Where the Light Falls

by Allison Pataki

  —

  André stepped down from the wagon, hands and ankles shackled, and shuffled his way through a small passage toward the court. The sun poured down, a blinding light he had not seen in months, forcing him to raise his hands and shield his squinting eyes.

  Jean-Luc stood outside the court, his face dropping noticeably when he saw his client. “André, you are not dressed in your army uniform.”

  André glanced down at his body covered in the scratchy gray sackcloth. Looking back up at his lawyer, he could read the disappointment in Jean-Luc’s soft hazel eyes. “I’m sorry. It was gone. Taken from my cell by one of the guards.”

  “Murat, no doubt,” Jean-Luc growled under his breath, his face momentarily shedding his constant composure. He sighed. “Very well. We will carry on regardless.” He forced an encouraging smile, patting André gently on the back, his eyes taking in his client’s emaciated frame. Just then, a bailiff called out the next case, and Jean-Luc and André were shuffled inside toward the front of the hall.

  “The Citizens and People of the French Republic versus André de Valière, heir to the former Marquis de Valière.” At that announcement, the crowd stuffed and squeezed into the courtroom began to hiss and stomp their feet. The row of jurymen, all wearing tricolor cockades and red caps, whispered to one another, their eyes fixed eagerly on the doorway where André and his lawyer entered.

  Jean-Luc leaned close to whisper: “Never mind that. Just remember—you fought at Valmy, you fought on the Italian front, and you have risked your life for the Revolution. You’ve willingly renounced your title, your lands, and your claims to nobility. You merely wish to continue serving the Republic.”

  Putting a hand on André’s shoulder, Jean-Luc heaved in a fortifying breath before saying: “Right, then, let’s go.”

  André kept his eyes firmly ahead, though in truth he saw little and felt less. Nodding, he stepped forward alongside Jean-Luc, and the counselor set his gait to remain in stride with his client.

  As they entered the court, the crowd turned to get a better look at the two men. Since the fall of Robespierre and the Jacobins, the tribunals had changed in many ways. Noticeable among these changes was a more mechanical functioning of these proceedings, which, to some, seemed dull by comparison. Seething emotion and rage from the gallery was replaced with a bureaucratic rigidity that, Jean-Luc fervently hoped, might give him an opening to reasonably plead André’s case. But there was no certainty, for many in the crowd still remained hostile to the nobility and fearful of a royalist uprising; the scars of the Revolution would not disappear so easily.

  The head magistrate rang the shrill bell, its noise falling in with the roar of the audience but restoring no order.

  André took his seat, ringed on all sides by benches of spectators. The chamber was less grand than the courtroom in which Kellermann had been tried, this being a lower-profile case. All the same, the hall overflowed with the usual mass of eager, spectating faces.

  André blinked, trying to overcome this paralyzing sense of numbness and detachment. The room of spectators blurred together—their humorless smiles and stringy hair blending into one tableau of concentrated hostility. Only one face stood out, a familiar set of features: gray eyes, an ink-black ponytail, a prominent mustache. Nicolai Murat sat in the center of the room, several rows back, his gaze fixed on the prisoner with singular focus.

  When André saw his accuser—Sophie’s hunter, Remy’s tormenter—he felt a sudden wave of emotion stronger than anything he had experienced in months. His numbness gave way to a swell of anger. Pain at the thought of Kellermann’s memory and unjust death. Of Sophie’s fear and unhappiness. Of poor Remy, from whom he’d had no news. André felt so overcome with emotion that he struggled with a great effort to hold back tears.

  Guillaume Lazare, the same attorney who had haunted André’s loved ones in recent years, had been enlisted to convict him. Hired by Murat, no doubt. This, André supposed, made it all the more likely that he would be tried quickly and condemned to death. Jean-Luc St. Clair had stood up as a trial defense attorney only one other time in his young career; the outcome of that case, as everyone in Paris knew, had resulted in a good man being sent to the guillotine.

  Aware of this grim precedent, and sensing the hatred his accusers had for him, André found it impossible to retain any hope. This hostile courtroom, combined with the morning’s news from Sophie, had finally done what all those months in Le Temple had failed to do: André despaired, certain that he was a doomed man.

  A powerful wave of resignation suddenly swept through him, overpowering his senses. The noises of the crowd, the shrill ringing of the magistrate’s bell for silence, the stomping of hundreds of feet—it all receded. With this surrender came, surprisingly, a feeling of sudden weightlessness. Relief. He could finally give up fighting. He could sense the creeping shadow of death but no longer felt fear at its approach, for death would be the end of his suffering.

  So consumed was André by this sudden realization of his own defeat, the recognition that, for him, the torment was over, that he became momentarily blinded to the developments unfolding before him in court.

  André did not notice how Jean-Luc St. Clair—seasoned from his inaugural and failed attempt to win over a courtroom and best the masterful Guillaume Lazare—spun a narrative of the Battle of Valmy to sway the stone-faced jurors and spectators. The way Jean-Luc St. Clair spoke of a young man, having renounced a noble name that he had never chosen for himself, who wore the blue coat of a soldier before the nation had even gone to war. Had he been listening, André Valière might have supposed that his lawyer was describing Christophe Kellermann, but no, the lawyer was describing André Valière. And the lawyer was fighting this case as if his own life depended on it. André’s death would be the end of him, he knew it. Just as André’s deliverance would be his own salvation.

  Moving with confidence and clarity through his argument, Jean-Luc St. Clair continued to the topic of another one of the Republic’s recently discovered heroes: General Napoleon Bonaparte. Jean-Luc described, in vivid language, the night of the uprisings across Paris, when royalists had besieged the Tuileries and nearly taken back the capital. How he, Jean-Luc St. Clair, had been standing on the bridge when Bonaparte himself had ridden past on his way to save Paris from these enemies of the Revolution.

  Pausing, perhaps as much to build suspense as to wipe the sweat from his brow, Jean-Luc went on to describe how Bonaparte had raised his sword and cried out: “For France!” The crowd throughout the hall began to murmur, even nod, when the lawyer recounted how the young Corsican general had rallied the people in the face of that threat, and when Jean-Luc remarked that Bonaparte would now be taking that rallying cry abroad, to punish the enemies who had threatened to quash the noble Revolution, some began to cheer.

  This panel of jurymen were as patriotic as the most fervent citizens in the land, Jean-Luc asserted. They knew that General Bonaparte’s call for men must be answered. How then, as patriots, could they sit here and send a man, a soldier, and a hero such as André Valière to the guillotine? How could they rob Bonaparte, and the French nation, of such a seasoned fighter?

  The mood in the courtroom was shifting around André, but he noticed none of this. So absorbed was he in his own musings on death—on the verdict that he had already accepted—that he did not notice the beautiful web of logic and emotion that his passionate young lawyer was spinning around him. A protective web of perfectly honed arguments, designed to strike the chords of clemency and patriotism in the breasts of his would-be executioners.

  “Citizens.” Jean-Luc’s face was flushed, his ponytail loose, as he strode across the courtroom, weaving his final arguments in André Valière’s defense. “This man before you, André Valière, was born in a château. When just a helpless babe in a cradle, he was given wealth more abundant than that which any one man deserves. For that, he ought to pay a price, even if he has renounced all of it and proven that he would gi
ve his very blood to save our Republic. He still owes this nation. On that score, I am in perfect agreement. But don’t you share my opinion that that price should directly benefit that same nation? Our beloved French Republic?

  “If we kill André Valière today, his head rolls and his once-noble blood spills. Where does that leave us? It gives us a show. A few minutes of…entertainment.” Jean-Luc shrugged, pressing his palms together. “But if we take his body and put it into the service of our Revolution—what does that get us? André Valière becomes a servant of our people and principles. A warrior for our General Bonaparte. And not just any warrior—André Valière is well trained, battle hardened, and proven. Can we squander such a man as this, just because a few vengeful persons wish to see a fleeting show of blood?”

  The crowd cried out at this point, as the jury members shifted in their seats, casting sidelong glances at one another, noting the mood of the hall.

  “I, for one, would not have it so.” Jean-Luc paused, short of breath, his voice now hoarse, but he held every pair of eyes in the room. “I say: make André Valière fight for this country. Put him to work. Send him to Bonaparte. There, his blood might be shed, but not without first serving our Republic.” Jean-Luc pounded his fist into his palm at the conclusion of each sentence for emphasis, and each gesture was greeted with fresh cheers from the crowd.

  “In that way, the wealth and riches of André Valière’s family—so long squandered due to an undue title—may at last be earned back for us all. Citizens of France, I say this man owes it to us to fight for our Revolution!”

  André barely heard the rousing words of his lawyer’s closing argument. Barely looked up as the jury deliberated. Barely heard the voice of the bailiff who announced that a verdict had been reached after only a matter of minutes.

  André greeted the reading of the verdict with a barely perceptible shrug. “André de Valière is found guilty.”

  But then, he felt a strange sensation, as if his mind and body had been forcefully thrown back into the present moment, when the second half of the verdict was read. He had been waiting for that dreaded word, had been expecting to hear the utterance of guillotine. Instead, the judge declared in an expressionless voice: “Sentence for the guilty shall be permanent exile from the Republic of France, mandatory service in the navy of General Bonaparte.”

  André looked sideways at Jean-Luc, the lawyer’s face alight with the same disbelief as his own. They had done it; they had squeezed some small feeling of mercy from the people. André would not face the guillotine after all. André would be forced to live.

  Later, outside the court, André was jostled through the crowd, a handful of guards forming a protective ring around him and Jean-Luc. “Can you believe it, André?” The lawyer was alternating between laughter and seriousness, as if he himself had not fully absorbed the news of his own victory. “Ha! God bless, your life is yours, my friend.”

  André nodded, still struggling to comprehend the outcome. “I have no words…but thank you.”

  “Thank you, for not giving in to those who tried to destroy you,” the lawyer answered, his tone low and serious against the shouts of the surrounding crowd. “You know, your strength gave me new spirit, and dare I say, made it possible to build your case.”

  Though André had been freed of his ankle shackles, his wrists were still bound, but he and Jean-Luc clasped hands.

  “It would appear, André, son of the former marquis”—Jean-Luc said the latter part quietly—“that your story was not meant to end today.”

  The crowd began to disperse. Some of the stragglers still lingered, hoping for a closer look at the man who had been ripped from death’s grip. But as the crowd thinned, André realized they were not alone.

  Waiting next to the carriage that would transport André Valière back to the prison to gather his belongings stood Nicolai Murat. The tall man’s demeanor was entirely changed from that which he had shown in the courtroom, where he had appeared animated. Now his face was blank, his seawater-gray eyes devoid of emotion.

  “Captain de Valière.” Murat leaned up against the carriage, arms crossed before his chest. Hearing his own name uttered by the man’s lips, André’s entire frame stiffened; he had not known it possible to hate this passionately.

  “André?” Jean-Luc shuffled closer to his client, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve just been spared, do not…” Jean-Luc threw a hard gaze toward Murat. “Please get into the carriage.”

  “No.” André lifted a hand, pausing in his steps. “It’s all right.” Turning to Jean-Luc, he asked: “Would you give us a moment?”

  Jean-Luc shifted his weight, his eyes darting back and forth between Murat and André. The lawyer leaned close, barely whispering: “Please, watch your words.”

  André nodded. “A moment, please.”

  Jean-Luc sighed, clasping his hands in front of his waist. “I’ll be in the carriage when you’re ready to go.” With that, Jean-Luc stepped away.

  Left alone with Murat, the guards hovering nearby like nervous chaperones, André stood still and stared at his tormenter. “General Murat.” But there was no deference in the young man’s use of his superior’s title.

  After a pause, the general spoke: “I suppose congratulations are in order.” Murat traced two fingers along the tip of his mustache. “Never thought that young lawyer had it in him. I must say, I’m impressed.”

  André clenched his jaw, willing himself to master his nerves and his temper before saying anything. He would not give Murat the satisfaction of seeing any of the pain he had inflicted.

  “Not that it’s certain you’ve escaped death,” Murat continued. “No doubt you’ll be sent straight to the cannon’s mouth, perhaps to face Nelson and his dreaded English ships.”

  André offered nothing by way of a reply.

  “But the young lawyer put up quite a fight, didn’t he?” Pausing, Murat smirked. “Which is more than I can say for your brother.”

  At this, André’s chest collapsed. “What did you say?”

  Murat’s lips curled under his mustache. “I found him skulking about in some abandoned château in the country near Le Mans, where he had my niece holed up like a rat. How dare you?” The general’s eyes narrowed. He hissed the next question: “Where is she?”

  André didn’t answer. His vision patchy, he tried to understand what could have possibly become of Remy. After a long pause, Murat, his voice calm once more, continued: “Never mind. I’ll find her. She can’t have gone far. Your brother may have tried his best, but it was not enough.”

  André prepared to lunge forward, but he knew that by choking the man, he’d miss his chance to learn his brother’s fate. “Tell me what happened to my brother.”

  Murat laughed—a joyless, ragged sneer, his gray eyes seething like a gathering storm. “When I find my niece, then perhaps I will tell you where to find your brother’s body.”

  Summer 1795

  “I suppose you’ve got a right high opinion of yourself now.”

  Jean-Luc looked up into the face of Gavreau, who hovered before his desk. The man had been circling, like a hungry dog, for a quarter of an hour and had finally decided that no invitation was necessary to interrupt Jean-Luc’s work.

  Jean-Luc sighed, lowering his quill. “I beg your pardon?”

  Gavreau tossed the day’s news journals forward, adding to the pile of papers covering Jean-Luc’s desk. “Front page of the papers. This pamphlet dubs you ‘the most promising young lawyer in Paris.’ So, as I said: I suppose you’ve got a right high opinion of yourself now.”

  Jean-Luc threw a cursory glance at the top pamphlet, skimming the first sentence before noting, with a quiver of pride, that it was written by his favorite writer, Citizen Persephone. He looked back up at his boss, concealing his urge to smile. “Marie would never allow me to get a high opinion of myself. I suppose it’s her sworn duty to remind me on a daily basis of how far I am from perfection.” Jean-Luc shrugged, and his man
ager began to laugh.

  “Then she’s good for something, your wife, even if she does keep you from ever accompanying me out to the cafés at night.”

  “Now that,” Jean-Luc said, leaning his head to one side, “I can’t blame on my wife.”

  “But why was she at Valière’s trial?”

  “Hmm?” Jean-Luc looked up at his boss, confused.

  “Your woman,” Gavreau said. “I saw her there, tucked way in the back. It looked as if she was taking notes, or recording something for herself. Thought perhaps you’ve got her working as one of your clerks, now that you’re too busy for one man.”

  “Marie, at the trial of André Valière?” Jean-Luc repeated the claim. “Surely you’re mistaken. She wasn’t there.” Marie had never mentioned anything about attending the trial. He’d insisted she stay far away.

  “She was there, I tell you. I never miss a pretty brunette.”

  “No.” Jean-Luc shook his head, convinced of his supervisor’s error. “You’d enjoyed too much wine at lunch and noticed someone who resembled her. But, speaking of Marie, I’ve got this pile to get through and I’ve promised to be home in time for supper.”

  Jean-Luc’s workload had become insurmountable lately, so backed up he’d gotten in the months and weeks preparing for André’s trial. “Say, who do you suppose he is—this Citizen Persephone writer?” Jean-Luc asked his supervisor.

  “Not sure. Some reference to Greek,” Gavreau said, eyeing the pamphlet. “I know it was actually a she, the daughter of Zeus.”

  “Oh?” Jean-Luc looked from the pamphlet to Gavreau.

  “Come now…is it really the case that I know something that the esteemed Jean-Luc St. Clair does not?” Gavreau gloated, his ruddy face teasing. “Don’t remember your classics? Persephone, the poor gal, gets dragged off to the underworld by some dark devil who fancies her. She reemerges each spring, bringing life, but then descends again each winter, leaving death and decay. The ultimate symbol of life and death. Hope and despair, the light and the dark. The fragile balance of this cocked-up world in which we live.”