Where the Light Falls(133)

“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.