Where the Light Falls

by Allison Pataki

  “I think I’ve lost your interest, Nicolai.” Kellermann was speaking, and André noticed that he, too, had not heard a word.

  Murat turned back to the conversation, reluctantly rending his eyes from the beautiful blond woman across the room. Then, in a whisper intended only for Kellermann, Murat added: “She’s just arrived.”

  Kellermann nodded. “Should you not go greet her?”

  “Oh, yes. In a moment.” Murat shifted his weight. “But what were you saying?”

  André observed this exchange with great interest, though he forced himself to keep his eyes off the lady in question as Kellermann cleared his throat and continued. “I was asking: what do you make of the trial?”

  Murat now straightened his posture, redirecting his attention from the lovely woman in light blue to his colleague. He took a slow sip of champagne before he responded. “I think we did our democratic duty. We gave the man a trial, according him the justice of the law. And now let’s be done with him, with all despots, once and for all.”

  “So, you’ve been reading Danton and Robespierre,” Kellermann replied evenly, his arm still holding his wife close at the waist.

  “Send him to La Place,” Murat said, with a dismissive wave of his wrist.

  “But surely you listened to the defense, Nicolai?” Kellermann looked at André and then leaned toward his friend. “Raymond Desèze was brilliant in stating the king’s case, and very compelling.”

  “Why do you keep calling him ‘king,’ Christophe?” Murat raised a dark eyebrow.

  “Call him ‘Citizen Capet,’ if you like. Old habits for an old soldier,” Kellermann said, shrugging. “But my point is that the trial should be more than just a cursory show of legal proceedings. How can we send a man to his death without a fair and honest trial?”

  “And so he had one, Christophe. And now, let’s have the verdict. They brought only thirty-three charges against him; they could have easily brought fifty more.”

  Kellermann cocked his head to the side, considering the argument. André, too, was absorbed in the debate. Murat continued: “On how many occasions has he ordered his hired mercenaries to fire on the people and shed the blood of our patriots? A sovereign exists to protect the liberties of his people, not crush them.” Murat’s cheeks darkened as he spoke. “We are at war, Christophe.”

  “I am aware of that, my friend,” Kellermann replied calmly.

  But Murat continued. “And I haven’t even gotten to the fact that he squandered all of our national treasure on dressing and feeding his Austrian wife. All the while, she was holding orgies with half the court and plotting with her brother back in Vienna to seize our kingdom.”

  Kellermann cringed at the vulgar accusation, casting a sideways glance toward his wife as if to apologize. When he answered, he looked at his friend with a calm expression. “On that score, I think that the journals have drummed up and printed many accusations that are false. Louis and his wife were profligate spenders, that I will grant you. They squandered the wealth of our land and were utterly blind to the needs of their subjects. But I believe Marie-Antoinette wielded far less influence at Versailles than many would have us believe.”

  “I’d be careful if I were you, Christophe.” Murat brought his champagne to his thin lips. “It sounds to me like the—now, what is it that they call you? ‘The Savior of the Revolution’?—shares certain sympathies with the monarchy.”

  Kellermann let out a chuckle, making light of the comment. André, for his part, found it less easy to laugh off Murat’s disdain, and he felt as though he were an uninvited spectator at an increasingly dangerous match. What would he say if either man turned to him and asked for his own opinion? Surely they recalled that his own father had been a member of the aristocracy?

  But neither man seemed to notice André’s presence as they continued their exchange. “Come now, Nicolai,” Kellermann said. “That’s an absurd charge. I agree wholeheartedly that King Louis—rather, Citizen Capet—has forfeited the right to wear the crown and rule our land. I took the oath to the Republic, just the same as you.”

  “No man deserves a crown.”

  “On that you have my complete agreement. Our dispute lies not in the virtue of the monarchy, but in the punishment for the fact that he was given the crown to wear. You must keep in mind, Nicolai, that he ascended to the role before the age of twenty and knew no other life than that shown to him inside the gilded walls of Versailles.”

  “Poor Prince Louis.” Murat smirked.

  “I don’t expect pity for a spoiled prince,” Kellermann answered. “I simply mean to point out that Lou—Citizen Capet—executed the job before him with the abilities and experiences afforded by his own sheltered life. The system must come to an end, but must his life as well?”

  “We can argue about whether he executed his duties well, but not over whether he executed his own people. We know he did that.”

  “Are we to take the Old Testament view of justice, Nicolai, or the New Testament? We could say that we must correct past sins with fresh sins of our own, or we can show mercy.”

  “So you accept the execution of the corrupt nobles, but our spoiled despot should receive preferential treatment?”

  Kellermann crossed his arms before his broad chest as he said: “No, in fact I’m not certain that I agree with any of the executions carried out in the name of our Republic.” Kellermann paused and breathed out a sigh, his brow knit in thought. He put a hand once more around his wife’s waist, pulling her closer.

  Murat drained the last of his champagne. “Perhaps that is because you yourself are of noble birth, Monsieur le Comte.”

  “As are you, Nicolai,” Kellermann retorted, his cheeks now flushing a crimson hue.

  André’s eyes shot to the dark-haired officer, astounded to hear this fact thrown in his face and eager to see the man’s reply. Murat waved his long fingers as if swatting a fly. “I swore off my title long ago, before it was even fashionable to do so. I spilled blood for the revolution in America.”

  Kellermann offered a measured smile. “In a campaign funded by our maligned monarch, might I remind you?”

  “The common men of this country know that I am one of them.” Murat’s mustache twitched as he spoke, a barely noticeable quiver, but the hint of some deeper emotion lurking beneath his bitten-back words. What was it, André wondered, that hid in the man’s deep well of feelings? Anger? Envy? Pain? “I am not a…what do they call you? Savior….I am simply a man. No better than they are,” Murat said to Kellermann, ignoring André’s stare.

  “You know I did not ask for that nickname, Nicolai. Nor would I ever encourage its use,” Kellermann declared.

  So absorbed was André in this exchange that he had barely heard the uproar behind him. But now, all three men turned to look in the direction of an angry holler. “Mon dieu!” Madame Kellermann raised a gloved hand to her lips and gasped. “Christophe, someone must go separate them!”

  Just then André saw two men shoving each other, one of them dressed in the dark blue coat of an army uniform. In a flash, he realized the man was Remy. The other was the thick-set companion of the beautiful blond woman.

  André cringed as he saw Remy splash a cup of punch in the man’s stunned face. And with that, several men had their arms around Remy and were carrying him toward the door. The other man, his cheeks stained pink with rage and punch, shouted at Remy’s receding figure. “Cochon! Pig!” He tilted his fleshy face toward his date, offering a brief apology before he stomped away.

  André felt his face redden, momentarily wishing that he, too, could flee through the door by which Remy had just been expelled.

  “Well, it seems your brother has drunk more than his fill.” Murat turned his stare on André. “A soldier drunk in public can receive up to thirty lashes.”

  Kellermann shook his head, looking at André with a knowing smile. “A beautiful lady is always worth the trouble. Now, Christianne, Nicolai, how about we go and refill our glasses? Al
l this talk of politics has made me thirsty. Captain Valière, perhaps your brother has need of assistance?”

  “Thank you, sir, I will go see what the fool has done.” André, mortified, slipped away from the trio and quickly crossed the room. By the time André had reached the door through which his brother had been escorted, Remy was gone.

  Outside, La Place de l’Abbe-Basset was once more empty, showing no sign of his brother or the men who had escorted him from the party. He had clearly been tossed into a carriage and sent home, or worse. André cursed and let out a sigh, kicking the stone step. The last thing he and his brother needed was to attract the attention, and disapproval, of the Jacobins.

  Hoping to make apologies for his brother and salvage what had so far been a rather unpleasant night, André turned and reentered the party. There, near the front door, stood the woman who had been at the center of the turmoil. She was alone. Whereas before she had appeared bored, now her features had a taut, agitated quality to them.

  “Excuse me, mademoiselle.” André approached her, noticing that she was even more beautiful up close than she had appeared from across the great hall. But his thoughts were still preoccupied with his brother and his own embarrassment at Remy’s disturbance. “I fear that my brother has interfered with you and your husband, and I must offer my most sincere apologies on his behalf.”

  She looked at him, her light eyes taking in first his uniform, and then meeting his stare with a blank, unreadable expression. “No, it’s quite all right,” she said, looking past him and back toward the party.

  André shifted, preparing to leave, until she added: “I am grateful for the little bit of excitement.”

  André paused, looking once more at her, and now he couldn’t help but laugh at this curious response. “Well, I’m relieved to hear that. But I’m certain that your husband does not appreciate the punch in his face. I truly cannot apologize heartily enough for my brother’s—”

  “Don’t.” She waved her hand. “And please stop calling Franck my husband.” She leaned in close, the hint of annoyance now noticeable in her tone. “Can’t you give me a little more credit?”

  André was taken aback, and he stammered: “Oh, my mistake, mademoiselle.”

  And then the unexpected happened: a smile bloomed across her features. When she laughed, the noise sent shivers up André’s spine; it was a sound from his childhood. The lovely, crystalline sound of female gaiety, an intoxicating ripple, like a first sip of champagne.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh at your expense.” She eyed him intently, and for a moment André involuntarily held his breath, stunned by her gaze. He offered his hand. “André Valière.”

  Her eyes narrowed to a squint, and André prepared to leave, but she raised a gloved hand and held out her empty glass. “I’ve finished my champagne.” She arched a lone eyebrow. “Would you be a gentleman and refill my glass, or should I wait for my companion to return?”

  “I’d…yes, all right.” André took her glass and turned, crossing the room toward the drinks. He was eager to get back to her before any other man had summoned the courage to approach her.

  “Two for me?” She smiled as he reappeared, looking at the glasses he held. “Perhaps you are a gentleman, even if your brother is not.”

  “One for me, and one for you,” he said, offering her a glass.

  “Well then, santé.” She clinked his glass and they both took a sip.

  “About my brother.” André lowered his drink, sighing.

  “Please, he was highly amusing. In fact, I think that’s the reason Franck got angry to begin with—it was obvious that I was enjoying the other man’s company a bit more than his own.” She took a long sip.

  “And what prompted the quarrel?”

  The woman’s eyes now scanned the room as she answered, as if she were looking for someone. Perhaps for her companion? Finally, as if she had no other option, she turned back to André. “Oh, he kept asking me to dance. I kept replying that there was no music, and therefore I would not dance. But your brother was undaunted, and merely answered that if there was no music to be had here, then perhaps he should take me somewhere where there was.”

  She took another sip, turning her eyes back toward André’s. They were the same light blue as his mother’s eyes, as Remy’s, too. But they had a coolness that neither of theirs had.

  “I was considering his offer when Franck intervened.”

  “I would have strongly advised against that, mademoiselle.”

  “What?” She offered half a smirk. “Leaving with your brother?”

  “With him? To be certain. Or any man whose acquaintance you’ve only just made. These are dangerous times to be taking up with complete strangers.”

  “Oh, I don’t disagree with you, soldier. I was simply ready to accept any offer to leave this party. It’s terribly dull.” She looked out over the crowd once more, her manner distracted.

  “So you don’t like your date, and you disapprove of the party. Mademoiselle, why did you come?”

  “My uncle is here,” she said, her tone suddenly drained of any emotion. “Nowadays he rarely orders me to do anything directly, but, when he does, I’ve learned it is unwise to disobey.”

  “I see,” André said, to be polite, but wondering to himself what such a comment meant. Based on her uneasy expression, he deemed it best to change topics. “Strange to be at a party at Christmastime without any celebration of Christmas, is it not?”

  “These are strange times indeed.” She nodded, finishing her champagne.

  Just then, the crowd that had been steadily building around the figures of Robespierre and Danton began to call out for quiet. Their hosts wished to address the party. André turned his focus toward Robespierre, looking at the narrow-figured man as he lifted his shoulders and tossed his head back, as if preparing for a performance.

  “Say, I’m a bit warm.” She was leaning close now, whispering in André’s ear. Her breath was sweet with champagne. “Would you be kind enough to escort me outside to get some air?”

  André threw a cursory glance toward the crowd gathering around Robespierre before looking back at her. “If you don’t mind the cold?”

  “But I just told you I was warm,” she said, stepping closer to him. Surprised but delighted, André offered his arm and led her toward the front.

  “No!” She froze, her eyes suddenly wide with a look that resembled fear. “Let’s not go that way. Let’s see if there’s a side entrance.” She pulled him through the crowd and toward the back of the hall, and André followed willingly.

  Outside, they leaned against the wall of the building, its cold stone façade shielding them a bit from the wind that whipped across the square. Several feet away, by the front entrance, a crowd of sans-culottes had begun to gather. Word had spread throughout the arrondissement that Robespierre and Danton were inside, and the people hoped to catch a glimpse of their idols at the end of the evening. By their secluded side entrance, André and his lovely companion stood removed from the growing crowd, their breaths visible in the chilly air and their faces illuminated by the flickering shadows of the fires the crowd had started.

  She had claimed overheating inside, but André suspected that that had been only an excuse to avoid someone, perhaps an overzealous admirer. Based on her shivering, he assumed that she was no longer warm. “Take my coat.”

  She did not protest as he draped his frock coat over her bare, narrow shoulders. “Thank you.” She smiled up at him, tucking her hands into the coat pockets.

  André looked down at her face, lit up in the hazy glow of the nearby street lanterns. “You know, I haven’t gotten your name.”

  “Sophie de Vincennes.”

  A noble name. André nodded, studying her delicate features more closely. “I’m not familiar with the name. From where does your family come?”

  “Oh, it’s not my family’s name. It’s my husband’s.”

  André felt his whole body slump; so she was
married.

  “Or rather, I should say, my late husband’s.”

  “Late husband?” André repeated; she was too young to be a widow. But then again, the Revolution had no doubt made hundreds of young widows with noble surnames.

  She nodded. “Monsieur le Comte de Vincennes did not survive to see this glorious Revolution.” She rocked back on her heels as she said it, her tone emotionless.

  “I am sorry. It was not my business to pry.”

  She continued to look up at him, a quizzical smile brightening her previously cool blue eyes. “Bad men have to die as well as good men, don’t they?”

  A curious statement, André thought, but he did not wish to offend her by inquiring further, so he changed the subject. “Do you live in Paris, Comtesse de Vincennes?”

  “Please, call me Sophie. Or citizeness, even.” The sarcasm in her voice matched her half smile, and she continued: “The countess was the wife who came before me. She, too, is now expired.”

  André nodded, looking over her shoulder at the crowd, still growing in number by the front steps. He blew on his hands, his own body beginning to shiver without his jacket.

  “I do live in Paris now,” she said. “My uncle moved me here when Jean-Baptiste, the darling count, died. He said he could better protect me that way.”

  André turned back to Sophie. “I have rented lodging in the city as well, just a little to the east, near Saint-Paul.”

  “You mean the Pauline Temple of Reason,” Sophie corrected him, another wry smile tugging on her lovely lips. André laughed and then they stood opposite each other in silence for several moments, watching the crowd nearby. One of the men had brought the tricolor flag and hung it outside the entrance. A cluster of several sans-culottes began singing the national anthem, while others cried out insults against Citizen Capet and began dancing in a crudely formed circle.