean-Luc turned to his colleague and noticed that he had already drained several glasses of wine, and, from the looks of it, had begun to feel their effects.
Where the Light Falls Page 11