Where the Light Falls(111)
Jean-Luc propped his elbows on his table and lowered his head into his hands. Yet another church here in Paris, sacked and looted. More priceless relics defiled, more nuns and priests hauled off. He wondered, as he had every time before, what good would come of this?
“One might have hoped, with the number of rich nobles and clergymen whose estates have been plundered, that the poor folk of this city might at least have a bit of bread. A few spare coins to pay for simple medicines,” Jean-Luc said quietly, so that only his friend might hear. “And yet, I think the poor of this city are worse off than ever before.” His shoulders were cramped; his entire body felt heavy. “At this point,” Jean-Luc continued, rubbing the flesh between his two eyes in slow, circular motions, “I almost hope for one of those men in the Directory, or even one of those generals, to lay down his fist and get this place in order.”
“You?”
“Anything to halt this anarchy.” Jean-Luc sighed. “I don’t know how much more of this we can stand, beasts running amok.”
“They say that Bonaparte fellow is something of a genius—and ambitious, too. At least he’s whipped the army into shape.”
“Well, I don’t think he’ll be returning today, or anytime soon for that matter.” His thoughts briefly drifted to his friend André Valière, who was somewhere at sea, among Bonaparte’s massive flotilla that had left from the Mediterranean ports. “Or my good friend André. Godspeed, André.”
His boss heard this and cocked an eyebrow, as if Jean-Luc were losing his wits. Perhaps he was, Jean-Luc mused to himself. “Yes, well…Anyhow, do you have a minute for me to show you what I’m speaking of?”
“What is it, exactly?” Jean-Luc asked.
“Some of the spoils of Saint-Jacques; they’ve started carting over the goods. I’ve had them haul it into the basement with the rest of the loot.”
“Very well.” Jean-Luc pushed himself up from his desk, looking forlornly at the day’s unfinished documents. “Let’s get this over with.”
The basement was cool and dimly lit, with clerks and commissaries buzzing about to deposit marble statues, leather Psalters and hymnbooks, and altar vases of tarnished silver and gold.
Gavreau let out a prolonged whistle and shook his head. “These priests lived well. I’m surprised they held on to this treasure this long.” He weaved through a row of marble statues as Jean-Luc followed behind. The seized sculptures—carved figures of angels, saints, and wealthy church patrons—waited in various stages of ruination, each one’s condition depending on the attention it had received from the mob that had plucked it from the ancient church of Saint-Jacques.
Jean-Luc paused, looking at a marble rendition of what was surely the biblical scene of the sacrifice of Isaac. The figure of Abraham stood, his muscles carved like fine sinewy ropes, his face contorted in the agony and knowledge of his coming sacrifice. Abraham was almost entirely intact, while Isaac, the son whose blood was to be spilled by the father, had been completely battered and smashed. All that remained was the neck resting in his father’s strong grip. “Christ in heaven,” Jean-Luc said, stepping aside so that a worker could deposit the cracked figure of Mary Magdalene beside Abraham and Isaac.
“Allowed this to happen…I’d say,” Gavreau said, fingering a fragment of burgundy silk that appeared to have been a priest’s robe.
“God did a curious thing, granting free will to such wild creatures as we are.” Jean-Luc ran his hands through his disheveled hair, gazing around at the growing cache of holy goods.
In truth, even after years of work overseeing and cataloging confiscated belongings, Jean-Luc had never quite grown comfortable with being in this cellar. He had never been able to separate these ornate treasures from the individuals who had been similarly seized, their own fates forfeited to the new nation. His imagination drifted when he saw a simple maple table and empty chairs, never again to gather a family of parents and children for supper. Food had been scarce in the preceding years, to be sure, and though families of aristocratic stock had once dined like gluttons, it was clear enough to see in this room that not all of these belongings had come from noble houses. Held somewhere within each of these confiscated heirlooms was the story and mystery of a soul that had hoped, wished, feared, and loved; most of them were now departed from this world forever.
“All this,” Gavreau said, raising his hands to mark the delineation of the day’s haul. “The rest you’ve already seen, I reckon.”