Where the Light Falls(33)

André studied the man, agreeing. Robespierre’s appearance was, in every way, less impressive than the journal illustrations would have had him believe. The young lawyer had a narrow face, with feline green eyes and a pale, prominent brow. His skin was wan, as if he were in less than perfect health, and as he spoke to the constellation of admirers surrounding him, he twitched his limbs in uneven, jerky movements, as if not quite comfortable with the machinations of his own frame.

Robespierre was known as a great orator, André knew, but not entirely from his skillful delivery. His talent, rather, lay in the complexity of his arguments, the length and weightiness of his addresses to the Convention. André had deduced as much while watching him during the king’s trial. When he spoke, Robespierre never resorted to bombast or high volume; his long and circuitous arguments aimed their arrows at a man’s brain rather than his heart or gut. And he spoke quietly. So quietly, in fact, that the entire audience was forced to hush and lean forward in order to hear his words. Robespierre’s sentences were so long and labyrinthine that one rarely remembered, by the end of a statement, what its initial point might have been. This had the effect, André had realized, of so baffling the crowd that they credited their incomprehension to Robespierre’s superior intellect rather than the speaker’s meandering message. And thus, he frequently carried the day.

“Robespierre has been pushing for the guillotine ever since the start of Louis’s trial,” André whispered to his brother, still studying the distant figure. “Said he’d be happy to throw in the first vote.”

“I still can’t believe you went and watched that circus,” Remy said, scanning the hall for a glass of champagne.

“I’m sorry I did,” André replied, clenching his jaw. He had suffered more than one nightmare about the trial since that day. Only, in his dreams, it was usually his father who sat on trial before the panel of Convention members. And in one recent nightmare it had been André himself.

“Who is that beside Robespierre?” Remy asked.

André turned back toward Robespierre and his attendants. “Georges Danton, from the looks of it.”

“Ah, Robespierre’s closest ally.” Remy nodded. “He looks like he might have more success with the ladies than his short little friend.”

Danton was Robespierre’s foil in appearance. Where Robespierre was short and narrow, Danton stood tall and broad, his frame like a massive wrestler’s. He had round eyes and fleshy jowls, and when he opened his mouth, the sound of his deep laughter reverberated throughout the hall.

“And there is our commander,” Remy said, spotting the uniformed figure of General Dumouriez. “I think I need a drink before I offer my greetings.” With that, Remy glided away from his older brother’s side.

André stood alone, wishing he had gone with Remy to seek out that drink. Staring around the room, he was startled when he heard his name called out.

“How’s that scar healing, Captain Valière?”

André turned and saw General Kellermann approaching, his arm linked to that of a pretty woman of middle age. He, like André, wore his military uniform and his graying hair pulled back tidily by a ribbon.

“You’re looking quite a bit more cleaned up than the last time I saw you. I believe some Prussian gentleman was standing over you, trying very hard to lodge his bayonet in your skull.” Kellermann paused before André, smiling.

“I had him right where I wanted him, sir,” André quipped, and Kellermann let out a cheerful laugh. “But I am much indebted, all the same, sir.”

“If that was where you wanted him, I don’t think you wished to stay long on this earth.”

André’s face reddened as he nodded wordlessly.

“Believe it or not,” Kellermann continued, his tone light as he glanced at the woman beside him, “I was a young soldier once, too. And foolish. I remember a certain student at the military academy at Brienne. He was years older than me, and so very distinguished. I hoped that someday I might carry myself as he did.”

André shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of his superior’s meaning.

Now Kellermann’s eyes had lost the glimmer of lighthearted laughter, but instead appeared full of earnest meaning. André’s own stare slid downward toward his polished boots.

“In fact…” Kellermann continued. André looked up, trying to swallow but finding his mouth dry. “The one who really knew your father well was”—Kellermann turned—“speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear.”