Where the Light Falls

by Allison Pataki

  Jean-Luc rested his head in his hands, his mind weary and his convictions being assailed like a ship’s mast facing a strong headwind.

  “It’s not too late, Jean. The papers haven’t found you out yet. You could withdraw.”

  Jean-Luc sighed, a forlorn, defeated sigh. Both of them looked to the dark-haired little boy playing in the corner, his rosy lips slurring out the marching orders to his tiny wooden soldier.

  Jean-Luc turned back toward his wife. “Marie, someone has to defend him. Otherwise, what was all of this for? Our whole Revolution would be a sham.”

  “Someone, all right, but why you?”

  “No one else will do it. Can’t you see that?”

  She glowered, her full lips pressed in a straight, unyielding line.

  “Marie, I’ve waited days, weeks, hoping and praying that someone would come forward. Someone with more experience and influence than I have.” Jean-Luc shrugged. “But no one has come.”

  “You must realize, Jean, there’s a reason for that. Are you to be the only one foolish enough to take this job?”

  “I have to do it, Marie!” Jean-Luc landed a fist on the table, and he instantly regretted the force of the action. Mathieu looked up from the corner, scared. Marie’s eyes dropped, filling with tears.

  “I’m sorry.” He reached across the table, taking her hand in his own and raising it to his lips. “What is all of this for?” He looked around—at the tiny apartment in this squalid neighborhood, their paltry dinner table that rarely had meat. “Why are we here? What are we fighting for, if not justice? I have to believe that our new nation is a place where an innocent man gets a fair trial. Where the rights of a man are upheld by the law. Where fear and hate are not yet more potent than justice and truth.”

  He wanted to continue. To beg her forgiveness. To promise her that he would do whatever he could to keep them safe. But he was overcome, and the words caught in his throat before he could utter them. He lowered his face once more into his cupped hands.

  She made a low, guttural noise, before reaching across the table and taking his hands in hers. “Jean-Luc St. Clair, why must you always be so damned decent?”

  He met her eyes, pausing a moment before answering. “I have to be.”

  She offered a sad, resigned smile. “But why?”

  “To be worthy of you.”

  She sighed, a joyless sound, as she looked down at their intertwined hands.

  “But perhaps you’re right, Marie, perhaps it is foolish to put our entire family in danger. Perhaps you and Mathieu should visit your father. Spend some time back in Marseille. Only while the trial is ongoing, just until this chaos has passed. It might make sense for you to be far enough away in case—”

  “Oh, you can stop right there.” She raised her hand.

  “It would be prudent.”

  “Don’t you say another word, Jean-Luc St. Clair.” Her tone was suddenly stern and authoritative. “If you think you will be shipping us out, if you think we’d leave you behind at a moment such as this, then you are not as intelligent as you think you are.”

  “Papa?” Mathieu was by his side now at the table, tugging on the jacket of his father’s frayed suit. “Papa?”

  Jean-Luc collected himself with a long inhale and looked down at his son. “Yes, my boy?” He put a palm on the top of his son’s soft brunette curls.

  “Papa, don’t be sad.”

  “I’m not sad, my dear boy,” Jean-Luc lied.

  “Here, Papa, you may have my new toy.” Mathieu extended a chubby hand toward his father, offering the wooden figurine. Jean-Luc took the soldier in his hands.

  “This is a very nice toy, Mathieu.” Then, looking up at his wife, he whispered: “How did we afford this?”

  Marie rose, taking the two cold plates between them to clear the table. “I didn’t buy that,” she said. “I thought you did.”

  Jean-Luc was confused now and looked back at the toy—its glossy paint, its fine features carved with expert artistry. “Not me. How did he get it?”

  Marie was scrubbing the dishes, her back to them. Jean-Luc turned to his son. Had his little boy stolen the expensive figurine from somewhere? “Mathieu, where did you get this?”

  Mathieu took the figure back in his hand, hugging it close to his tiny body as if he feared he might have to surrender it. “The nice man gave it to me.”

  The words, as vague and garbled as they were coming from his toddler’s mouth, sent a chill through Jean-Luc from the crown of his head down to the base of his gut. “The nice man?” he repeated the phrase. “Who is the nice man?”

  Mathieu shrugged, bored of the questions. Marie turned around from the dishes, listening now with keen interest.

  Jean-Luc put his hands on his son’s shoulders, looking from his wife’s worried expression back toward his child. “Mathieu, where did you see this nice man?”

  “Downstairs.” Mathieu pointed in the direction of the street, of Madame Grocque’s tavern, of the wretched neighborhood.

  “You mean Monsieur Grocque, the tavern keeper?”

  “No, Papa.” Mathieu shook his head. “He comes in his carriage sometimes.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  Mathieu shook his head. “But he said he would come back. He promised me.”

  Marie was by their sides now, leaning forward to speak to the little boy. “What did he look like, Mathieu?”

  The boy considered the question, his little brow creasing in thought. “I don’t know, Papa. Old. A very white face.”

  Jean-Luc exchanged a tortured look with his wife before pulling his son close to him, his heart tightening as if constricted by a noose. He clung to Mathieu, needing to enfold the child in a safe, protective embrace. As he did so, a feeling somewhere deep inside him told him that he was foolish to think that he could protect anyone, or anything. Not in this world.

  Marie spoke again, clutching her husband and son. “Mathieu, you listen to your papa. This man in a carriage—you are never to speak to him again unless you are with your mama or papa, do you hear me?”

  Mathieu nodded, his sweet, soft features impervious to the fear that unnerved his parents. “Don’t worry, Mama. If you don’t wish me to see him, I’ll ask him to disappear.”

  “What do you mean, my darling?” Marie asked, looking at Jean-Luc.

  “Because, Mama,” Mathieu explained, “he told me that he can make people disappear.”

  Jean-Luc had taken to staying late at the office; there was always more work to be done than hours in which to do it, and it wasn’t until the rest of his colleagues had left for the evening that he found he could accomplish most of his tasks. That, and it was easier to get home after Marie had already gone to sleep. Living alongside her nervous presence, avoiding her short, detached comments, was growing more and more difficult. He hated being at odds with her, hated seeing her so unhappy. Especially when he knew his own actions had inspired her anxious looks and the evasive turning of her back when he tried to embrace her. It was better, he had decided, that they see as little of each other as possible until after the Kellermann case had been decided.

  Outside, the ground had thawed and spring had bloomed across Paris. The trees lining the Seine hung heavy with chestnut blossoms, and the days stretched out so long that the sun did not set over the western barrier of the city until only a few hours before midnight. It was a cruel taunt on the part of Mother Nature, to see the city so ripe with beauty and promise, so full of new life, all the while knowing that these very streets were a cauldron of death and destruction.

  On a night in early summer, Jean-Luc sat at his desk before a pile of papers and a nearly expired candle. Hours had passed since his last colleague had left. The days were approaching their longest of the year, and the time was now that delicate hour in Paris during which the sun and moon hung simultaneously, sending a faint, milky glow through his window that made his eyelids heavy. He sighed. He felt as if he was retreading the same barren ground, hour aft
er hour, night after night, seeking desperately for some fertile plot from which to coax some seed of hope for his client, Kellermann.

  The trial approached, and, still, he had found nothing. Not knowing what proof the accusing team might produce, Jean-Luc had yet to develop a plan to counter the charges. Since the Law of Suspects had been decreed the previous September, a mere rumor of a man’s royalist leanings or support for the antirepublican clergy was substantial enough to send him on a tumbril ride to the guillotine. And Jean-Luc’s interviews in the old general’s dank prison cell had only discouraged him further; Kellermann seemed undaunted, bent on telling the full truth as if the act of preserving his own life meant nothing to him.

  “Yes, I questioned the necessity of beheading Louis and Antoinette. Since when has it become a crime to ask a question aloud?”

  Jean-Luc did not know how to answer his client. Especially when he himself had wrestled with the same questions as Kellermann. But Reason and its sisters, Mercy and Integrity, were poor pillars upon which to build a defense these days. Possessing any one of these character traits might earn you a death sentence; Kellermann had all three. It was a crime to question, at least now. The Committee had ruled that any questioning of the actions taken by the Revolutionary government was sedition punishable by death.

  A knock on the door interrupted Jean-Luc’s gloomy musings, bringing his attention back to his shadowy office where his candle had nearly expired. “Come in.” He looked up, unsure of what time it was. The face of the office errand boy appeared at the threshold.

  “Two letters for you, Citizen St. Clair.”

  Jean-Luc waved the boy forward and took the letters from his hands. “Thank you. What time is it?”

  The boy shifted his weight. “It’s two hours until midnight, citizen.”

  Jean-Luc sighed, noticing for the first time that the world outside his window was now fully enveloped in the dark of night. “You better go home, boy.”

  “Are you certain, citizen? Orders from Monsieur Gavreau are to stay until you…er, until the last clerk has quit the office.”

  “I’m certain.” Jean-Luc nodded, waving the boy out. “Go home.”

  Left alone, Jean-Luc opened the first of the two letters, seeing a handwriting he did not recognize. Holding it beside the flickering flame of candlelight, he read:

  Citizen,

  Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Captain André Valière. I am currently encamped with the Army of Italy.

  The cause for my letter is to inform you that I have served previously under General Christophe Kellermann. I think myself guilty of no exaggeration when I assert that no finer man or officer exists in the Army of the Republic. I hereby offer myself as a willing character witness, should you require any, in the upcoming trial for his life.

  You have, no doubt, reckoned with the risks that you yourself have assumed by rising to the defense of the general. I, too, have wrestled with the question of whether to come forward, and, in so doing, render myself exposed to his critics, of which there appear to be a great number.

  I confess that for a period I was disinclined to write to you. I had settled on the course of inaction. But as I recalled, night after sleepless night, how the general saved my life and the life of our Republic at the Battle of Valmy, and as I reflect on the irreproachable character and integrity of the man who has devoted his entire life to the service of our people, I cannot accept the course of inaction. Every virtue of his stands out as a censure against my own hesitancy and desire for self-preservation.

  He must not die. Not now, not by the hands of the citizens of France. We must stop the Republic from committing this crime, a crime which would surely come back to haunt her. While there are men who are still willing to stand up for what is right and good, I cannot watch idly.

  I will look for a response from you. And I extend to you my sincerest gratitude for your willingness to serve as defense for General Christophe Kellermann.

  I remain your humble servant and fellow patriot,

  Captain André Valière

  Jean-Luc read the letter twice, the second time proving more difficult as a lone tear obscured his vision and splashed onto the words of this captain, this Valière.

  By the end of the second reading, Jean-Luc was overcome, and his head collapsed to his desk. At last, someone who understood his own sentiments. Someone who, rather than discouraging and censuring him, had taken the measure of his own beliefs and had come to the same, duty-bound conclusion: the shame of inaction outweighed the risk of action. These words felt like a hand extended to someone lost at sea, just moments before the final wave threatened to pull him under. They filled Jean-Luc with a renewed will to fight, the will to struggle against powerful forces in defense of an innocent man.

  He sat for several minutes, reading and rereading the words. The man had offered himself as a character witness. What good this particular character witness might do, Jean-Luc did not know, not when the prosecution was certain to provide any number of witnesses who would claim to have heard disparaging and unpatriotic remarks coming from the general.

  It may not be much, but it was something.

  Jean-Luc turned to the second letter. On this paper, the handwriting looked vaguely familiar, but he could not immediately place it. He tore the wax seal and read the note. It was short, much shorter than the missive from André Valière. His heart lurched up into his throat as he placed the handwriting.

  I see you’ve finally decided to try for glory. I look forward to the contest. Bonne chance—good luck.

  There was no signature, but no signature was necessary. Jean-Luc instinctively knew, by the blood throbbing in between his ears, who had written this note. He put the letter down, far away from him on his desk, as if the paper posed some threat to his work, to his very well-being.

  Lazare had made no contact since Jean-Luc had accepted the case, and the two men had exchanged no correspondence. How Jean-Luc wished, now, in this dark office, that he had never opened the letter.

  At the very bottom of the page lurked a curious postscript, also in Lazare’s handwriting. Jean-Luc lifted the paper once more and read it:

  Recall what I once told you: I would tear down any man guilty of the people’s false worship. Keep your eyes on the journals in the coming weeks. I think you shall happen upon some news that may be surprising. Even wildly entertaining. A word of advice: I would avoid any contact with the Jacobin Club, if I were you.

  Jean-Luc found this last statement bizarre, incomprehensible. And yet, it stayed with him for the days to come. Each morning, when he arrived at the office and looked at the morning’s journals, Jean-Luc sought out some news that might make sense of Lazare’s veiled and strange prophecy.

  It wasn’t until weeks later, on the morning of July 28, that Jean-Luc finally discovered what Lazare had meant. There, on the front page, the words leapt out at him. Illogical words. Impossible words. His legs collapsed into his chair before he could master them.

  Maximilien Robespierre, Leader of the Jacobin Club, Guilty of Treason and Traitor of the Revolution, Will Be Guillotined Today!

  Summer 1794

  André returned to the capital the evening before the trial of Christophe Kellermann. The guards at the southern barrier had been ornery, unhappily marching out of their guardhouse into the rain that had pelted André for hours. One of them held up a lantern, inspecting André’s leave papers, turning his gaze back and forth to inspect the stranger. The other, a large pike held in one arm, chewed on a piece of soaked bread. André was doubtful that either of them knew how to read.

  With a wordless grunt and a half-hearted salute, the guard with the lantern waved André through, and his horse splashed through the mud under the gates and into the city. Hoping he was not too late, André made his way directly to the large Right Bank building near the Palais de Justice, where Jean-Luc had told him he would be working, preparing the case for the next day.

  “I can’t tell you what a reli
ef it is to finally meet you, Captain Valière.” Jean-Luc’s dark hair was disheveled, his eyes sunken with fatigue, but André had the distinct impression that his was a face he had seen before. He blinked, trying to pluck the receding image back into the fore of his mind from behind the gossamer veil where it lurked. And then he knew: a year earlier, the night he had first kissed Sophie, on the footbridge spanning the Seine. But before he could say so, Jean-Luc was speaking: “I’ve seen you before, Captain Valière.”

  “Please, call me André.”

  “It was at the Café Marché. Months ago. Years even, perhaps. You were escorting a drunken man out.”

  André laughed. He knew exactly to whom the lawyer referred. But the night could have been any number of occasions. “My brother, Remy.”

  “Ah. Well, I remember only because it was the first night I met Maurice Merignac—a work associate, I suppose you could say. He was rather…opinionated about it.” Jean-Luc smiled. His face was open and earnest, betraying no glimpse of design or intrigue, and yet the man clearly possessed an active mind. “Please, come in, André.” With that André slipped off his drenched riding coat and placed it on a hook on the office door. He set his tricorn hat on top of his coat and took in his surroundings. Jean-Luc’s office was littered with papers and opened books, dimly lit by a lone candle on the desk.

  “Can I offer you anything to drink?”

  “Just a bit of coffee, if you have any,” André said, his entire body damp and aching from the long ride from his quarters in the south.

  “Of course.”

  Each of them settled with a mug of coffee at the large desk, its surface a battleground of papers, spent inkwells, quills, envelopes, and cups in varying degrees of fullness. “I work amid chaos,” Jean-Luc said, picking up a quill and dipping it into the inkwell.