“You heard her, Jean, she has nowhere else to go. She has no money to rent a room. And not a friend to speak of.”
Jean-Luc groaned, rubbing his tired eyes with his fists. “I feel terrible about it, believe me. I keep seeing André’s face in my mind and I feel overcome by the urge to tell her yes, she can stay with us. But I must think about you and Mathieu. It’s too risky.”
Marie looked toward the door, where Sophie slept—or tried to sleep—on the other side. She turned back to her husband and whispered: “You said yourself that her uncle is gone from Paris, back to the front with the army. I know this city has turned upside down and gone mad, but how would anyone know who she was? Perhaps we can pretend she is our maid?”
Jean-Luc showed the hint of a sad smile. “That woman, our maid? Even if we could afford that, which we clearly cannot, no one would believe it.”
Jean-Luc took Marie’s hand in his, pausing. Deliberating as to whether or not to tell her. But he was tired of the distance that had grown between them; he needed her back, as his full partner. “He’s seen her.”
“Who’s seen her?” Marie asked, her big brown eyes narrowing, holding his in the dim light.
“Guillaume Lazare. He saw Sophie arrive.”
“The lawyer? What’s the danger in that?”
Jean-Luc paused, as if searching for the right words. “There’s something about that man that makes me uneasy. I don’t trust him, at least not when it concerns the safety of those I love. Besides, he talks to Murat. I think—no, I’m certain—he will tell him.”
Marie nodded, her brown eyes catching a glint of the moonlight that spilled into the bedroom, giving her an otherworldly glow. When she spoke, her voice was determined. “André Valière came forward for you when you needed him most. He stood up for Christophe Kellermann, and it nearly got him killed.”
Jean-Luc nodded, reaching for her, pulling her closer and wrapping her in his arms as she continued.
“And then you stood up for André Valière. And saved his life. I can’t say why, or how it happened, but one way or another, you and he have been thrown into all this together.” Marie sighed. “This is his love, and she’s guilty of no crime other than falling in love with a man her uncle hates. I say, if this Guillaume Lazare poses a threat to her, that’s all the more reason why we will take care of her.”
Jean-Luc heard the resolve in her voice and had no choice but to match it with his own, to make her see his perspective now. “Marie, it’s not just her uncle or even Lazare. If anyone so much as suspects we’re hiding an outlaw, they will inform the authorities. She can’t stay here—”
“Jean-Luc, I won’t hear it. You risked our family’s safety when you took on those two trials. Consider this my turn to gamble on a worthy cause. Sophie Vincennes is a friend in desperate need of help, and we will provide it. If you won’t allow her to stay in our home, you will at the very least procure someplace where she can stay. You must know someone, perhaps a colleague or that foolish boss of yours. All I can say is that we’re not going to make that woman suffer any more than she already has.”
Jean-Luc looked at his wife in silence, his own will dissipating against the breaking wall of her resolve. “Marie.”
“My beloved husband, find her a place where she can stay, or I’ll find one for you,” she said, weaving a cold foot in between his ankles.
Jean-Luc sighed. “Oh, all right. I suppose I could look for a place.” He slid his body closer to hers in the sheets. “I haven’t seen you this passionate in a while.” He kissed her neck, wrapping his arm around her waist as he pulled her body flush against his. “I have to say, I rather liked it.”
“Good.” She smiled at him as she brushed a lock of hair away from his face. They kissed for several moments before she pulled her lips back, grinning. “I believe I may have just bested the man who defeated the great Guillaume Lazare.”
“Don’t even say that name.” Jean-Luc reached under the sheets for the hem of her nightgown. “The very sound will trouble my sleep.” She assented and allowed him to kiss her.
But she had triggered his memory, and he pulled away from her after a moment. “That reminds me, Marie: Gavreau told me he saw you at the trial. Were you there?”
He felt her body stiffen in his arms. “I…” She paused. “I stopped in, just for a moment. I was in the neighborhood.”
“In the neighborhood? For what?”
“Oh, just looking about. To see if bread costs less in any different quarters. You know how we could always do with saving a bit of money.”
Jean-Luc’s mind whirled. “But…who was looking after Mathieu?”
“Madame Grocque was minding him, just for a bit.”
“Hmm,” Jean-Luc muttered, considering this, certain that his wife wasn’t telling him everything. “I’m not certain I’m comfortable with that, leaving the boy downstairs in the tavern.”
“Then it won’t happen again,” she said, a bit too agreeably. “Now quit worrying and get back to the business at hand.” She resumed kissing him, sliding his nightshirt off as she ran her hands down his back. Before he could protest, Jean-Luc succumbed, his body rousing to her long-withheld touch.
“Papa?” Mathieu’s voice pierced the dark bedroom like a needle piercing an inflated balloon. Jean-Luc felt Marie’s body stiffen again. For a moment they both lay still and silent, hoping their son would roll back to sleep.
But Mathieu did not oblige, calling into the dark once more. “Papa?”
“What is it, Mathieu?” Already he could feel Marie’s body slipping away from his, and he could have groaned in frustration.
“Papa, I heard you say that you will have nightmares because of Citizen Lazare. But you don’t need to be ’fraid of him, Papa. He tells me: ‘Your daddy is very brave.’ When I am playing in the tavern he brings me biscuits and tells me that he will take me to see the flying balloon!”
Jean-Luc looked down at his wife and saw in her expression the same thing that he himself felt; there, in the cold glow of the milky moonlight, Marie’s face constricted with fear.
Spring 1798
André had nearly gasped aloud as he saw the familiar handwriting. How on earth had this letter found him here?
It had taken ages for this word to arrive from Paris, so many times had Jean-Luc’s letter been waylaid and redirected before it had reached his ship, l’Esprit de Liberté, in the waters off the coast of southern France. By the time the letter had arrived, it was creased and crumpled, its texture having taken on the briny air and sea—as altered from its former self, one might have said, as the man who now held it.
André, dressed in his sailor’s smock and taking his break on the deck of the naval frigate, had torn at the seal of the letter, starving for the words that would come, morsels of food to his lonely soul.
André, my friend,
A visitor showed up at our door, giving Marie and me quite a surprise: Sophie. She is safe with us. Mathieu seems smitten by his new “Aunt Sophie” and no longer has much time for his mother or father. We try to keep her out of sight whenever we can, and hopefully our neighbors believe us when we tell them we can indeed afford a maid.
All is well with us. We will keep Sophie safe, and Mathieu will be certain to keep her busy.
I hope that this letter finds you well. Or, at the very least, finds you at all; my inquiries into your destination have proven dishearteningly unfruitful. Please send word when you are able to.
Your friend,
Jean-Luc St. Clair
Postscript: I’m sure that I am not in fact the person from whom you hoped to hear. Enjoy.
Tucked into the envelope was a second letter, unsigned but written in an elegant, familiar hand.
My darling,
As you’ve heard from our mutual friend, I am safe in Paris. With my uncle gone from the city and back at the front, I don’t expect to find much trouble here.
The St. Clairs have proven themselves generous and gracious hosts. Though
I must warn you: if you don’t hurry back, I fear that Mathieu St. Clair might be very much in danger of falling in love with me, and I with him. How can a girl resist such large brown eyes?
Writing through Jean-Luc seems the best course, for now, as I endeavor to maintain a discreet presence. Paris is much changed. The thing that struck me most upon my return was that passersby no longer seem to look one another in the eye.
Nevertheless, we have some hope—we hear, almost universally, that Napoleon Bonaparte is the leader to restore peace and order to France.
My darling, I am starved for information of you and your whereabouts. Please tell me that you are well. Are you getting enough to eat? Please tell me that you have not again found yourself in the same path as my uncle?
Please, my love, I beg you to promise me that you shall take care of yourself. Stay safe. And know that I remain your loving and devoted,
S
André clung to these letters, reading them and rereading them, glancing around to ensure that none of his fellow sailors witnessed the tears that filled his eyes. These words were a balm to a battered soul; he imagined Sophie—the guarded yet beautiful girl he had first met—now strolling around Paris under the guise of a domestic maid. The most beautiful maid the city could employ. He envied Jean-Luc, Marie, and Mathieu for their easy proximity to her, their ability to see her so often that they no longer thought much of it.
And he thought, too, of how he might ever repay Jean-Luc. Not only for his generosity in harboring Sophie, but for his bravery in simply giving them both such support and assistance. André made a note to himself: once he regained his freedom, if he survived the struggles no doubt yet to come, he would find a way somehow to thank Jean-Luc for all that he had done.
Eventually, André folded the letters and tucked them into the breast pocket of his coat, holding the words close to his heart, where their arrival had kindled a warm and comforting glow after so many months of absolute despair. How he longed to reply!
But he was allowed neither pen nor paper for writing. In the laws of the government and the Army of France, he had been stripped of his commission as an officer. He functioned aboard l’Esprit de Liberté as nothing more than an impressed sailor, his hammock one in a long line of many in the crowded sleeping quarters belowdecks. It was in this hammock each evening that he read and reread these letters, this news of Sophie, wondering when his next word from her might reach him on the vast blue waters on which he served his sentence.
As his stomach settled and his legs became accustomed to the ceaseless rocking of his new, undulating home, André adapted to his surroundings. His skin darkened. His lips—at first stinging and raw in the new climate—became accustomed to the permanent film of salt that seemed to settle on them. His days were predictable, if not a little monotonous. He was aboard one in a number of vessels ceaselessly prowling the waters off the southeastern coast of France, their primary purpose fending off the threat of a naval incursion from the Spanish or, worse, the English. They saw little action in André’s squadron, and he most often did battle with the rats that haunted the holds and the gulls that pelleted the deck with their excrement, quickly rendering his hours of scrubbing and sweeping utterly wasted.
Most of André’s fellow sailors, gruff men with varying accents as thick as their beards, seemed to regard him with a sort of distrustful yet civil neglect. Oftentimes, upon entering the communal quarters belowdecks, André had the distinct impression that their conversations had ceased abruptly. They tolerated his presence, yet did not invite him to share their fraternal intimacy. The arrangement suited André just fine; after so many months imprisoned in a dank cell, André did not need new friends or confidants.
As he looked out over the vast horizon of rolling blue, André regarded these days aboard l’Esprit de Liberté as a period akin to what the nuns in his home village had taught him about purgatory. He would keep his eyes down and his mouth shut and he would do his time, paying the penalty for whatever crime he had committed.
And yet, being out here on the sea was not such a terrible fate compared to the one he’d narrowly escaped in Paris. It was far better than serving a similar sentence in the horrid prison of Le Temple. There was food—salted and dry, to be sure, but enough of it. The maritime work was rote, but it occupied his hours and allowed him a deep, exhausted sleep each evening. His arms and legs, previously strong from youth and years of war, became even stronger, his muscles carved out in well-defined contours from hoisting and climbing. The clear, warm air had expunged the cough he had developed in the drafty, wet dungeon of Le Temple.
And, in spite of his indifference, he’d made one friend.
“You received a note from a woman.” Ashar smiled as he approached André on the deck, a roguish grin that creased the dark skin around his black, inquisitive eyes. “Don’t bother denying it.”
Most days, André didn’t mind Ashar’s teasing. Most days he might have gone so far as to admit he welcomed the good-natured banter. Much in the same way he would now relish Remy’s carefree company.
Ashar came from Egypt, which André had heard of, and liked to remind the others of this, often speaking with vague and lyrical language about the home he had left behind. He rarely talked to the other Arabic-speaking sailors, who came from the Barbary Coast. As an Egyptian, he would claim, he might as well be their king.
Ashar, gaining no reply from André now, continued his teasing banter: “A woman…I’m guessing a beautiful one.”
“What do you know of beautiful women?” André quipped, and Ashar’s eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Perhaps it is more correct to say I know about people.” Ashar sat down beside André, glancing sideways at him. “And you? You I know much of.”
“Oh?” André leaned back, challenging his friend. “And?”
Ashar studied him keenly, pausing a moment before he answered: “You, my friend, are not like the others. You are different, because of what you have suffered.”
André looked out over the sea rolling before them, silenced. The view was an endless expanse of salty blue, and his thoughts teetered back and forth between feelings of his overpowering and unequivocal love for Sophie—and the hatred he carried for her uncle. He also thought of Remy and the last time he had seen him.
“You suffer in silence, which is admirable, but you suffer all the same. And now, I see something has come over you.”
André sighed, trying to redirect the conversation. “And what of you, Ashar? What on earth are you doing on this ship?”
“Tut-tut, no need to be rude with me, my friend. I am simply—”
“No, you misunderstand me.” André turned, taking his eyes off the horizon to look at his companion. “I mean, how in God’s name did you end up here? How is it that an Egyptian philosopher such as yourself is serving in the French navy?”
“Well, that is a good question.” It was Ashar’s turn to be caught in silent reflection. He sighed a slow exhale before answering. “Allah, peace be upon him, has a plan for all of us. I wonder if I did not stray from his plan, displeasing him. My heart is not wicked, my friend, but I have done wicked things. So, I must submit to his will, until my fate is revealed. It is written.”
André stared at his friend for a moment, not sure what to make of this mysterious statement, and decided silence was the best answer. He reflected on his own past, thinking that his heart was not wicked, so how had he earned this fate?
A rough smack on his shoulder brought André out of his gloomy meditations, reminding him to get back to his work scrubbing the quarterdeck. Their conversation would have to wait for another time.
Several weeks later, the crew of l’Esprit de Liberté were granted a week of shore leave in their port of call, Toulon.
All that week, while André strolled the cobblestoned streets, enjoying tasty bowls of fish stew and the easy hospitality of the restaurant and tavern patrons, he had noticed ever more ships docking at port, each morning bringing the arrival o
f yet more sails.
Each new French ship meant hordes of men pouring into the city, unshaven and rowdy. The streets of Toulon grew so crowded that André had to weave his way through a swarm of bodies simply to make it from his small inn to the harbor for his morning exercise. There were men everywhere—loud, drunk, scruffy men, pent up from months at sea and eager to visit some of the south’s famous taverns and brothels.
It was over dinner on his final night in Toulon that André found his Egyptian friend. André looked up from his garlicky stew into the dark, familiar eyes. “Ashar,” he said, greeting him with a genuine smile and pulling him in for an embrace.
Before André had time to offer him a seat, the Egyptian helped himself to the empty chair opposite him and ordered a second bowl of the fish stew.
André lowered his spoon, wiping his mouth. “How has your week been?”
Ashar looked around the terrace, a swarm of sweaty, loud men drinking wine and beer from mugs, circling the few women who were present. “It was…enlightening,” Ashar said.
André nodded. “Have you heard anything about what we’re doing here?”
The Egyptian lifted his hands as if to gesture for André to look around. “Haven’t you noticed? Every able-bodied man in service is descending on Toulon.”
“I noticed the crowds, yes, but I was unsure of the reason. Do you have news?”
Now it was Ashar’s turn to be incredulous. “You haven’t heard?”
André shook his head, clearing his throat. “No.”
“Why, that mad devil Bonaparte is up to his game again.”
None of this was becoming any clearer to André, as his friend answered with these half riddles. “What game is that?”
The Egyptian paused, pulling a parchment out of his tunic and placing it on the table. “Orders of embarkation.”
André eyed the paper, then glanced at his friend with a quizzical look.
“General Bonaparte’s ambitions are even greater than I had supposed,” Ashar said, leaning close to whisper to André. “I’ve had visits with a minister from the government and an aide to the big man himself. They want me. Need me, in fact.”
Where the Light Falls Page 27
