Where the Light Falls(123)
“And?” Sophie’s eyes perked up ever so slightly. “What news of Madame Valière?”
Jean-Luc swallowed, clearing his throat. “I am sorry to say that…Madame Valière has…not survived to enjoy a reunion with her son.”
Sophie brought a hand to her pale cheek. “Dead?”
“Some sort of pox, perhaps smallpox.”
Sophie’s stare went blank as she picked at a piece of rust on the old bench beneath them. After a long pause, she sighed. “She escaped the Terror only to perish of smallpox. Will you tell André?”
“I will try. If I can figure out where he has been sent.”
Sophie nodded.
“All the more reason why you must take care of yourself. My dear girl, don’t you see? His father lost, his brother gone, most likely dead, and now his mother. You are all that André has left to return to.”
If, he thought, André ever returns at all.
Sophie nodded her distracted agreement. “I suppose you’re right.”
“And you will be free when he returns, Sophie.”
“Free. Yes.” But then a shadow passed over her face, bringing with it the indication of renewed agony.
“What is it?” Jean-Luc leaned toward her.
She trembled, as if unsure whether to speak. And then, her voice at barely a whisper, she looked into his eyes and said: “He came here again. To visit me.”
Jean-Luc looked away, suppressing the curse that rose to his lips like bile. “Bastard!” Turning back to Sophie, he tried to smooth over his features. “Did you speak with him?”
“I did what you told me: I received him. I was cordial. But I told him nothing. Nothing of our visits. I answered no questions.”
“Good,” Jean-Luc said, swallowing hard. “And did he offer a reason for his visit?”
“He always seems to be coming as a friend. At least, he tells me that he’s coming as a friend. That he hopes to help me.”
“And the devil comes dressed as an angel. But Guillaume Lazare is no friend, Sophie. Do not believe the words he speaks.”
“I know, I know,” Sophie said, her eyes shutting with fatigue. “Believe me, I know.”
“I’d rest easier if you were not forced to receive him when he visited, Sophie. But whatever his purpose is in detaining you like this…whether it’s your uncle behind it or not…we cannot risk agitating him further.”
Sophie nodded, understanding. And then she paused. “I don’t like…the way he looks at me.”
“How does he look at you?”
“I can’t explain it, really. He talks of his home in the south. Of his desire to go back there, and ‘return to a simple life apart from politics.’ ” Sophie sneered at those words. “He tells me that he never had a wife and children but that he hopes it’s not too late for that. It’s bizarre, really.”
Jean-Luc felt discomfort rising up from his belly like water bubbling to a boil. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen men look at me before with love in their eyes,” Sophie said, her voice faltering over the words, and Jean-Luc knew that she thought of André as she said it. Sophie inhaled, steeling herself to go on. “And I’ve seen men look at me before with hatred in their eyes. But never before—at least not until Guillaume Lazare—have I seen a man look at me with what appeared to be both love and hatred at the same time.”
That particular afternoon, having sensed Sophie’s worsening despondency at their morning visit, Jean-Luc was gripped with dread even more tightly than usual. Outside of Madame Grocque’s tavern he spotted the familiar covered coach waiting on the cobblestoned street below his window. He froze in his steps.
Perhaps he hadn’t been seen yet, Jean-Luc calculated; perhaps he could slip down the nearby alley. But the thought of leaving Mathieu and Marie alone within sight of that man was too much for him to allow. Jean-Luc turned to quietly dart inside when he heard the coach door open. He turned in time to see Guillaume Lazare hop down onto the street, his aged frame appearing uncharacteristically nimble, even peppy. “Greetings, Citizen St. Clair!”
Jean-Luc clenched his jaw and nodded. “Citizen Lazare.”
“Your wife is getting nice and round.”
Jean-Luc’s heart thumped in his chest as he stood, motionless, outside the tavern door. Sensing that he had the young lawyer’s attention, Lazare continued. “Tell me, do you hope for a daughter? Or would you like another son?”
Now Jean-Luc wheeled around, turning to face the man. “What is it that you want?”