Where the Light Falls

by Allison Pataki

  André blinked, trying to make sense of it all: Murat, possessing a title, but not a true one, harbored a bitter grudge against a class that had never truly accepted him.

  “Murat’s father came up with the money for his title through trade in the West Indies,” Dumas said, apparently not done with his explanation. “He owned large amounts of land there, including on my home island of Saint-Domingue, the isle of Haiti. Sugarcane, some tobacco, but mostly coffee.”

  “So you knew him, all those years ago?”

  “I knew of him, his family at least, from the time we were young boys. And I remember when the Murat family came to disgrace in Haiti. The whole island knew they were forced to sell off their land and flee, and in a hurry.”

  “But…but why?”

  “It happens that the elder Murat, our man’s father, once he’d purchased his title and set himself up as quite the seigneur on the island, became much more concerned with his rum and his local ladies than with his crop. His land floundered. His business suffered. He was a brutal slave owner but a terrible steward. There was absolutely nothing left of the estate of value for him to pass on to his ambitious young son, Nicolai. The old man had accumulated such debts that he would have been run off the island. Might even have been attacked by his creditors, or else his slaves, if not for the young buyer who came forward and swiftly bought up all of his land, settling Murat’s accounts and allowing the fool to retreat back to France with his tail between his legs.”

  “Oh?” André didn’t quite understand what any of this had to do with him.

  “A buyer whose business acumen—and character—were of a much higher caliber.” Dumas’s dark eyes caught the flicker of the lone candle. “A young nobleman by the name of Alexandre de Valière.”

  “Ah,” André said, sitting back in his chair, his heart hammering heavily against his chest. He knew that his father had had business dealings in the New World and that he’d spent time there years ago, before marriage and children.

  “Your father,” Dumas said, “had the audacity to save Nicolai Murat’s family from ruin.”

  “And so…for that…General Murat resented my father? And now despises me? But that doesn’t seem fair—if anything, he should be grateful.”

  Dumas shrugged. “Resented, yes. Probably envied him as well. It was certainly embarrassing for him to see his old man bailed out by a classmate of his from the academy. A young man whose wealth and title—and character—were impeccable, while his own family’s name was as black as the coffee they had failed to sell. But the loathing, that came a few years later.”

  “What? Why?”

  Now Dumas leaned forward, his voice low and grave. “I was in Paris, a young man, when I first heard about it. Heard about her. A beauty from Blois. The fair-haired daughter of the Duc de Blois—the depth of her beauty rivaled only by the immensity of her wealth. A young lady by the name of Christine de Polignac.”

  “Maman,” André gasped, his chest seizing when he heard his mother’s name spoken aloud.

  “That’s right. Your mother. She fell in love with your father shortly after he returned from the West Indies, his face kissed by the sun and his purse even more swollen with New World wealth. Everyone who saw it marveled at the pair; they were the admiration of all of Parisian society that first season they courted.”

  “They were?” André’s mind reeled—his father and his mother?

  Dumas nodded. “The king himself blessed their betrothal. Your father was probably the envy of quite a few other young noblemen when he secured Christine’s heart. But there was one man—one man in particular—who had thought he had already done so. Had thought he would be the lucky one to marry her.”

  “General Murat,” André said.

  “Now you understand, young André de Valière, the way Nicolai Murat sees it: your father literally took everything that was ever his. His land. His family birthright. His love….And you—you are the result of that. Because you exist, Murat’s own sons with Christine de Polignac do not. He will never forgive you for that.”

  They sat in silence for a while. André gulped down another glass of water, his thoughts in a tumult; now, at least, he understood.

  Eventually, Dumas’s voice broke the quiet in the tent, scattering André’s troubled thoughts. “By now, you cannot help but be aware of the man’s feelings toward you. But between the two of us, be sure you take caution tomorrow.”

  André blinked, returning to the present. It was the eve of a great battle. He needed to go—needed to try for at least a few hours of rest. He rose from his seat. “Yes. All of this talk…it nearly made me forget the enemy.”

  Dumas nodded and rose, standing before the entrance of the tent. The nearby candle sputtered, its wax nearly expired, causing the glow of its flame to dance across the general’s darkened face as he whispered: “Tomorrow will be chaos. Men will be scattered and dispersed, and fire will be coming from all directions. Bonaparte, he’s got a sharp mind for combat, but this is unlike anything we’ve ever attempted. The man…” Dumas waved a hand. “He may be small of stature, but his ambition…his ambition soars to unlimited heights.” Dumas sighed. “In any event, mistakes will be made. Or, perhaps, crimes committed and made to look like mistakes. Tomorrow, if you are wise, you will watch out for the enemy, yes. But, even more important, be sure to keep an eye behind you as well.”

  July 1798

  Jean-Luc heard a knock on the door.

  “Yes?” Opening the door, he peered into the face of one of Madame Grocque’s older boys, a dirt-stained, scrawny youth of about fourteen years.

  “Letter for Monsieur,” the young man said, lifting a paper but not his eyes.

  “Thank you,” Jean-Luc said, confused; he had just returned home from work. He broke the wax seal and tore the letter open. Instinct sent a chill deep into the recesses of his gut before he’d even registered the familiar handwriting, or the meaning of the words he now beheld.

  St. Clair—

  My old friend, it is with profound regret that I must carry out the actions you have forced me to undertake. I only ever wished for your friendship. But, if I am to depart this life, my only wish is to leave my impact upon the world so that my work endures when I am gone. Is that not my due, after a long and tired life of sacrifice for this Republic?

  For this reason, Sophie de Vincennes and her beloved Marquis de Valière cannot be allowed to carry their noble bloodlines into the new world we’ve created. I will see to it that they shall not.

  But my masterstroke will be this: the whole world will blame you. They will learn how the feeble lawyer fell in love with his own client’s fiancée. How else does one explain her presence under your roof all that time? Quite suspicious. And why else would you take the trouble to call on her in prison each day—your eyes fixed on hers, whispering and promising?

  The people may even sympathize with you for your weakness; her beauty is so maddening they will understand why you had to have her. Perhaps even André de Valière himself would understand that. But, ultimately, they will despise you all the same. With disgust, they will learn how your affections were scorned, and you had no choice but to destroy her.

  There was no signature. No address from the sender. But Jean-Luc did not need one.

  “What is it?” Marie was already in bed, and she rolled over now, calling out to him. “Jean-Luc?” She clutched her full belly, wincing as she did so.

  Jean-Luc swallowed nervously, trying to keep the panic at bay as he folded the letter and stuffed it into his coat pocket. “It’s from Lazare.” His voice was faint.

  “What does that old goat want?”

  “I…I’m not certain. Something about Sophie.”

  “Sophie?” Marie’s features went taut. “Is she in danger?”

  “I—” He faltered.

  “If she’s in danger, you must go to her. Immediately.”

  Jean-Luc nodded but then looked more closely at his wife, noting the flush of her face. The fact th
at she tried to hide a grimace. “Are you ill?”

  “Just a bit tired.” She blinked.

  “I cannot leave you like this.” Jean-Luc took her hands in his, kneeling beside her. “Can it be labor pains, already?”

  She propped herself up on her elbows, her thick curls clinging to her sweaty neck and cheeks like wild vines. “I don’t think so. Not yet. Perhaps just an early prelude, false labor, they call it. That can happen with the second child.”

  “How can you be certain?” Jean-Luc demanded. “Should I not run and fetch a midwife, someone?”

  Marie smiled, the skin around her brown eyes creasing into the familiar pattern that Jean-Luc adored. She appeared to be lit up from inside. “I am fine. Just a passing cramp.”

  Jean-Luc hesitated. “I should stay. I don’t know what Lazare’s letter means. Perhaps it’s only an idle threat. I don’t think I should leave you, in case—”

  She cut him off. “You must go,” she said, shaking her head. “We both know enough of that man to know that he is never idle in his threats—or his evil. Go. Sophie needs someone to protect her. She has no one but us.”

  Taking his wife’s sticky hand in his own, Jean-Luc kissed it. And then, reluctantly, he said: “I will be quick. But are you certain I can’t fetch the midwife before I leave?”

  Marie shook her head. “Go—the sooner you go, the sooner you return.”

  Jean-Luc lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them once more. “I don’t tell you enough, but you’re stronger than I could ever be.”

  “Nature made women hardier than men for a reason,” she quipped, smiling. “Now, go! Give Sophie my love and tell her that I would like to have her back here—what with another little one to arrive soon, I could use her help.”

  “Yet another reason I am trying my hardest to see her released.” Jean-Luc reluctantly rose from beside the bed, still looking at his wife. “You are certain you will not need the midwife?”

  Marie nodded, and Jean-Luc sighed. “Then I’ll ask Madame Grocque to check in on you and Mathieu. I will return as soon as I can—in less than an hour.”

  “Right. Now go, let me rest.” Marie smiled, then shut her eyes.

  “I’m here to see Sophie de Vincennes.” Jean-Luc panted before the confused prison guard, a young man Jean-Luc had never seen before. “I must see Sophie de Vincennes at once!”

  “Calm yourself, citizen. Your personal bothers don’t supersede protocol.” The guard gave Jean-Luc a reproving look and lifted a large parchment from his desk, checking the names of his wards. He hummed softly as he scanned the long list.

  “Citizen St. Clair,” Jean-Luc gasped out, impatient with the formalities of a new and rigid guard. “I must speak with my client, Sophie de Vincennes, at once. She’s being held in prison cell number twelve, east wing.”

  “Just a minute, citizen.” The guard still looked at his paper, a confused expression clouding his face.

  “If you please, I am here every day. I know where her cell is; I can let myself in.” Not waiting for the guard’s approval, Jean-Luc moved toward the long, candlelit corridor that would take him to Sophie. But the guard raised a hand to block him.

  “Citizeness de Vincennes ain’t back there,” the man said, his eyes rising from the paper to Jean-Luc.

  “What do you mean she’s not back there? Where else would she be?”

  The guard scratched his head, taking entirely too long to respond. “Says here that Citizeness de Vincennes was set free this afternoon.”

  Jean-Luc looked down at the paper, incredulous. Seeing that same notice, he staggered backward until his back found the wall. “But…but she’s my client. If she were to be freed, I would have known. It would have been my doing. Where is she?”

  The man shrugged. “She was released. Now that I think on it, I remember. Blond lady? Real proper-like and pretty, that one? Yes, I remember her. Walked out on her own. Didn’t look as ’appy as I woulda suspected, seeing as she was set free and all.”

  Jean-Luc still studied the guard, his mind a swirl of confused thoughts.

  “There was a coach waiting for her. A big covered coach and a man who come to get her. Friendly enough fellow, even if he was a bit odd looking. Bright orange hair. Gave the name of Marnioc. Or Merillac. Something to that effect.”

  Jean-Luc clutched the cold, damp wall of the prison, swallowing hard. He thought about it, about the strange letter that sat in his coat pocket. “Merignac.”

  “That’s the one.” The guard nodded, satisfied that they had resolved the predicament. He looked back down to his papers, eager to be done with this interview.

  Jean-Luc, however, felt no relief. All he felt was the paralyzing clutch of fear; he was too late. Lazare had her.

  July 1798

  Their march began well before dawn, the soldiers setting out from their camp at Warraq al-Hadar in the frigid dark, André shivering in his blue coat as the army headed south along the river. The soldiers, tired and cold, grumbled as they watched their campfires recede over their shoulders. As cold as it felt now, it would be that much hotter once the sun peeked out over the desert horizon.

  They marched for hours, stopping only once, while it was still dark, for a quick breakfast. As dawn approached, André could make out the Nile to his left, could see that it was widening, growing fuller and faster.

  The horses began to whinny, and even André’s temperate gelding began to jerk his head, bucking against the bridle. André had shaken off his fatigue by now, his eyes and senses alert with the knowledge that dawn was almost certain to bring a number of dangers. Just then, as the French army left the river fork behind them, the sun’s first rays sliced over the eastern shore, cutting through the darkness and casting the first spears of light over the ancient landscape.

  André shifted in his saddle, examining the faces of those around him. Several paces back, Ashar rode, speaking with one of the French dragoons who rode at his side. He saw André and waved his right hand. André motioned for his friend to join him at the head of the column.

  “You always seem to appear when something important is about to take place, my friend. So tell me, what shall we expect for today?” André asked.

  The Egyptian looked up, his face aglow in the orange light of the sunrise. “Giza is as sacred a land as any, Major. By God’s grace, your general has managed to see us this far.” Ashar took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. “But now, we must simply wait for whatever fate God has chosen for us.”

  “Are they really that impressive, these mausoleums?” André asked, skeptical. All the men were abuzz with the excitement of beholding the great pyramids, but Paris had the Panthéon—their own massive mausoleum—and stunning cathedrals that had been the envy of all of Christendom for centuries; surely these tombs would not outshine the French capital.

  Ashar considered the question before answering: “Every pharaoh who lived and died wished for Giza to be his eternal resting place. I might tell you of their splendor, but you shall behold them with your own eyes soon. And then, you may answer your own question.”

  Just then, André’s horse started, snorting and pawing the ground. He stroked the beast’s neck to soothe the nervous animal, but when he squinted, his eyes forward, he saw what had spooked it. Up ahead, bathed in the gentle rays of the early-morning sun, was a massive rising cloud, a grim shadow forming from out of the earth. “Dust,” André said.

  “Mamelukes,” Ashar added, his voice steady.

  André clutched his reins, his horse jerking nervously beneath him. “Steady, now,” he said, soothing the beast. He narrowed his eyes and willed them to give him a better picture of the foreign army. “Good God, how many are there?”

  The men around him had gone quiet. Most had not slept all night. They’d marched several miles in the frigid dark of predawn, on stomachs empty of anything but bits of fruit that did little more than upset their insides. And now, in the distance, it appeared as if the entire desert was slowly surging toward them.<
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  André peered into the distance once more, sharpening his gaze to focus on the figures beneath the massive plume of dust that rose to the heavens. It looked like an entire nation on horseback.

  The Egyptian nodded as he beheld the scene before them. “Each Mameluke warrior has a servant to carry his weapons while on the march. A cluster of tambourine players to serenade his horse’s steps. They have their children and women. War, for them, is not an event separate from life. War is life.”

  André turned from the distant scene to survey the French forces all around him. Just then, French scouts rode past André and out beyond the front units. On all sides of his squadron, the infantry continued its advance to the shrill notes of the fifes and the deep rhythm of the drums. Tricolor flags waved in the morning breeze, and men who could barely stand just minutes ago held their heads high and marched in time, fueled now by fear and adrenaline.

  Nearby, General Bonaparte sat atop a gleaming white horse, his expression haughty, his body alert, surrounded by a dozen aides, attendants, and general officers as he bent over a map. The massive tricolor flagged billowed above him. General Dumas was there as well, as were Murat and several other officers.

  The French, coming from the north, had the river on their left flank, the desert on their right. In front of André now, the infantry were forming up and closing ranks. The five division commanders, who had been given their orders from General Bonaparte, were peeling their soldiers off and forming what André saw to be massive squares. The divisional square was a new feature of Napoleon’s genius, an impenetrable wall of soldiers and their rifles and bayonets. It stood six ranks deep at the front and rear, three ranks deep on the sides. In theory, but yet unproven, no cavalry charge could defeat this because a horse would not willingly impale itself on a wall of steel.

  Men formed the outer perimeter of each square, while in the middle, the soldiers were tossing luggage, supplies, packs, and ammunition for the guns. On the corners of each of the four flanks were placed the cannons. Each square was a small fortress, their gun barrels and bayonets facing in any direction from which an enemy could attack.