Jean-Luc sat opposite his boss, nodding heavily. Had all of this, all these years of chaos, been for nothing more than to replace a king with an emperor? And yet, thinking about it, he could not entirely disagree with Gavreau. Perhaps the French people had forfeited their right to a democratic government, so base had been their handling of the new nation’s liberties.
“He seems pretty well occupied in the Mediterranean at the moment. First taking Malta, and now sailing for Africa.” Jean-Luc took a sip of wine.
“He’ll take Egypt,” Gavreau agreed. “But when he gets bored of war, he’ll come back to Paris and find himself a crown.”
“Just like Caesar.” Jean-Luc sighed, looking out the window at the steady stream of passersby. It was amazing how, no matter what happened, life in Paris seemed to go on. Students still gathered in the inns for supper. Mothers still chased children through the foot traffic. Lovers still paused at every corner, exchanging kisses and promises for the future—as if they had any control over their own fates. They were willful and obdurate, the Parisians were, to continue to live. To do so as if the future were theirs, even when these past years had taught them that it most certainly was not.
Did they not realize that the future of their country was being decided, at that very moment, by distant actors and unseen events? That, thousands of miles away, the French fleet was sailing the Mediterranean, its sights set on war—the outcome of which would change the fate of not only their nation but also the world?
Jean-Luc wondered, as much for Sophie’s sake as his own, where André was. Somewhere in the Mediterranean, with Bonaparte’s fleet. Was he part of the party sailing for Africa?
“When that happens…when Bonaparte comes back and restores some order to this place”—Gavreau drained his wineglass—“the first thing I plan to do is recommend you for a promotion to the Directory.”
Jean-Luc turned his gaze and his focus back to his employer, his eyes widening at the statement.
“Don’t argue with me on this, St. Clair. I know you’ve bucked in the past when I’ve tried to recommend you. I know that the thought of working every day alongside or opposite Guillaume Lazare makes you about as comfortable as the thought of pissing over a pit of snakes. And I cannot entirely blame you for that. There’s something not right with that fellow. I just…I just regret that I put you in his path.”
Jean-Luc waved this last comment away. “All you did was introduce me to his colleague, Merignac. It was not your fault. It was I who sought out Lazare’s acquaintance and his camaraderie,” Jean-Luc admitted.
“Aye, but…” Gavreau hesitated. “I’m not entirely innocent, I regret to say.”
Jean-Luc frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Merignac…he came to me looking for…an acolyte.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know that Lazare. How he always seeks to have his minions. His ‘Little Projects,’ he calls them. His band of disciples, even if he’s not Christ. Hell, perhaps he’s the Antichrist.”
Jean-Luc nodded, yes. He did understand, for his mind went back to the Jacobin Club on Rue Saint-Honoré, the first night he’d met Lazare, and how they’d been surrounded by a band of admirers; the men had been wordless in their subservience and attendance to Lazare, their undisputed sage and master.
“Well, Merignac came to me, saying that Lazare wanted a bright new talent from within our department. Someone he could mentor. I recommended you, of course.”
Jean-Luc felt a chill pass over his body, in spite of the warmth of the café.
“Thought it would be a good opportunity for you. You were my most talented, most hardworking clerk. Ambitious, too. I regretted that the only work I could give you was bureaucratic drudgery. But now…well, now, I regret ever putting you in front of him.”
Jean-Luc understood, in that moment, just how wrong he’d been. He’d supposed that Lazare had sought him out for the quality of his work. That the prodigious lawyer had followed his career from afar and had respected his service to the Revolution. That all this time, Gavreau had been pushed aside and not invited into the acquaintance with Lazare. But, in truth, Gavreau had been the one to pull Jean-Luc into Lazare’s orbit, had been the one to facilitate the relationship—a relationship from which Jean-Luc now longed to escape.
“So, that dinner, that first time you introduced me to Merignac?”
“It was an interview…of sorts.” Gavreau nodded, averting his eyes. “You passed, whatever that means. ’Course now, I fear that Lazare was less interested in mentoring you and more interested in molding you; I suspect you’ve proven a frustrating prospect to him as a result, you and your damned character and integrity.” Gavreau leaned closer, his voice low and uncharacteristically devoid of jest. “Just…just don’t let him get too close.”
“No.” Jean-Luc frowned.
“He’s very intrigued by the work you do. He’s always asking about your cases and your files. Just be careful…I wouldn’t let him get much closer. To you…or your family. And whatever you do, keep him out of your office.”
Jean-Luc nodded, agreeing. He wanted that man out of his life entirely. “Perhaps I should just…” Jean-Luc hesitated. “Perhaps this was all a mistake,” he said, his tone sour. “I should pack up Marie and Mathieu and take us all back to the south where we started. The hell with them all—Lazare, Merignac, the damned Directory.”
“No, no,” Gavreau growled. “None of that defeatist talk. Don’t turn cynic on me now, St. Clair. We’re so close, at last. Hear this, the one bright spot: the days of lawyers terrorizing Paris are almost over.” Gavreau leaned back in his chair. “When General Bonaparte comes back, things will be different. He’ll bring the army and pack up that guillotine and restore order so that folks like Lazare won’t be ruling with fear. And you’ll get your promotion in the new regime. You’ll finally be playing the role in this damned nation that you deserve.”
Jean-Luc lowered his eyes and thought about this. Did he want that? Did he still crave a prominent role in shaping this nation’s course? Wasn’t it his ambition that had driven him into the troubles he currently faced?
“Come now, St. Clair. Surely you and Marie aren’t going to give up now? Think of it: a real role in a new government. Moving out of that cramped garret. You can’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about your future.”
“I suppose”—Jean-Luc paused, rubbing his palms together—“that somewhere along the way, I allowed myself to lose hope in what the future could bring.”
“None of that.” Gavreau shook his head. “You’re my optimist. If you lose hope, what becomes of the rest of us, who had hardly any to begin with? No, no, no. This war will end and Paris will get back to itself. And when that happens, you’ll be a representative in the Council of Five Hundred. You’re far too good a lawyer, and man, to be squandering your talents behind a desk, counting silver spoons. Or worse, pruning lemon trees in the south.”
Jean-Luc couldn’t help but smile now as he stared at the ruddy, earnest face of his employer. He sat for a moment in silence, thinking it all over, before he sighed. “Thank you, Gavreau.”
“It’s I who ought to thank you. Not sure what I would have done had I not had you all these years.”
At home, the living room was warm and the air smelled of roasting chicken. Marie looked up from the table when her husband entered. She had a small pile of papers spread before her, which she quickly folded up and tucked into a pocket of her frock. “My love, you’re home!” She practically ran across the room to greet him, her brown eyes more alight than usual as she balanced on her toes to kiss her husband.
“Still reading the journals, I see?” he asked her, curious as to what she had been doing and why she had been so quick to tuck it out of sight.
“Oh, just a bit of gossip from the salons,” she said, waving her hands. “Nothing important.”
Jean-Luc looked around the room. “It’s quiet. Where are Sophie and Mathieu?”
�
�I’ve sent them out on an errand,” Marie said as she removed her husband’s coat, giving him another excited kiss. “And I’m glad of this moment of peace, I confess, because I have news.”
“Oh?” Jean-Luc arched an eyebrow. “And I do, as well.” He planned to tell her about his conversation with Gavreau, and his hope, recently rekindled, of actually building a career in the new nation’s government. “But you look so pleased and eager with yours that you ought to share yours first.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, but she stopped him, instead taking his hands in her own and guiding them to her belly.
“Feel that?” she said, her pretty features spreading into the glow of a wide smile. Jean-Luc felt his heart jump in his chest.
“Really?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Really.” Marie laughed now. “This tiny apartment is about to get a bit more crowded.”
“How marvelous!” He picked her up at the waist, twirling her around the room.
She looked into his eyes, her own brimming with delight. “Are you happy?”
“I could think of nothing that would make me happier.” He leaned forward and kissed her once more. “How can we have been so blessed?”
Marie beamed. “To think…another little one. Now will you agree it’s a good thing Sophie is here, to help me?”
“When will Mathieu and Sophie return?” Jean-Luc was eager to tell Mathieu that he would be a brother.
“They should be back any moment. I sent them down to fetch a loaf for supper,” Marie answered, turning to check on the chicken where it roasted over the fire.
Jean-Luc helped himself to a glass of wine and sat at the table, feeling a contentment unlike anything he had experienced in recent memory. “I told you I had news as well.”
“Oh, yes, I completely forgot.” Marie looked back toward him expectantly. “What is it?”
“Perhaps we won’t have to be crowded in this garret when the little one comes, after all.”
“Oh?” Marie smiled, the hope plain across her lovely, dark features. Jean-Luc relayed to his wife the contents of his discussion with his supervisor and his expected promotion to the Directory, the nation’s governing body.
“Good news, indeed! But how soon can we move? If only we could be out before the new one arrives.” Marie clasped her hands together, her features bright as she surveyed their cramped home.
“Is it really so bad here?” Jean-Luc teased, glancing around the low-ceilinged room; he had to admit to a certain attachment, even an affection, for the place. An attachment he knew had little to do with this shabby dwelling but everything to do with Marie, and Mathieu, and the family they had begun to build, together, in this home. This place that had witnessed their first years together, and all of the triumphs, defeats, and memories they had shared.
As the minutes passed and the evening outside darkened, Jean-Luc’s belly filled with warmth, and he basked in the comfortable glow of their hopes in the future. The moonlight poured into the room as he helped himself to another glass of wine. And still, he and Marie waited.
“What hour is it?” he asked after a while.
Marie paused where she stood, stirring a bowl of potatoes to prevent them from sticking as they grew cold in the juices of the chicken; a rare feast, and she had clearly splurged on procuring it, in honor of her celebratory news. She checked her timepiece. “Almost eight. How long has it been since you returned home?”
“Nearly an hour,” Jean-Luc answered.
At this the smile slid ever so slightly from Marie’s features, replaced by a thoughtful crease of her brow. “I can’t think what would be keeping them.”
Jean-Luc glanced out the window over the street. “They went to the baker? On Rue de Tolbiac?”
“Yes.”
“But that surely should not have taken an hour?” Jean-Luc turned back to his wife.
“No,” Marie said, shaking her head.
Just then the door to the room burst open, and Sophie’s trembling frame appeared in the doorway. Sophie panted, her breath uneven and her eyes frantic with a look of terror. “I’ve lost him!”
Jean-Luc felt cold dread freeze the blood in his veins, driving away the contentment and warmth he had felt mere minutes ago.
“ ‘Lost him’?” Marie looked at Sophie, her own voice faint.
“Mathieu,” Sophie panted. “I turned my back for one moment and he was gone.”
“Where?” Jean-Luc rose and crossed the room toward Sophie.
“In the baker’s. It was so crowded. I took my eyes off him for a moment to pay for the loaf and when I looked back, he had vanished. He’s run away!”
“Run away?” Marie gasped, her face ashen as she turned to her husband. “No, he’s a good boy. He would never just run away. That’s impossible!” Marie shook her head violently, charging toward the door of their apartment where her cloak hung on a hook before the entrance. Sophie stood motionless, trying to place the scene where she had last seen him.
Jean-Luc looked at his wife, sensing the panic that she now shared. He should have known: his good fortune to hear of a new child and a career advancement on the same day surely would not come without a price. Fate could not be so kind as to grant these blessings without exacting some penalty. No one had the right to feel blessed in times such as these.
He stood, crossing the room in two strides. “Marie, you stay here, in case he returns home. I shall go.”
No one in the neighborhood had seen the little boy leave the baker’s. Nor had they seen him on the nearby streets. Panting, Jean-Luc raced across the bridge, crossing the calm waters of the Seine where the boats glided along the surface. He could not have explained it in any logical way, but his course was set for the Right Bank. He suspected, without knowing why, that that was where his little boy would have wandered.
The air was warm and the pedestrians marched at a languid pace, laughing freely as they enjoyed the balmy evening. Along the quay heading south, Jean-Luc spotted a little boy, his small little head covered in dark curls, his light summer coat and short strides the same as Mathieu’s. The boy was leaning over the embankment, endeavoring to get a better view of a barge that passed beneath.
“Mathieu!” Jean-Luc could have wept in relief. He sprinted toward the little figure, clasping a hand on his narrow shoulder to pull him back from the water’s edge. “Mathieu, you are very naughty to have run away! Maman and I were very frightened that you’d—” Jean-Luc wheeled the little boy around and gasped aloud when he stared into a face, a set of features entirely foreign to him. The little boy, stunned by the rough treatment at the hands of a stranger, began to cry.
“Oh, I’m…I’m terribly sorry…” Jean-Luc stammered, pulling his hand away.
“What are you on about, eh, taking hold of my boy like that?” An angry housewife, stout and red-faced, stepped between the little boy and Jean-Luc.
“I am sorry, madame, I was mistaken.” Jean-Luc stared at the boy, blinking.
“Mistaken indeed. Now be off with you, before I report you to the gendarmes!”
Jean-Luc glanced one more time at the boy before he turned and raced back along the quay. The crowds in the streets were thinning now as candlelight began to flicker behind shuttered windows. Jean-Luc’s lungs ached from the effort of his running, but still he weaved his way through the streets and narrow alleys, calling out for his boy.
After a quarter of an hour of running, he turned a corner near Rue de Cléry and nearly charged face-first into a blue-coated guardsman. “Easy, there!” The man stood smoking a long pipe. He eyed Jean-Luc with a mixture of disapproval and mistrust, as if deciding whether there was something for which he ought to arrest him.
His breath frantic and uneven, Jean-Luc stammered out the reason for his frantic chase. “Please, good citizen! My boy…a little boy.” Jean-Luc raised a hand to where Mathieu’s height would fall against his leg. “Six. Dark hair like his mother’s…”
Through a piecemeal explanation, Jean-Luc r
elayed the urgency of his search, and the officer promised to keep an eye out for the child. “It’s highly likely, citizen, that he just wandered off looking for some mischief and, growing tired, or bored, has returned home. We see it all the time. Either way, he wouldn’t have come this far. You’re much better off returning to your own neighborhood.”
Jean-Luc thought about this, considering it to be possible. Perhaps Mathieu was home right now, safe and happy as he ate some of the roast chicken that Marie had prepared for their supper. “Home? Yes, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps he’s gone home.”
With that, he sought the officer’s assurance that the gendarmes would search that evening for a little boy with dark hair and dark eyes. And gaining that promise, he set off toward home, sprinting back across the river.
Back on the Left Bank, his neighborhood was quiet and the streets were empty, save for a few students and a barking dog. As he came upon his building, he spotted a familiar coach. The dread in his belly thickened, and he stopped in his footsteps, gasping to steady his breath; Guillaume Lazare stood outside the coach.
“Citizen St. Clair.” The old man opened the carriage door when Jean-Luc approached. “You look fatigued. Please, have a seat.”
“Not now, Lazare.” Jean-Luc barely paused, still marching toward the door that would take him inside his building.
“I shall not detain you for long. I have news concerning a matter that may be of interest to you.” Guillaume Lazare slipped a black box of snuff from a pocket in his jacket, spilled some of the contents onto his hand, and sniffed it in one swift gesture.
Jean-Luc paused in his steps, noticing the peculiar silence of the street around him.
“Your son,” Lazare said, his voice barely a whisper. “Have you found him?”
Jean-Luc turned toward the carriage, his entire frame rigid. All that was in him longed to lurch forward and take Lazare’s thin, reedy neck in his hands. If he had wanted to, he could have snapped it in two. “Where is my son?”
“Come in, have a seat.” Lazare retreated back into the darkness of the coach, his figure concealed in shadow as he left the door ajar. Jean-Luc forced himself to climb into the velvet interior.
Where the Light Falls Page 30
