“Remy is, I take it, the man who hoped to dance with me before?”
“I think every man inside that hall hoped to dance with you.”
She studied him now, and, as if reading his thoughts, she asked: “Are you worried about him?”
“Every day,” he answered. “But somehow, he always manages to sort things out.”
A sly grin pulled on her lips, and she asked: “Do you wish to dance with me, Officer Valière?”
He gazed at her, hoping that she didn’t hear the clamoring of his heart against his rib cage. “Yes, Countess,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet.
“I thought I asked you not to call me ‘Countess,’ ” she said, breaking his gaze.
“Oh, yes…sorry.” He had never been a natural charmer; no, that was Remy.
Perhaps sensing his bashfulness, Sophie turned to him and smiled. Feeling fortified by this encouraging glance, André was just about to take her hand and ask for that dance when he heard footsteps approaching. They were not alone.
“So this is where you’ve scurried off to.”
Though it was too dark for him to immediately recognize the figure approaching, André knew the voice.
“Uncle Nico,” Sophie said, just as General Murat’s shadowed face became visible in a pool of light cast by the nearest streetlamp. “How wonderful to see you.” She attempted, and failed, to bring a tone of cheer to her voice.
“Hello, So-So.” Murat leaned down and offered his pale cheek for a kiss. She obliged, appearing so small, suddenly, beside her uncle’s tall uniformed frame.
“I see you’ve met one of my men, André de Valière.” Murat turned his stare on André, his eyes two pools of gray ink.
Sophie turned to André, her face confused at the surname he had only partially disclosed. “I…yes, I have. He was kind enough to escort me outside for some fresh air. I was feeling a bit overheated in the hall, Uncle.”
“Yes, it looked as if you were quite warm as I was walking up.” Murat’s eyes rested on André’s jacket, draped over Sophie’s shoulders. “My niece is a widow, Captain de Valière,” Murat said. “I am her guardian.”
“I had just finished telling him about Jean-Baptiste, Uncle Nico,” Sophie interjected, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
Murat kept his cold gaze fixed squarely on André. “So, it looks like one brother tried and failed to gain your attention this evening. And now the other is hoping to…” Murat didn’t finish his thought. André balled his fists hard, his nails digging into the flesh of his palms.
Murat continued, turning to his niece. “So-So, you left the hall without hearing Citizen Robespierre’s address.”
“I needed some air,” she repeated, her voice quiet.
“Well, I suspect you’ve gotten quite enough. It’s getting late; I shall take you home.”
“Uncle, I’m fine, really. I’d like to stay a bit longer, if you don’t mind.”
Murat spread his thin lips to protest, but just then, a herd of bodies poured forth into the square from the front door of the Panthéon. André turned to look and saw the figure of Robespierre emerging first, with Danton just a step behind him. After them came a dozen other members of the National Convention. General Kellermann, too, was exiting and André saw him running toward a waiting fiacre.
“What’s this?” Sophie asked, turning to her uncle.
“Christophe?” Murat called toward Kellermann’s retreating frame. André seized this brief opening to lean close to Sophie and whisper, “Can I see you again?”
Sophie turned to answer, but before she could speak, her uncle had slid in between them. “Sophie, come.” His jaw clenched, Murat clamped his large hand on his niece’s elbow, a gesture that might have signified gallantry if not for his sharp stare and insistent tone. “Come, niece, the night could very well turn dangerous. I will get you safely home.”
Glancing once more at André, Sophie hesitated a moment and then accepted her uncle’s outstretched arm. With Sophie secure in his grip, Murat called once more toward his colleague. “Kellermann, what news?”
Kellermann turned as he strode quickly toward his coach. “The National Convention has convened an emergency midnight session.”
Even from that brief reply, André understood perfectly well his meaning; there was only one thing that would pull the men from their party to the halls of the assembly for a spontaneous meeting. That night, the National Convention of France would vote whether or not to behead their king.