Where the Light Falls(124)
Lazare, apparently satisfied that he had succeeded in baiting his prey, smiled. He leaned back against the coach as he considered the question. He took his time before answering. “A great many things, I suppose. But where should I begin?”
“Why don’t you begin by telling me why you’ve imprisoned that poor woman.”
“Citizeness de Vincennes? The count’s widow? I’d hardly call her poor.”
“Good lord, what has she done wrong?”
“You know what she has done. She consorted with a known enemy of the state, citizen.”
“What of it? Has that man not been tried, and permitted to leave this place and start a new life?”
Lazare sighed. Behind him, Jean-Luc heard the tavern door creak open. Madame Grocque, feigning disinterest, emerged on the street and began sweeping her stoop.
“I’ll go after her”—Lazare paused, smoothing a fold in his glove—“because that will draw him back.”
Jean-Luc could not conceal the concern on his features. “André? But he’s serving his sentence.”
“He has not paid,” Lazare hissed, his pale lips curling around each word. “He’s not dead, as I believe he should be. And it was you, Citizen St. Clair, who made it so.”
“He’s paying every single day; he’s served our Republic for years. Why must you persecute André further? What has he ever done to earn your hatred?”
Lazare laughed, slowing his pace, reining in his features, even as Jean-Luc saw the purple vein that pulsed behind the otherwise pale flesh of the old man’s neck. “Come now, I don’t hate him. I don’t even know the man. But he was the first one to—how shall I put this?—slip through my grasp. You managed to spare his life.”
Jean-Luc was no nearer to understanding. “That was just business. Your dislike of him can’t be personal.”
“My dear fellow, St. Clair, it’s all personal. Don’t you understand that? Why, you’ll never achieve the status you so greedily covet if you have not learned that by now.”
Jean-Luc stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Then your feud should be with me. I am the one who thwarted you in that case.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Lazare shrugged. There was a long pause before the old man, still examining his pristine gloves, looked up. “It started out that I planned to convict the man—Valière—as a favor to a powerful general. Nothing more. Oh, not because I have any special fondness for Nicolai Murat. Au contraire, the man is a brute who can’t help but act on his aversions and impulses, but I have indulged him because our interests have always been mutual. His hatred for the noble class impresses even me.” Lazare paused, his voice dropping in volume and pitch. “But now…now, I must finish the work that Nicolai Murat began.”
Jean-Luc rubbed his two clammy palms together, still unsure of the old man’s motivations but certain of his madness. “For God’s sake, Lazare, why must you do this? The poor man’s father was beheaded by you and your friends, his brother was chased, I believe murdered, by the man who wants to kill him, and his fiancée has been hunted for no reason other than returning his love. When will it all end? The Terror is over. Can we not attempt to rebuild our lives and our city?”
Lazare took out his snuffbox, sprinkled a pinch onto his gloved hand, and snorted the powder. He lowered his eyes and stamped the ground with his feet. After an uncomfortable pause he looked back up at Jean-Luc. “André de Valière has managed to elude the justice of our Republic. The justice that our fallen martyrs died to bring us. Their work will continue posthumously, through me, until all of our enemies are hunted down and destroyed. That is a vow I will keep.”
Now Jean-Luc couldn’t help but let out a short, bitter laugh, a gesture of disgust. Of contempt. He looked directly into the old man’s pale eyes as he answered, his tone biting: “You do not seek justice, citizen. You’re no better than any of those monsters—Robespierre, Saint-Just, Hébert. They were murderers who ultimately received the same justice that they so ruthlessly meted out. Perhaps you have been fated to join them.”
“You’ll make me irritated, saying things like that,” Lazare sneered, his voice as taut as a bowstring.
Now Jean-Luc broiled with a feeling of rising indignation. For his friend André. For Sophie, imprisoned. For the nation that had been gripped by the madness of this old man and his murderous friends. “I don’t give a damn about your anger, Lazare. But take it out on me—not Sophie. You can’t imprison a woman just because she loves a good man and looks at you like a plague-ridden corpse. And how can you blame her? You’re barely better.”