Where the Light Falls

by Allison Pataki

  Then, on an afternoon in late August while returning to his boardinghouse, André’s gaze happened upon a familiar face—a sight that caused his heart to heave in his rib cage. At first, he didn’t quite trust his own eyes, recalling how many times before they had deceived him. But there, in the broad daylight, she sat.

  Sophie was on the terrace of a crowded restaurant in the Marais quarter, dining with the same man who had accompanied her to the fete at the Panthéon months earlier. “Franck” was the name she had given. André fought to suppress a rush of emotion—a combination of jealousy and frustration. So she was involved with this man, in spite of what she had said that night.

  And yet, beholding her, he could not stay unhappy for long. She was dressed more casually than she had been for the Jacobin ball. In the heat of late summer, she wore a lightweight dress of white linen, its borders trimmed in lace. Her blond hair, reflecting the golden streaks of midday sunlight, was pulled back in a loose bun. Again, she wore a bored, restless expression, that look that she had shed only after talking to him, André thought, indulging in a momentary surge of hope.

  “You, come here.” André waved forward a shaggy-haired youth, his breeches cut short above scabby knees and bare feet. “Would you like to earn a sou?”

  The boy’s reluctance quickly vanished, and his eyes widened as they fixed on the shiny coin. “Why yes, citizen, I’d love some money.”

  “Good, then you’ll deliver a note to that mademoiselle seated over there. Do you see her? The one in white?”

  “That pretty one right there?” The kid pointed a dirty finger, which André shooed down.

  “Don’t point, little lad,” he gently scolded. Picking up a piece of paper from the street, one of the ever-present political pamphlets, André scrawled out a quick note, which he folded and handed to the boy. “Deliver this to her, but don’t say anything. Just deliver it and then come back to me, you hear? I’ll be standing right around this corner with your sou.”

  The boy nodded, taking the note in his grimy fingers and scampering across the street on his errand. André removed himself from sight, stepping behind a wine vendor’s stall. He had scribbled onto the paper in hopes that she had not yet forgotten him, “If you’d like to continue the conversation we started on the steps of the Panthéon, then offer your regrets to Monsieur and come meet me for a drink at Le Pont Blanc.”

  —

  André stood at the front of the café, attempting a posture of casual disinterest that belied the nerves he felt. He was on the verge of ordering himself a cup of wine when he realized, with a pang of apprehension, that perhaps Sophie had no intention of coming. The clock across the room told him he had waited for more than a quarter of an hour. Surely, if she remembered who he was or cared to see him again, she would have arrived by now.

  Defeated, André propped his elbows on the bar and cast a forlorn glance toward the door, contemplating where he might go to lift his spirits.

  He took a deep breath and let out a long, slow exhale; he would take a walk to clear his mind and go home. He turned toward the door just in time to notice, to his shock and delight, a white-clad figure gliding in from the street. Her cheeks rosy from the walk, Sophie entered the tavern and looked around, pausing her search when her eyes landed on his. She stood still for a moment. André faced her, powerless to conceal the broad smile that spread across his face.

  Spotting him, Sophie walked forward, her parasol swaying at her side. She extended a gloved hand toward him, which he took and raised to his lips. Keeping his eyes fixed on her, his gaze not wavering for a moment, he said: “You took your time, mademoiselle.”

  “Me?” She smiled, leaning her head to the side. “It took you long enough. I thought that I’d come across you long before now. It was Saint-Paul that you named as your neighborhood, wasn’t it?” She lifted an eyebrow, her blue eyes sparkling mischievously.

  “I’ve been away,” he said, extending an arm toward her.

  “Soldiering?”

  He nodded. “Join me for a drink?”

  She accepted his outstretched arm and walked with him toward a banquette booth in the back of the room.

  “As I was saying, I had given up hope of you coming.”

  “What would you have had me do—abandon poor Franck before we had finished our meal?”

  “Perhaps,” André replied, smiling. And then, leaning forward toward Sophie, he continued. “I thought you didn’t care for him.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why have dinner with him? The poor man is probably in love with you.”

  Sophie grinned, covering her mouth with her gloved hand. After a pause, she leaned forward and said: “Franck cares for me as little as I care for him, of that I can assure you.” Seeing that André was not satisfied with this answer, Sophie explained further. “It’s his steaks and his pork chops that Franck enjoys, and he likes to have me on his arm or at his table—not because he enjoys me. I don’t even think he enjoys my conversation. At least, not any more than I enjoy his.”

  André thought about this. “So, then, you admit that you use him?”

  “Just as he uses me.” Sophie shrugged, her face expressionless. “If it wasn’t for Franck, I’d never be allowed out of my home. My uncle permits me to go out with Franck, but no one else. So, you see, he is my only ticket to get out into the world.”

  André considered this, sitting opposite her in a brooding silence.

  “I see you’re not convinced, Monsieur Valière….What, do you wish me to go out with you, instead?”

  “Yes,” André answered.

  “My uncle would never allow it.”

  “Your uncle doesn’t have to know.”

  She thought about this proposition, drumming her fingers along the table as she did so. “Well, why don’t you buy me a drink for a start?”

  André asked the attendant which spirits they had available and was told that all they had was wine from local stores in Vanves and Clamart, so he ordered a carafe and two glasses. When the drink came, he lifted his glass toward hers.

  “I was beginning to wonder whether or not you existed, or whether I had imagined meeting you that night,” he said. “Perhaps that sounds foolish, but now that I see you, I hope you do not mind my saying that I shall do everything I can to see you as often as I can. At least, before we march out again.”

  Sophie smiled, clinking her glass against his before taking a sip. The wine was watered down and warm, but at least the place had drinks to offer, and enough of a crowd to give it a mildly cheerful atmosphere.

  “Did you return to the city with my uncle?”

  “I did.” André nodded, sipping his wine. “Were you happy to have him back?”

  She pursed her lips but didn’t reply. That was all the answer André needed.

  “I’ve lost a husband, so I suppose now my uncle thinks he needs to watch over me. It’s always the Revolution he uses as his reason—as if he hopes that fear will convince me.”

  “How so?”

  “I know that my name puts me at risk, but he reminds me of it every day. It seems to be his justification in forbidding me from going anywhere, or seeing anyone. Only I can protect you, So-So. You must not expose yourself to danger. Listen to Uncle Nico. I know best.”

  André thought about this, taking another sip of wine.

  “Now can you understand why, on occasion, I allow the one man of whom my uncle approves to take me out to lunch?”

  André sighed. “How about we agree not to talk about your uncle? You’re here now. With me.” He let that last part settle for a moment, enjoying its sound. “I propose a toast: to your freedom.”

  Sophie nodded her assent. “All right.”

  “Though you do strike me as too young to be a widow.”

  Sophie stared at him a moment, her face turning serious. “That’s because I was too young to be a bride.”

  “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  She made no repl
y, and André felt foolish for asking such an obviously rude question. His cheeks grew warm.

  She leaned forward, propping her arms on the table. “Let me guess. You, Monsieur Valière, are twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-three,” he answered, pleased that she had seen him as more mature than he actually felt. “And it’s ‘Captain Valière,’ mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, I see.” She laughed, nodding. “Captain Valière.”

  “I will guess—you are eighteen?”

  “And you are smart,” she chuckled, “guessing such a low number. That’s the way to a woman’s heart indeed.”

  “But you can’t be much more than eighteen?”

  “I’ll be twenty in a few months.”

  “Then I wasn’t so far off the mark.”

  She looked at him, the smile sliding from her face. “I was fourteen when I was married.”

  He grasped for words but found none.

  “You look as horrified as I felt,” she said, lowering her gaze to the table.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” André stammered. “It’s just, well, did you…did you at least…love him?”

  “Love him? Ha! I barely knew him. I’d met him once. He himself was widowed, and his children were older than I was.”

  The attendant appeared, refilling each of their wineglasses.

  “The union was not to be long-lived, I’m afraid,” Sophie continued once the waiter was gone. “The Comte de Vincennes died just three months after making me a countess. Miraculously, there were no children produced by the short marriage.”

  André felt his cheeks flush, and he looked down at his now-full wineglass.

  “In spite of what you might suspect”—Sophie spoke, drawing his gaze back toward her—“my husband did not perish at the guillotine. No,” she sighed, “poor Jean-Baptiste died of nothing more glamorous than old age after a life of dissipation. I think it was the gout, in the end. At least, that’s what he most often complained of.” She paused, clearing her throat, blinking away some unspoken memory before turning her focus back across the table toward André. “He did, however, leave me with a very dangerous surname, as my uncle reminds me often.”

  André, responding to either her candor or the wine, or both, asked, “But why were you forced, at such a young age, to marry such a sickly old man?”

  She peered at him, her lashes fluttering with a teasing gaze. “You seem to be a smart man, Captain André Valière. I’ll give you one guess.”

  “Money?”

  “There you have it.”

  André nodded, understanding, as they both fell silent.

  Eventually, she spoke. “Come now, how about you, Captain Valière?”

  “What about me?” André shifted in his seat.

  “How many hearts have you broken? A dozen at least, I’d imagine.”

  He shook his head.

  “Fine, perhaps you are the more reserved type,” she continued, peering at him intently. “Two?”

  Again, he shook his head.

  “One?” she asked, the surprise becoming apparent in her voice. When he didn’t answer, she leaned forward. Now it was her turn to be shocked. “None? Not even one lady for a handsome captain?”

  André shook his head, noting with a twinge of delight that she had called him handsome. Nevertheless, he hurried to explain himself against her incredulity. “I had the good fortune of not being married off to an aged widow, but rather attending military school before the old order fell apart.”

  Sophie let out a humorless laugh, her gaze remaining fixed on André, steady and appraising. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “No heartbroken lovers for a handsome young officer—well, aren’t you full of surprises, André Valière?”

  He found this remark curious, but Sophie continued to stare at him. Several moments later she sighed and said: “Shame you didn’t come along sooner. It seems that you had the noble title that would have satisfied my impoverished, dying father. And then I might have had a husband who survived. And one whom I could have actually liked.”

  André’s cheeks flushed with heat. “I know that your uncle told you my full name. We were forced to change it when my father was denounced.”

  Sophie nodded as she considered this, licking lips that had been stained a light purple. When she spoke, it was barely a whisper: “But surely memories aren’t that short. Don’t people know who you really are?”

  André replied in a hushed voice, “This uniform has been a shield, so far. Remy and I will be serving in the army, willingly, until the day that all of this madness has been sorted.”

  Sophie folded her hands on the table between them, letting out a long, slow exhale.

  “Speaking of soldiers,” André continued. “Your uncle, the great General Murat…” André rested his chin on his propped elbows. “How is it that someone like you could share the same blood as someone like him?”

  Sophie flashed half a smile but didn’t censure André for the slur against her uncle. “He was my mother’s brother. You know he was a count, the Comte de Custine, before he renounced the title?”

  André nodded.

  “That is how it was even possible for someone like me to marry the Comte de Vincennes. My mother was, at one point, nobility.”

  “Was your mother like him?”

  “Not in any way, neither appearance nor demeanor.” Sophie paused, and André let her sit in the silence of her memory. When she continued, her voice was quiet, and she seemed years younger. “I didn’t know my mother well, as she died when I was a little girl. But I do remember thinking that she reminded me of the angels I read about in my catechism.”

  As do you, André thought to himself.

  “I’m not sure who Uncle Nico resembles.” Sophie drained the rest of her wineglass. Shrugging her shoulders, she looked up at André, her blue eyes sad. “But as my mother is gone, I’ll never be able to ask.”

  “I’m not sure whom he scares more—his enemies or his own men,” André confessed.

  “He certainly has that effect on people.” She smiled, accepting a refill of wine from the waiter. The crowd throughout the tavern had begun to thicken, and bodies drifted closer to their table, filling up the empty space beside their banquette.

  André agreed. “I doubt any man would willingly take on General Murat.” Lost in these troubled thoughts, André was shaken out of his daydream when he caught a pair of uniformed soldiers enter through the front of the café. He realized, with a stab of panic, that it was Remy and LaSalle, accompanied by two pretty, young women. Remy’s eyes had landed on the two of them, sitting together in the back, and he waved, marching with his companions through the crowds toward their table.

  “Do my eyes deceive me? Is my brother actually dining in the presence of a woman? And a very pretty one, at that.” Remy made an exaggerated bow, lifting Sophie’s hand to his lips. “Citizeness.” He flashed a dazzling smile at Sophie before turning to André. “Big brother, hello.”

  “Hello, Remy,” André said, his jaw clenched. “LaSalle.”

  “So I see you’ve found her at last?” Remy smirked at them, looping his arm around the waist of his date. “The elusive beauty from the Jacobin ball.”

  André, the impatience and irritation apparent in his voice, replied, “And we were just about to have dinner, Remy, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

  “Perfect. Surely a good idea that we eat before we drink any more.” With that, Remy pulled up two chairs for the ladies and slid his body into the booth beside Sophie. LaSalle sat down beside André, who felt as though he might groan in frustration. But, to his relief, Sophie did not seem upset by this development. In fact, based on the way she smiled across the table at André, she seemed amused.

  “I did not hear your names.” Sophie turned to the two ladies who accompanied LaSalle and Remy. “I’m Sophie.”

  “Please excuse my terrible manners, ladies. Sophie, please meet Captain LaSalle’s date, the beautiful Henriette. And this here”—Remy took
the hand of the girl seated nearest to him—“is Celine.” Turning his gaze back toward his brother, Remy said: “Celine is a ballerina.”

  “A ballerina!” Sophie remarked, smiling delightedly.

  “That’s right. I call her Celine la ballerine.” Remy leaned over and kissed his date, a pretty woman with thick black hair and hazel eyes. “To have Celine, and my brother, and my brother’s…friend…all together. This calls for a celebration. Raspail!” Remy called over the waiter. “A bottle of wine for my brother and his lovely companion.” Turning back to André, Remy asked: “You will join me in a drink, brother, won’t you?”

  “I see that you intend for it to happen, regardless of my answer,” André said, giving Sophie a resigned smile. She seemed highly entertained.

  “Dinner sounds wonderful,” Remy pronounced. “LaSalle and I just offered to treat these two beauties to a bowl of mussels in exchange for their beguiling company.”

  “Mussels—that sounds like a splendid idea,” Sophie said, turning her gaze toward André. He ordered a bowl for the two of them, as well.

  The waiter brought out the bowls just as it was growing dark outside. The restaurant was warm and noisy, and André felt a calm, contented feeling as he sat across from Sophie, even in spite of his brother’s uninvited presence. The mussels arrived steaming in a frothy broth of butter, white wine, and garlic. Watching Sophie enjoy the dish, laughing as she did with Celine and Henriette at the foolish banter of Remy and LaSalle, André did not mind spending an entire week’s wages on buying her wine and dinner.

  Between the six of them, they made quick work of several bottles of wine. Remy signified he was at last full by releasing a loud belch, to which Sophie gasped, laughing as she said: “Remy! You have half the manners of your brother.”

  Remy glanced sideways at André, his face turning serious for one moment. “That is the truth. There is no better man than my brother.”

  “Come now.” André lowered his eyes to the table. “No need to be serious.”

  “Says the man who is always serious,” quipped LaSalle.

  “It’s true, though,” Remy said. “My brother is the best man you will ever meet.” Perhaps sensing his older brother’s discomfort at the uncharacteristic flattery, Remy shifted in his chair. “Say, LaSalle and I had hoped to take these two lovely ladies dancing, farther up the hill toward Pigalle. Care to join us, André? Sophie?”