“This Tribunal Court is convened in the month of Thermidor, in the Year Two of the Republic of France.”
André calculated the date in his head: July of the year 1794. He had still not adjusted to this new and, to his mind, strange way of tracking the months and years.
“On trial is Christophe de Kellermann, known alternatively as le Comte de Kellermann or General Kellermann.” A mixture of cheers and jeers greeted these titles, and the judge cast an ornery glance upward at the gallery before continuing.
“The defense is accused of royalist sympathies and acts taken to undermine the Army of France in their operations on the Rhine. The charges are brought forward by General Nicolai Murat.” Cheers sounded at the pronunciation of this name. The old judge paused to clear his throat, emotionless as he read through these facts, no more than administrative details to a man who had grown accustomed to condemning men and women—even children—to death.
“I call the attorney for the defense, Jean-Luc St. Clair, to rise and answer these charges.”
Some in the gallery above hissed as Jean-Luc stood, straightening his vest to smooth it of wrinkles. The audience seemed to lean forward and crane their necks in one motion, the benches creaking under their combined weight. André took in a silent breath, as curious as every other soul in the room as to how the young lawyer would respond to the charges. The prolonged silence filled the already rapt room with a palpable tension.
When Jean-Luc spoke, it was with a clear, confident voice. “I thank you, Your Honors.” Jean-Luc nodded at the five robed men before him. “Citizens and citizenesses of Paris.” The lawyer turned, his gaze and his hands sweeping upward to the gallery. That was where the contest would be lost or won, André knew. That was the crowd that must be swayed, for their voices would ring loudest, telling the justices how to vote.
“My client, the hero of the Battle of Valmy, General Christophe Kellermann, has been accused of sympathizing with the deposed and decapitated tyrant, Citizen Capet. And of undermining the efforts of the French army in the campaigns on the Rhine. Charges that we, this very day, shall hold up before the infallible lights of evidence, reason, and justice. Charges that you, the good and honest people of the Republic of France, will examine and scrutinize yourselves. And charges that you, the good and honest people of the Republic of France, shall find as preposterous as they are untrue, before this court is adjourned.”
Listening to this calm, cogent opening argument, André felt his taut muscles soften slightly; the young attorney was perfectly confident, his words unequivocally competent. More than competent, even. Good. His mannerisms were sure and forceful without surrendering any graciousness. His language was clear and direct. He did not stumble over a single word as he rolled out his client’s case.
It was a story of a young man who, given everything by his noble birth, eschewed the privilege that those of his own social order told him was his right. A young man who, after disavowing the leisure and riches that might have been his birthright, instead sought a career in the army, rejecting a life of inactivity and profligacy. A young man who served with valor and duty and, as a result, climbed upward through the ranks, becoming a trusted officer and seasoned general. A leader of men who had aligned with and even aided the people when they had risen up against a system of tyranny and undue privilege. And a champion who had rushed to the defense of the nascent Republic when a foreign enemy crossed the borders of France, ready to invade and stamp out the new Revolution.
“These two men.” Jean-Luc was striding before the front of the courtroom, his two arms now spread between Murat and Kellermann. “Both heroes. Both generals. These two men who have been friends for longer than some of us in this room have been alive—these two men have fought alongside each other for France. You must ask yourself: would a man such as Nicolai Murat, who has put his very life in this man’s hands, and vice versa—would he have done so had he not trusted General Kellermann? Had he not thought him an honest, worthy, and patriotic citizen?” Jean-Luc paused, and André sensed it was more for effect than necessity. The young lawyer forced himself to break momentarily, André saw, even as he was ready to glide forward on the building swell of his argument. He took a sip of water and continued.
“Let’s think of this time not two years ago.” Jean-Luc’s tone was calm yet authoritative, the tone of a schoolmaster laying out a series of complicated facts for a room full of pupils. “This entire city, this entire nation, was hoisting this man, General Kellermann, the hero of Valmy, atop its shoulders. This man had risked his life in order to preserve the promise of our free nation. His words, his rallying cry of ‘Vive la nation,’ had driven our brave soldiers to repel the Prussian invasion at Valmy.
“Now the calls for General Kellermann’s head are just as loud and ubiquitous as were those earlier cries of praise. Why is that? What has changed?” Jean-Luc shrugged his shoulders as he allowed his eyes to move over the faces of the gallery.
“Is it perhaps”—he lifted a finger, cocking his head—“that we have changed? Have we become so inflamed by our good and righteous desire to steer this Revolution forward, so overburdened by the arduous task of rooting out our true and real enemies, that we have become temporarily overzealous to condemn?”
Jean-Luc did not look at Murat but kept his gaze on the people in the gallery.
“Paris, trust your better instincts, your true instincts. You know this man, General Christophe Kellermann. You know him as a defender of the people. He has not changed.” Now Jean-Luc’s voice rose gradually in volume as he lifted his arms, as if beckoning the people in the gallery forward to him. “Do not allow yourself to be moved by the barbs that come from a quarrel, personal in nature. Old friends who have reached such heights that, when they are at odds, one of them has the power to bring the entire government against the other.”
The crowds in the gallery were beginning to murmur, sounds of tenuous agreement and assent. Jean-Luc allowed this side noise to occur before he spoke again, his voice calm.
“The past two years have seen many guilty men earn their tumbril rides to the guillotine. Some here now say that General Kellermann deserves such a fate. What is their proof? What is his crime? If uniting the soldiers and people of France, and leading them bravely against our real enemies, is a crime, then yes, General Kellermann is guilty. If beating back the foreign hosts, driving them back to their own borders, is a crime, then yes, he is guilty.
“But I must ask you: do these sound like the actions of a man who sympathizes with a dead and deposed tyrant?”
The crowd was now muttering audibly, their responses clearly in the young lawyer’s favor. Someone in the gallery, a red-capped revolutionary who had arrived this morning eager to condemn the accused general, now shouted out: “Vive Kellermann! Long live Kellermann!” and the entire gallery erupted in applause.
Down below, André glanced at Sophie, and he couldn’t help but smile. The soldiers around him, too, were shifting in their seats, bolstered by the sympathy that the defense’s attorney had managed to carve out among the crowd.
Across the aisle from André, Lazare exchanged a meaningful look with Murat. What was his expression—annoyance? Acknowledgment of defeat? André felt a flicker of hope in his chest, and he guessed that, beside him, Madame Kellermann felt the same.
Jean-Luc raised his arms and the volume of his voice, driving his argument forward on the wave of the crowd’s enthusiasm. “My friends, you know Christophe Kellermann. You are the very patriots who hoisted him atop your shoulders! Who declared him, rightly so, to be the Savior of our Revolution! And so I say to you: if and only if fighting and shedding blood in defense of the Republic is a crime, then my client is guilty!”
The crowd now broke out into applause. At this Murat stood up, thundering: “Pretty words from a young lawyer fresh out of the schoolhouse. How much blood have you shed for France?”
Hearing this insult, the crowd erupted in laughter, momentarily distracted from the stirring rhe
toric of the defense. André looked to the judges, fearing that all the momentum built up thus far might be lost if order wasn’t restored quickly.
“Out of order!” The central judge clanged his bell while the crowds continued to laugh and carry on their side conversations. “This court will come to order now, or be dismissed.” The room fell quiet.
“All right.” The elderly judge glared at the room, his plumed hat off-center and his face red. “I think we’ve heard enough from the defense. Have you anything more to add?”
“That is all, Your Honor.” Jean-Luc bowed his head.
“Good.” The justice puffed out his cheeks, exhaling. “The defense rests.”
Turning on his heels, Jean-Luc marched toward the table and took a seat beside his client.
“Right, then, let’s hear from the prosecution. Citizen Lazare?”
Lazare stood up, slowly, clearing his throat. His pale hair, almost as colorless as his powdered face, was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and he wore the tricolor cockade on his lapel. “Your Honor, stating our case will be one of my legal deputies, the attorney Guy Mouchetard.”
“Very well. Citizen Mouchetard?”
With that, one of Lazare’s disciples, a man with a protruding chin and beady eyes, pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. Another good sign, André thought; surely Lazare himself would be speaking if the case was worthwhile or truly significant to him. The defense stood a much better chance against this surrogate, and surely Lazare knew that—and yet he had allowed it.
The man, about the same age as Jean-Luc but several inches shorter, walked slowly to the center of the room, his heels clicking on the wooden floor. Pausing, he turned and looked out over the crowd. He took a pair of spectacles from a front pocket and slid them up his nose, pausing a moment before the waiting audience. When he spoke, his voice was loud, yet also quite shrill compared to Jean-Luc’s.
“At the outset of this new and noble Republic, we arrested a tyrant and his lascivious wife. The tyrant was brought to justice by this same court, the same people. The people of Paris. The people of France.” The lawyer’s mannerisms were jerky, his cadence irregular.
“Centuries marked by crimes, debt, terror, and usurpation were exposed. When the ermine robe was removed from Capet’s royal person, we saw him for what he was: a spoiled and incompetent brat, exploiting the French people. Growing fat off the misery of those he professed to love.”
The crowd hissed, agitated by this memory of their former king. The lawyer continued, his voice growing louder.
“That was the moment that united us as a people. That heroic stand of the French citizens against the tyranny of the monarchy and their aristocratic lapdogs. When we, the new Republic, put a tyrant on trial and demanded an end to the lies and abuse! It took extraordinary courage and bloody sacrifice on the part of this city to do that which had never before been done in history.” The lawyer seemed to be gaining confidence, and he slid the spectacles farther up his nose, nodding at Lazare before continuing.
“When we demanded justice, and we sent those two necks to the guillotine, it was the moment of glory for our Revolution!” Now the crowd was whipped up into a frenzy, reminded and proud once more of its regicide. André watched, alarmed, as he sensed the momentum shifting back to the opposing side.
“Today we are looking at a man who, no doubt, has served this country. No one would question the Comte de Kellermann’s skill as a warrior. Many even called him a savior.” Mouchetard did not glance at the man about whom he spoke, but instead kept his eyes fixed on the gallery as he crossed his arms.
“Most of us are but common people. We have little use for the lofty rhetoric and high-flung ideas so often summoned in the defense’s legal statements. We have even less use for those who preach to us as if we were attending a sermon.” An emphatic laugh came out from the balcony. “Like many of you, I’m a humble man; some years ago, I began as a pruner of fruit trees. And as such, if there is one thing I do know quite well, it is the proper tending of a garden. Might I share with you one of the basic principles of this occupation? It is this: when a weed grows too tall, at the expense of every other life around it, it must be thrashed and cut before it threatens the well-being of those that languish under its shadow.” He made a cutting gesture with his arm and, as he did so, the crowd erupted in roars and fist thumpings.
“Objection!” Jean-Luc rose up. “Why must we hear this lesson in horticulture? Of what relevance is this analogy?”
The judge interceded, ringing his bell irritably. “Out of order—await your turn, defense!”
“Your Honor, I’m not sure what the lesson in gardening has to do with the prosecution of General Kellermann,” Jean-Luc said, his jaw twitching as he kept his tone composed. “For my part, I’ve heard that most gardens grow fertile with water, rather than blood.”
“Order! Defense, you have had your say. The prosecution holds the floor.” The judge turned toward the prosecution’s table. Mouchetard stammered, momentarily thrown off his argument. The crowd, sensing the hesitation, began to buzz.
“Well?” The judge arched an eyebrow at the speaker.
“Well, I was making the point that…er—” he sputtered, fumbling for words but having lost his thread. Those in the balcony began to murmur, sensing the prosecutor’s weakness, losing interest in his aborted analogy. André felt the faint embers of hope stirring once more. If only Jean-Luc could recapture the energy of the crowd.
And then Guillaume Lazare stood up. Lifting a hand, he asked: “May I, Your Honor?”
The judge nodded, and the room went quiet. As the younger lawyer retreated to his seat, the older lawyer glided across the front of the courtroom. Tracing a hand around his mouth, he cast a look at the defense, the hint of a smile appearing on his face. Finally, after what felt like several minutes, he turned and faced the crowd. When he did at last begin, Lazare spoke very quietly, so that everyone in the gallery was obliged to lean forward to hear him.
“I ask Citizen St. Clair, and all the citizens present in this assembly one question: how were the ancient monarchs empowered to rule this land, if not through violence and force, even bloodshed?”
Thoughtful silence stretched across the hall until Lazare continued. “How did the princes and lords of past years come into their noble seats of power? Or better yet, how was King George III, England’s tyrant, expelled from the colonies in the New World? How do a people throw off the mantle of tyranny, if not through righteous force?” Lazare paused, knitting his thin fingers together in front of his narrow waist.
“Would you have had them wait patiently? Pray? Philosophize?” Lazare smirked. “Hope that the despot would one day wake up and decide to trade in his scepter for a constitution? Will patience mean anything against a tyrant’s henchmen and cold steel bayonets? When the king’s minister told our people to eat grass, should they have obliged his scornful remark?”
The crowd began to jeer, answering Guillaume Lazare’s questions with their approval. André wished Jean-Luc would stand up and cry out his objection again; how did this history lesson in any way relate to Kellermann? But the defense’s lawyer simply sat in his seat, listening politely. The central judge looked on at Lazare, his gaze attentive as the old lawyer continued.
“History shows us a great many tyrants who have slaughtered others to gain their power, but very few who have willingly handed away that same power. When has it ever benefited a ruler to yield to a usurper? Will a tyrant not fight his people, even butcher his people, to maintain his authority?”
Jean-Luc now ran a hand through his hair, wanting an opening, but the crowd listened with rapt attention to Lazare’s soliloquy.
“That is the threat we face, every day, to our new Revolution,” Lazare said. Then he turned toward Jean-Luc. “A young, well-meaning idealist cannot be wholly faulted for his optimism.” The word was laced with condescension. “But, my friends, naïveté will not protect us! At this very hour, foreign tyrants are poise
d at our borders, seeking a way to invade and crush our young Republic. Our new freedom is fragile—more fragile than we’d even like to believe. All it takes is one man, one of our very own, to betray us and open the floodgates for these foreign mercenaries. One man who’s decided that his aims no longer align with ours, and just like that!” Lazare’s fingers spread around him, mimicking the piercing of a bubble. “The Revolution is over. The tyranny of a king, reimposed. All of us—all of our liberties—dissolved.”
At this point, Jean-Luc stood up. “Your Honor, I’d like to beg your permission that these vague and theoretical soliloquies be put to rest so that the court may proceed to the business at hand, which is to establish the truth through the means of facts and testimony.”
“Granted,” the judge answered. “Citizen Lazare, please be seated.”
The old lawyer bowed low, his lips curling upward in an obliging smile.
“Citizen St. Clair?” the judge continued.
“Your Honor, the defense would like to call its first witness.”
“All right,” the judge agreed.
“Your Honor, I call Captain André Valière.”
André heard his name and rose, feeling the sudden focus of hundreds of eyes on his person. He walked forward, taking the seat offered to him before the judge’s table. His eyes fell for a moment on Kellermann, and he thought: how odd that the general nods at me, giving me a fortifying glance, when it is I who should be bolstering his spirits.
Jean-Luc let André settle into his seat before he approached. “Citizen, please state your full name and rank.”
“André Martin-Laurent Valière, captain in the Army of the French Republic.”
“And how is it that you are acquainted with the defense?”
“I served under General Kellermann at the Battle of Valmy and the campaign of the Rhine in the summer and autumn of 1792. Er, I mean the first year of our Republic.”
Where the Light Falls Page 20