Where the Light Falls

by Allison Pataki

  With André’s help, Jean-Luc laid out the facts and circumstances of the Battle of Valmy, entirely for the crowd’s benefit. The threat of the Prussians, the clear route for the Habsburg alliance into Paris. General Kellermann’s decision to turn and give battle on that field at Valmy when the outcome of the campaign, and the nation’s very survival, still hung in the balance.

  Asking André to deliver his own account of that day, Jean-Luc listened, as did the crowd. The hundreds sat quietly as André reached the climax of his tale, the moment when a barrel-chested Prussian stood over him, wrestling to lodge a bayonet tip in his skull. And Kellermann appearing suddenly to cut down the man who, seconds later, would have taken André’s life.

  When André had concluded, Jean-Luc sighed. An audible sigh. An exhale intended to be heard, and felt, by the crowds in the gallery.

  “And so, Captain Valière, you would say, unequivocally, that General Kellermann saved your life that day?”

  “I would.”

  “And you would say that General Kellermann rallied the army that day, leading the decisive charge that finally broke the enemy’s lines and won France her victory?”

  “I would.”

  “And has he ever, in the time you’ve known him, spoken a false word against the Republic?”

  “He has not.”

  Murat fidgeted in his chair, whispering something in Lazare’s ear. Lazare nodded.

  “And you recognize that, in coming here today to speak on behalf of an accused man, you put your own life at risk, Captain Valière? And yet, you come of your own accord, because your honor as a soldier and a citizen compels you to tell the people of France the truth?”

  André noticed for the first time now, as he tried to swallow, just how dry his mouth was. He opened his lips and, in a loud voice, answered: “I understand that, and I willingly accept the consequences. General Kellermann would do the same for any other loyal Frenchman.”

  Now members of the crowd were nodding. One man in the gallery whistled his support for the defense’s witness.

  “Thank you, Captain Valière.” Jean-Luc offered his witness a barely perceptible wink. Turning to the judge, Jean-Luc said: “Your Honor, the defense has no further questions for the witness.”

  Lazare raised a finger, and the judge, seeing it, nodded. “Citizen Lazare?”

  “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”

  “You may,” the judge replied, and Lazare rose. André felt his entire body go rigid as the image of his father on trial burst across his mind. He blinked, forcing himself to maintain mastery of his surging emotions as Lazare walked slowly toward him.

  “Captain Valière, is it?”

  André nodded, using all his strength to keep his voice quiet as he answered. “Yes.”

  Lazare flashed a quizzical expression, tapping his chin with his thumb. “What have you done with the antecedent of nobility—the ‘de’ that preceded your name at birth?”

  The crowd began to whisper and André fidgeted in his chair, feeling it creak beneath his movements. “I denounced the noble title and lands years ago. I swore an oath to the Republic.”

  Lazare nodded, pacing the floor before the witness but not looking directly at him. “And your father before you, did he, too, denounce the title?”

  André felt the overpowering urge to rise and lunge at his father’s assailant, but he clutched the sides of his chair, holding himself in place. “My father…he…well…”

  Lazare waited, his face now holding André’s with his eyes, his features placid.

  “My father no longer lives,” André said eventually, his mouth dry as the words came out. His heart hammered his chest.

  “Pity.” Lazare cocked his head. “How, if you don’t mind my asking, did your father perish?”

  “He was killed.”

  “The guillotine, I believe?”

  André nodded.

  “Guillotined? Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ Captain de Valière. We must record these facts for the court,” Lazare said, crossing his arms.

  “That is correct,” André answered, resisting the urge to look toward Sophie.

  “On what charge was the late Marquis de Valière convicted?”

  “Royalist sympathies.”

  Lazare touched a spindly finger to his ear. “I can’t hear you. Mind speaking up, Captain de Valière?”

  “Royalist sympathies,” André repeated, louder this time. Even as the blood thrummed in his skull, André heard the buzzing once more from the gallery, and he knew that Lazare was succeeding in his aim, which was to discredit him as a witness.

  Lazare nodded, recommencing his pacing. “Captain, you have served bravely. We all thank you for your service to this Republic.”

  André swallowed but did not reply to the compliment, certain that there was a blow to follow.

  “Captain de Valière, have you ever heard the Comte de Kellermann defend the deceased tyrant known as Citizen Capet?”

  “Never.”

  Lazare nodded. “You served at Valmy under the Comte de Kellermann. Have you seen him since the day of that battle?”

  “Of course I have seen General Kellermann since then,” André answered.

  “And was it ever in an informal setting? A time when you were not under direct orders of his command?”

  André thought about this. “I do not believe I have ever associated with him as a private citizen, no.”

  “Never?” Lazare asked. “Not even once, right here in Paris?”

  André paused; it seemed as if Lazare had some hidden angle. And then he remembered one occasion. “I suppose there was one time.”

  “Ah, yes, you suppose there was one time.” Lazare looked up at the gallery, ensuring that they’d recorded this witness’s changing testimony. “And what were the circumstances of this one time?”

  André paused for a moment and took a deep breath, willing himself not to grow flustered, even if the interrogation seemed to be spiraling out of control. “It was here in Paris. There was a ball given by the Jacobins shortly after Valmy. It was wintertime, just after Christmas.”

  “Christmas?” Lazare repeated, and André grimaced as he realized his error—surely the result of his nerves.

  “New year…I meant to say the new year. Shortly before the new year,” André hurried to correct himself.

  Lazare nodded, allowing Andre’s mistake to linger in the quiet courtroom a moment before he continued. “Captain de Valière, would you please describe for us the circumstances of that evening? Who else was there? What was discussed?”

  André turned his gaze, his eyes resting for the first time on the seawater gray of Murat’s. “General Murat was there with us, as was Madame…Citizeness Kellermann.”

  Lazare nodded. “And this was the night that the people decided on the execution of Citizen Capet, was it not?”

  André thought about that evening. Most vivid in his memory was meeting Sophie. Standing with her outside of the Panthéon in the cold. The desire he had felt, even then, to see her again. But yes, that had also been the night they’d voted to kill the king, which was why Murat had whisked Sophie away so suddenly. “Yes, I believe it was that same night.”

  “You believe it was.” Lazare nodded, still pacing, as he rested his chin on his thumb. “And on that night, did you three—General Murat and the Comte de Kellermann and yourself—not discuss that significant piece of news?”

  “It may have come up, briefly.”

  “You are under oath, Captain, so think before you speak next.” The lawyer’s voice was cold, devoid of emotion. “I would hate for you to lie to the French people and, in so doing, forfeit your own liberty.”

  André fidgeted in his seat, uncrossing his legs.

  Lazare pulled a paper from his pocket, which he now held at arm’s length, as if it served more as a prop than a necessity. He cleared his throat, making a grand show of reading. “The Comte de Kellermann has been accused, by General Nicolai Murat, of making the
following statement when discussing the appropriate punishment for Citizen Capet: ‘I’m not certain that I agree with any of the executions carried out in the name of our Republic.’ ”

  The crowd erupted in shock and outrage as Lazare’s eyes slid upward, holding fast to André’s. André turned to Jean-Luc as a feeling of dread gripped him; he did remember Kellermann saying that.

  “Captain, do you remember the Comte de Kellermann speaking thusly?” Lazare asked, loud enough to be heard over the crowd. But before André could answer, the attorney turned back to the paper in his hands. “And one more statement, Captain de Valière. On the topic of that Austrian adulteress, the Habsburg princess whom we have sent to the grave, General Murat recalls the Comte de Kellermann saying this: ‘I think that the journals have drummed up and printed many accusations that are false….I believe Marie-Antoinette wielded far less influence at court than many would have us believe. And surely she was a devoted wife. Just look how many children she has given the king.’ ”

  Now the crowd above was in a full-fledged riot. Words of support for Louis were damning enough, but a word spoken in support of the late queen, Marie-Antoinette—nothing was more likely to earn one a ride on a tumbril.

  The judge rang the bell ferociously, attempting to silence the crowd. “Order! Order, I say! I will have order!” Guards dispersed throughout the gallery, their muskets raised aloft. After the hissing and jeers had quieted, once the women had resumed their knitting and the little children had been pulled back off the balustrade, Lazare resumed his pacing.

  “Captain, now that I have refreshed your memory, perhaps you will allow me to repeat my original question: have you ever heard the Comte de Kellermann speak in favor of Citizen Capet?” He held André in his steely gaze, his eyes cold with the certainty that he would have the answer he wanted.

  “It was a long time ago. I don’t remember the precise words. I simply remember Generals Kellermann and Murat discussing the Revolution and its consequences—”

  The crowd burst into fresh jeers and insults but André, stung by this assault on his integrity, spoke over them. “If you speak of the night of the Jacobin ball, I do recall that General Kellermann said that the monarchy should be disbanded and the king put in jail. But while I’m remembering, I also recall that General Murat said that many of the common people were fools, not yet ready to take over the reins of government.”

  Now the crowd was silenced, but only for a moment. And then, not sure with whom to be angry, they began to yell. A fight broke out, prompting another furious round of bell ringing at the judge’s table.

  Lazare waited for the rabble-rousers to be ushered out and for order to be restored before he spoke. He was done with André and turned now to face the gallery. “Citizens and citizenesses of France. There’s no doubt that both of these generals have performed great deeds in the service of this land. Like any true soldier, Kellermann was not afraid to shed his own blood. But we are not here today to put his bravery on trial. We are here to determine his guilt as it pertains to loyalty and our Revolution, and whether or not he has sympathies for our dead tyrant—sympathies that would run counter to the progress of our Revolution. You hear now the very statements he has made. Statements which General Murat has sworn to, and which André, son of the Marquis de Valière, has confirmed. You know, now, what must be done.”

  With that, he turned to Jean-Luc and offered a curt bow, then took his seat. The court would adjourn for a thirty-minute recess.

  After the break, Jean-Luc reentered the courtroom, his hair disheveled and loose from the ribbon that had previously held it in place. His features appeared strained as he conferred with his client. Across the aisle, Lazare and Murat took their seats and sat, wordless.

  In his place behind the defense, André sat feeling as if his stomach were filled with stones. Rather than helping Kellermann, he feared he had helped the prosecution’s case. As he admitted this to himself, he felt despair wash over him, a complete and utter loss of hope. It was a feeling he had felt only one other time in his life: on the day his father had been executed.

  And today it was his fault. His inability to respond quickly, to swiftly deflect the charges made by Murat, had allowed doubt to enter the minds of the crowd.

  The judges reentered, the central judge rapping his gavel and telling the crowd to take their seats for the closing arguments. “We will hear first from the defense. Citizen St. Clair?” The judge tilted his head toward Kellermann’s side.

  Jean-Luc pushed himself back, clearing his throat as he stood. He walked to the center of the room, turning to look up at the gallery. “For the closing of this defense, I call the man himself, General Christophe Kellermann.”

  The crowd gasped and murmured, and even André couldn’t help but clutch the side of his chair as he saw Kellermann push himself to stand. Though at the center of the entire day, Kellermann had been observing. Silent. Almost forgotten.

  Now all attention shifted to the silent figure, broad and composed, as he walked slowly to the front of the court. Looking out, his face resting briefly on his wife’s, Kellermann smiled. Next he looked to his men, his eyes landing first on André before turning to the rest—LaSalle, Remy, and all of the soldiers who had sat silently all day. Supporting him. He offered a nod, a humble gesture, in their direction. And then he began.

  “Citizens.” Now Kellermann looked up at the balcony at the enlisted men, at the zealous revolutionaries who wanted to see him dead, at the Committee members who could propose one hundred legal reasons for why his head was no longer rightfully his own to possess.

  “For much of my life, I served King Louis XVI.” Whispers rose up in response to the name uttered aloud, but Kellermann continued on, undaunted. “I saw myself as a soldier. It was not my role to question my orders or commands; I followed the orders of my king, just as I had sworn I would do on the first day I had the privilege of putting on the French uniform.” Kellermann paused, his voice catching on the words. He cleared his throat and jutted his chin out, continuing.

  “But when the people of France determined that the citizen living at Versailles was no longer the true and rightful leader of this nation, it was with a free heart that I joined their fight. I was honored to be a part of the effort to gain liberty for the people of France.

  “No one values the freedoms and rights that we have won these past years more than I do. I know how perilous a fight it was, how narrow a margin it was by which we won our freedom.” Kellermann paused, his tone laced with emotion, as he stared at the gallery. “I would serve any lawful leader to protect those freedoms, even to the point of death. If this tribunal, and these judges”—Kellermann, without looking, gestured a hand toward the justices—“find me guilty, then that is the law of this land.

  “But hear me now. If this Revolution continues to go down this path of brother denouncing brother, neighbor attacking neighbor, then perhaps a day will come when we shall hurl ourselves into an abyss. Not only will there be famine, bloodshed, and war, but indeed our very souls may become lost.”

  André shifted in his seat, willing the people in the gallery above to hear this reason. To heed this warning. Kellermann forged onward, striding across the front of the hall.

  “Will this terror last forever? I pray that it will not. But how will it end? If we surrender ourselves to mistrust and chaos and denunciations, how will we climb back out as a people? As a nation?” Kellermann paused, and this time, André noticed, he avoided his wife’s gaze, even as her weeping sounded softly from the bench on which she sat near the front of the court.

  “On this day, I have been accused of undermining the Revolution. I must confess that I find this accusation to be false.” Kellermann looked at Murat now. “Few have known me longer, or fought beside me on more battlefields, than General Murat. There was a time when we considered ourselves not only close friends but brothers. I would gladly lay down my life for him, as I would for all of my fellow soldiers.” Kellermann paused but ke
pt his eyes on his former friend. Murat’s returning gaze was steady, unwavering.

  “I cannot understand,” Kellermann continued. “I may not ever understand…why my dear friend would level these charges against me. No, I can’t understand him. But I can forgive him.”

  Kellermann stared a moment longer until Murat, unable to hold his gaze, lowered his eyes to the floor. “Whatever the outcome today, however you find me, I wish this to be known. Nicolai, I forgive you. And to the people of France, may the blessings of liberty be bestowed upon all men, whether born high or low, for all time.”

  With that Kellermann sat down, his shoulders seeming to collapse inward as he did so; as if the fortitude required to speak those words and extend that grace had sapped the last of his strength. Hunched forward, he surely heard the gasps of his sobbing wife as she wept into her handkerchief, but he did not turn. And then, André noticed, the soldiers in the courtroom, defying the order of the assembly, began to stand. As if on cue, a hand lifted, and several more followed. Then dozens more. André rose and did the same, and now every soldier and officer in the room stood, hands extended aloft in a salute to the general they loved. Kellermann, turning, saw this. André swore that he saw a lone tear in the old commander’s eye.

  Lazare, apparently taken aback by this unexpected and unsanctioned show of solidarity, waited a moment. The room remained quiet, with the judges and the former Jacobins in the crowd sensing, somehow, that they ought not interfere in this act of reverence. The young lawyer beside Lazare, the one who had started off the day, whispered in his superior’s ear, and Lazare shook his head.

  And then the judge spoke, his flat voice cutting through the charge of emotions in the hall. “And the prosecution?”

  Mouchetard, the younger lawyer, rose and walked to the center of the room. Rubbing his palms together, as if to warm himself, he began. “That was well spoken, General Kellermann. But this court must not be disarmed by emotions. Emotions and sentimentality kept us in darkness, under the yoke of a tyrant for far too long. But now, we are enlightened. Now that we are a free people, those diversionary emotions shall not prevent us from doing our duty, which is the work of the Revolution. If we wish to speak of battles and battlegrounds, well, my fellow citizens, this court is today the foremost battleground of our fight, and here, today, we must do our duty to root out and expose the enemies of the Revolution.”