André stared at his commander, wondering if he was, in fact, serious. He appeared to be. André nodded slightly in deference, suddenly feeling pain and fatigue in every part of his body.
“But you rest now, Major. You’ve earned it. I assure you, our surgeons are the best.” Bonaparte smiled, nodding once, and then suddenly clasped André by the shoulder. As he did so he leaned forward and said quietly: “Courage, Major. Home will always be there, but glory—glory is fleeting and must be seized while it lies before you.”
André’s thoughts turned to Sophie, and he felt a pang of longing that outweighed the pain of his wounds.
“We have won a great victory,” Bonaparte continued. “No man, alive or dead, can ever take that honor from you.”
An aide passed the general a curved saber and a silver eagle pendant hanging from a blue ribbon. The general took the pendant and draped it around André’s neck. The sword he placed on the cot at André’s feet. Before André even understood what was happening, a scroll was unfurled and the orders for an award were read aloud to the tent by one of Napoleon’s adjutants. “For intrepid gallantry in the face of the enemies of France, the Award of the Grand Saber is awarded to Major André Valière on this day, Ivraie in Thermidor, Year Six of the French Republic.”
With that, Napoleon Bonaparte offered one more nod in André’s direction. “Congratulations, Major.”
“Thank you, sir,” André stammered, fingering the medal that hung heavy around his neck. Glory is fleeting and must be seized while it lies before you. Funny, André thought to himself, he would have said the same thing about love. About his very life. And now, suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to return to France and, at last, begin living that life.
Fall 1798
André Valière had not been directly heard from in more than a year. In that time, Jean-Luc had saved Sophie from her imprisonment and torment by Lazare. The old man had perished in the deed, but the relief that Jean-Luc should have felt from the release of that vicious citizen’s torments was wholly replaced by the shock of Marie’s passing. She had been through all of Jean-Luc’s struggles, both successes and failures, and her journey made all the more difficult by her exclusion from his work. She had been left to raise their child, tend to their home, and share in the strain of Jean-Luc’s labors, all while carrying out her own work for the Revolution in silence and in secret. She, as true a patriot as any, had had no legal or public authority to share her gifts on behalf of the nation. No rights as a citizen, even. Even in his grief, Jean-Luc reflected on this for many days after her passing. How a woman was expected to obey the laws and thrive in society, with virtually no say in the very existence and promulgation of those same laws or that society. Was that not itself an injustice, Jean-Luc wondered, itself perhaps worthy of a revolution? But he had had enough of that word for now, and his thoughts turned to his remaining family. He would leave Paris.
Sophie decided to remain, to wait. She said farewell to Jean-Luc and the children with a promise that she would send word—as soon as she had any, if she ever had any—of her fiancé.
Once he had loaded the carriage—the children, the luggage, his wife’s casket—they made their quiet departure from the city. Near the barrier, Jean-Luc looked back over his shoulder at the receding silhouette of the capital. Paris, the place to which he had come so many years ago, a young lawyer who believed in his countrymen and his nation and the principles of liberty and equality and fraternity. All of that was before; before the guillotine had been installed in La Place de la Révolution, before the king had lost his head and a movement borne of the Enlightenment had taken a turn down a dark path.
There, against the distant backdrop of the city, Jean-Luc made out the French tricolor flag that hung over the wall, its three-colored cloth flapping in a strong breeze. Red and white and blue. The flag billowed back and forth—shifting, wavering, as the sun’s rays rippled over it with the soft glow of coming dusk. Tenuous, and yet somehow durable. A thin, fragile symbol, its presence hopeful, its shape as illusory in the breeze as the ideals for which it waved. From his vantage point, Jean-Luc paused, transfixed. He stared at the city he had called home these many years, half of it covered in the veil of the evening’s darkening shadow, the other half illuminated by the last rays of the vanishing sunlight, glorious, a burnished mirage of so much beauty that it gave Jean-Luc a final ache in his breast.
Jean-Luc was alone when they buried Marie, her body gently dropped into the soft earth. He had left Paris and brought her home, as he had promised; back to her beloved south, where the air smelled of the sea and of the citrus groves and the faint perfume of lavender. A priest read from the Book of Wisdom, and Jean-Luc tried to remember her as she had been—warm, bright-eyed, blooming with strength and vigor—and not as he had found her, cold, limp, in a stained bed on the day she had brought his daughter into the world.
After her burial, Jean-Luc had returned to the home of his father-in-law and wrapped his two children in a long embrace. Something inside him told him it was better to stay here, where his children might bathe in the sea and the warm light of the Mediterranean sun, and learn more of their mother than they ever could in Paris.
Did he still believe that liberty and equality and fraternity could guide the people of this new nation? Jean-Luc wondered. Would he tell his children with pride or with shame that he had served in the Revolution? He didn’t know; he couldn’t answer any of that on that day. All he knew was that Marie would have her way: he would raise her children, he would love them and keep them safe. He would teach them to be honest and kind and brave, as their mother had been. He’d honor the woman she’d been, the wife she’d been, the mother she’d been, the citizen and thinker she’d been. He’d raise her children in the belief that, as long as there were still men and women willing to stand for justice and for truth, there was still reason to hope for their nation and, indeed, for all.
And in that, Jean-Luc St. Clair would be performing a service more sacred than any he had yet done.
December 2, 1804
The frigid winter weather—falling snow, bitter wind that skittered off the Seine—did nothing to discourage the Parisians. They gathered by the hundreds of thousands, perhaps as many as a million, outside the magnificent cathedral, newly restored after the ravages of the Revolution, its Gothic spires rendered all the more glorious by the snowfall. Notre Dame stood proud once more, triumphant, signifying to all who looked on that God himself blessed France and the emperor she had chosen for herself.
Jean-Luc glanced around, holding more tightly to his son’s hand as his daughter bounced on his hip. He marveled at the spectacle of it all—the sheer size of the crowd, the volume of their cries, the fact that they’d come out in the cold and dark, assembling before the first light of dawn. He blinked, forcing out the memories of so many crowds before this one; today, their faces were not fiendish and vindictive, calling for blood. Today, they were hopeful and euphoric as they lined the entire parade route from the Tuileries across the river and along the island to the great Gothic entrance of the cathedral, waving the tricolor, shouting “Vive Napoleon!” as others sang the anthem. Today, the people were bestowing a crown rather than seizing one; making an emperor rather than destroying a king. As ever, they were ravenous, shouting, demanding a show.
Napoleon himself had seen to every detail of his own coronation. The people wanted a pageant, a majestic spectacle, and there was no one more fit and willing to give them one than the man who believed himself to be destined by God to carry forward the virtues of the Republic, now an Empire, in the style of Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar. Great men who, like Napoleon, had fashioned themselves into living gods. Every detail—from the decorative eagles lining the parade route to the hot-air balloon that would take flight from the square at the conclusion of the coronation Mass—reinforced his claim to the imperial throne.
Jean-Luc had read in Le Moniteur newspaper how Napoleon had ordered a crown made especially for th
e occasion, one to replace the medieval diadem destroyed in one of the Revolution’s many orgies of devastation. In wearing a crown modeled after Charlemagne’s own from centuries ago, Napoleon would silence those bold critics who dared to point out that the general, a Corsican, was not in fact of French noble blood—or French blood at all, for that matter.
All morning long, the gilded carriages rolled past—mayors of far-reaching French cities, army officers, naval admirals, members of the Assembly, distinguished judges, men of the Legion of Honor, ministers of the government. The people of France, having shivered along the parade route for hours, met each passing dignitary with an ever more fervent cry.
Jean-Luc noticed a mule approach, its rider bearing a magnificently bejeweled crucifix, and he supposed that this must be the papal procession approaching. Indeed, Napoleon had summoned Pope Pius, and Pius had come, bringing his most powerful cardinals and bishops from Rome to Paris. Everyone, even God himself, it appeared, now obeyed Napoleon. After years of sacking ancient churches, seizing holy relics, and defiling the very image of Jesus, the French people were willing to return to God, return to the church, and that was because Napoleon said they would.
Of course the pope would not be crowning Napoleon; Napoleon would not answer to Rome, nor anyone. He would crown himself, and Josephine, too. The papers had been abuzz with the scandal of it all—how Napoleon’s mother had refused to attend because of her dislike of her daughter-in-law, and how Napoleon had sat his siblings down, threatening his three sisters with exile until they finally agreed to attend the ceremony and walk behind Josephine as her humbled trainbearers.
As the carriages flooded the square now, the government ministers and royal dignitaries were ushered into the grand cathedral, where golden tapestries decked the walls, glittering against the backdrop of thousands of candles. Not one but two full choirs, accompanied by two full orchestras, sang the holy words of the music composed especially for this day, and the blasts of the trumpets, the clamor of the cymbal and the timpani, now spilled out to where Jean-Luc stood in the packed square.
But the glorious music from inside the cathedral was drowned out when Napoleon’s imperial cavalcade finally appeared. Preceded by his brothers, his sisters, and his closest generals and advisers, the emperor’s coach stood apart, pulled by eight white horses and emblazoned with a large “N” across its gilded exterior. Napoleon stepped out with Josephine, each of them in white silk trimmed in gold, impossibly long capes of ermine and plush red velvet. The large “N” of his imperial cape was visible from within a web of elaborate golden stitching. The gold and velvet and ermine had cost at least 50,000 francs, the papers reported, and that was not saying anything of Josephine’s jewels, but the starving people of France didn’t seem to mind what this celebration cost them, because Napoleon would improve the lives of all France’s citizens. No one dwelled on the fact that more than 300,000 of their fellow countrymen had died to establish the Republic—a Republic that, today, became an empire once more.
Standing beside Jean-Luc St. Clair, silently observing it all, was his old friend, André Valière. The former soldier was accompanied by his wife, Sophie, and their two young sons, Remy and Christophe.
“Are you glad you traveled back for this?” Jean-Luc turned to André, shouting over the chaos of the crowd. Though André had retired from the army and moved north, making a new life for his family on the lands that had once belonged to his ancestors, he, like so many other Frenchmen, had traveled with his family to the capital for this historic moment.
André considered the question, his mind wandering back to a dusty tent in the desert. Pain in his side, a hard cot under him, a saber placed at his feet. “He’s wearing a few more jewels today than the last time I saw him, but I am not surprised it has come to this,” André answered. After a moment, he added: “It was in his eyes; it always showed in his eyes. He appeared as one who could look past you and the present moment. As if he could not only see the future, he could shape it.”
“And in that future, no doubt, images of his own glory stretch out before him,” Jean-Luc said, and he exchanged a wry smile with his friend. They’d both heard the rumors—Napoleon’s desire to take his glory beyond France. Plans to conquer England, Austria, and even the vast lands beyond. So it would mean more war for the French people.
Jean-Luc had had enough of all that. He, too, had returned to Paris from the south only in order to see this historic event and briefly reunite with his old friends. In Marseille, he dealt with the civil disputes of private citizens. It was small, uncomplicated, humble work. Just as he liked it.
A tap on his shoulder pulled him from the sights of Napoleon’s procession. He turned to see a man dressed in a black coat, stern faced, looking at him expectantly. After a brief look at the man, Jean-Luc guessed him to be a government official, based on the formal lace of his cravat and a small but distinct Napoleonic Bee insignia on the left breast of his coat. “Jean-Luc St. Clair, is it?”
“Yes,” he replied, surprised to be identified by this stranger in a crowd of thousands.
“For you. From His Imperial Majesty.”
The man pressed a sealed parchment into Jean-Luc’s gloved hand, the symbol of the eagle emblazoned on it. Napoleon’s imperial crest. Jean-Luc blinked, deaf to the roars of the crowds now as, on the far side of the square, Napoleon saluted the cheering thousands. All Jean-Luc saw was the paper, the simple words that appeared large in his trembling hands:
By formal request of His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Napoleon I of the French:
Your talents are requested in the service of France.
Jean-Luc lowered the paper, stunned. The service of France. Wasn’t that how it had begun?
Would he really answer this call a second time, allowing himself to be pulled back into the maelstrom of Revolution?
“What is it, Papa?” Mariette asked, studying him with her large eyes—dark, knowing, so much like her mother’s that it caused his heart to lurch in his breast.
“A letter, dearest one.”
She cocked her head to the side. “From a friend?”
“I don’t know yet. We shall see.”
Where the Light Falls: Authors’ Note
The process of writing this novel and bringing this story to life has been a long and winding journey, both an incredible challenge and a great joy. In many ways, it has been the realization of a dream to see this story brought from the realm of ideas and fantasy into a tangible, real book. As co-authors, we both ventured into uncharted territory in writing this together. It was something neither of us had ever attempted, but we both agree that this has been a genuine and rewarding partnership. We believe that this story is better because of it.
The tale, as the reader by now is surely aware, unfolds in the midst of the French Revolution. Even beginning to examine the conditions and events that led to the French Revolution, the Terror, and the period of its aftermath is a monumental task to which many have devoted entire careers. Delivering a definitive and exhaustive historical account of one of the formative events in modern Western history was not our intention in writing this book; what we did want to do was tell a compelling story that managed to capture some of the feelings and spirit of this momentous and tumultuous period.
Our quartet of protagonists—André Valière, Jean-Luc St. Clair, Sophie de Vincennes, and Marie St. Clair—are all fictional characters, though their stories and struggles are certainly inspired by real events. One will find no shortage of disenfranchised young noblemen fighting in the ranks of the Revolutionary army, idealistic young lawyers serving in the new government, aristocratic widows struggling to evade the guillotine, or politically minded female writers within the cast of flesh-and-blood individuals whose lives fill the pages of history. But the exact likenesses of these four characters never walked the streets of Paris.
Our story’s primary antagonists, Nicolai Murat and Guillaume Lazare, are also fictional. However, like our protagonists, the villains of
this story are inspired by the true-to-life people who brought their particular brand of Revolutionary vengeance to the citizens of eighteenth-century France. In fact, Nicolai Murat is directly inspired by a real man, General Adam Philippe, Comte de Custine. The real-life Comte de Custine was a noble-born officer in the French army who had previously served in the American Revolution; his soldiers affectionately called him General Mustache. He was present at the Battle of Valmy and later in the Revolution did in fact accuse his former comrade, General François Christophe de Kellermann, of “neglecting to support his operations,” after which Kellermann was called to Paris to defend himself before the National Convention.
Guillaume Lazare is also a fictional character very much based on real historical figures. His fervent advocacy for “the people” and his endorsement of state-sponsored terror in pursuit of their interests are based on the figure of Maximilien Robespierre. His willingness to call for mass bloodshed of the noble and clergy classes is based upon the speeches and pamphlets of Jean-Paul Marat. Lastly, the deep-rooted feelings of anger and injustice, even rage, are based on Jacques Hébert and his “enraged” wing of the Revolutionary government. There are other notorious figures of the Revolution who would actively carry out mass executions across France on behalf of the government, but we cannot list them all here. The Committee that we meet in our story, over which Lazare presides, is based on Robespierre’s Committee of Public Safety.
Christophe Kellermann, one of the early heroes of this story, was a real figure. François Christophe de Kellermann was an Alsatian general from Strasbourg, widely celebrated throughout France (for a time) as the primary hero of the Battle of Valmy. As stated above, he was in fact denounced by his former partner, Custine, and imprisoned for thirteen months in Paris during the Revolution, due in part to his reluctance to commit mass executions in the rebellious city of Lyon. However, with significant but we believe necessary dramatic license, we see our fictional Kellermann executed at one of our story’s turning points. Although the real Kellermann was never executed, many French generals were recalled to Paris and condemned to death under dubious, if not controversial, circumstances. Many political and civilian leaders would find themselves on the wrong side of the Revolution’s justice.
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