Where the Light Falls(150)

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.”