March 1793
Yet again, Jean-Luc St. Clair’s colleagues were watching the young lawyer with droll expressions, entertained by the tearful woman sitting at his desk.
“Citizeness Poitier”—Jean-Luc spoke in a hushed tone, hoping to have a calming influence as he did so—“it was my pleasure to represent you. I am just happy that you and your children may, at last, return to your home.”
“You don’t understand, Citizen St. Clair. If my Jacques was here today, he’d embrace you until he’d half-crushed the life out of you!” She reached across the desk, taking her lawyer’s hands in her rough palms. “How can we ever repay you?”
He smiled at her tear-streaked face, his shoulders slackening. “Seeing justice done for our citizens, at last, is reward enough.” Though, truth be told, a small financial reward would not have gone unappreciated; Marie had told him just yesterday that they were behind on what they owed both the landlord and the baker.
After several more entreaties, and a few more sobs, Jean-Luc was finally successful in seeing Madame Poitier down to the square, where she bid him farewell with a hearty hug and a promise that, should he ever need accommodations near Massy, he was always welcome in her family’s cottage.
“Bet you’re glad to be done with that one.” Gavreau was leaning on Jean-Luc’s oak desk, waiting for him when he reentered the crowded office.
Jean-Luc sighed, taking his seat and sweeping up the scattered documents of Madame Poitier’s case. “I’m glad that she can return home. I just hope the government official who has moved into the Montnoir estate will be a better landlord.”
“If not, she can always come back here for another round of charity. You can’t seem to turn ’em away.”
Jean-Luc shrugged off the comment, still sorting the case files for storage.
“Nearly done?” Gavreau had his coat on and buttoned, an eager look on his face.
“Give me twenty minutes.” Jean-Luc looked at his manager, who scowled and walked away.
Jean-Luc never organized his papers until he was done with them. Now that they no longer served a purpose, they would be preserved and filed in a precise and logical manner; it was while he worked that he appreciated chaos. Scrawling a quick note to Marie, Jean-Luc called over one of the office errand boys. “Will you deliver this to my wife?” He handed over a sou and the note outlining his victory for the Widow Poitier, reminding Marie that he would not be home for supper. Grabbing his coat, he rose from his chair and walked to meet Gavreau.
“So, where are we going?” Outside, in the last moments of sunlight before dusk, the square was packed with men and women of all ages—wine-sipping sans-culottes, vendors selling underripe fruit, various laborers taking advantage of one of the first days in which the coming spring seemed not so far off. The lights in the nearby windows and guesthouses were beginning to flicker over a sea of brown coats and red caps.
“It’s a small place on Rue des Halles. Maurice picked it,” Gavreau replied as they pressed forward into the throng.
Jean-Luc nodded, adjusting his coat and wishing he’d had Marie press his suit before this meeting.
Gavreau turned to his colleague, a teasing grin on his face. “Your first meeting with a big shot of the new government, eh? Don’t be nervous, St. Clair.”
“I’m not,” Jean-Luc lied.
The rendezvous was to take place across from the market square called Les Halles, at a spot aptly named the Café Marché. When they arrived, the hotelier informed Gavreau that the third gentleman already awaited them, and he guided them toward a table in the rear of the dim room, removed from the other diners.
Seated in the corner was a thin, elderly man in a plain black suit, fitted with a tricolor cockade on his left breast pocket. Maurice Merignac stood when he noticed the two men approaching. A ponytailed wig of orange curls framed a pale face—one that didn’t appear to often see sunlight. The head beneath the bright wig was, Jean-Luc guessed, bald.
“Citizen Merignac, it is good to see you,” Gavreau said, eagerly shaking the older man’s hand.
“And you, citizen.”
“Allow me to introduce one of my brightest and most promising young associates, Jean-Luc St. Clair.”
Merignac turned his small, dark eyes on Jean-Luc as he extended a hand. “Citizen St. Clair.”
“Citizen Merignac.” Jean-Luc took the man’s outstretched hand, which felt cold. “It is an honor to meet you.”
The three men took their seats around the small table, and a carafe of red wine was promptly set before them. The attendant informed them that the chef had prepared a fish stew that evening, and they might select either turnips or potatoes to accompany it. All three asked for the stew with potatoes, and then they were left alone in the privacy of their corner.