“So, how is your esteemed boss?” Gavreau asked. “He’s the talk of the journals these days. Seems that he’s influencing everything from grain prices to the war effort, even to which noble neck should remain and which should be cut off?”
In response, Merignac simply nodded, one slow, reverential movement of the head. The flicker of the lone candle on the table glimmered on his face, illuminating what appeared to be drawn cheeks and tired, deep-set eyes.
“Merignac and I go back—what is it, twenty years?” Gavreau took the carafe of wine and poured them each a full cup. “Back to the days when all we thought about was chasing skirts. ’Course, that’s all I’m still thinking about, though Merignac has moved on to much loftier pursuits.” With that, Gavreau erupted into a loud, uninhibited chortle and began to gulp his wine.
Merignac offered a curt nod in response, and Jean-Luc thought to himself that he could not imagine such a man ever chasing women. Merignac edged his chair just an inch away from his old acquaintance, as one would slide away from a foul smell, and turned his gaze on St. Clair. “Tell me, Citizen St. Clair, how long have you worked for the new Republic?”
“We’ve been in the city for a year and a half.”
A lone dark eyebrow slid up Merignac’s pale, papery brow. “ ‘We’?”
“My wife,” Jean-Luc explained. “And little boy.”
Merignac nodded. “From where did you come?”
“The south, near Marseille.”
“I thought I detected the southern accent.” Merignac nodded. Jean-Luc, slightly embarrassed, reminded himself to curtail the lethargic southern drawl that he thought sounded dreadfully unsophisticated compared to the fast, clipped cadence of the Parisians.
“I, too, come from the south,” Merignac said, leaning forward and offering his first smile. “As does Citizen Lazare.” Instantly, Jean-Luc felt more at ease.
“And what a year this one has had since coming up from the south,” Gavreau interjected, putting a hand on Jean-Luc’s shoulder. “Busy from dawn ’til dusk. I can barely tear him away from his desk to dine with me.”
Merignac kept his gaze fixed on the younger lawyer. “Are you a member of the club?”
“The Jacobin Club? Yes, I am,” Jean-Luc replied. His membership was little more than nominal, a requirement he’d had to fulfill in order to acquire his position in the new government. But the membership fee of twenty-four livres had not been appreciated by Marie, to be sure.
“Good.” Merignac nodded, and silence spread once more over the table.
Given that it was late winter, and the days were still short, the room began to darken as the sky outside grew black. The server appeared, relighting the candle in the center of their table, which had been extinguished by a sharp draft.
“Let there be light, eh?” Merignac nodded toward the server before looking back at Jean-Luc, his eyes attentive. “Have you ever been over to the Rue Saint-Honoré?”
“To Jacobin headquarters?” Jean-Luc now lifted his wineglass, shaking his head. “No.”
“It is no great distance from here.” Merignac folded his thin hands on the table before him, not touching his wine. “I could show you in sometime, if you’d like. Citizen Lazare spends much of his time there these days. When he’s not sitting through speeches at the Convention or at trial.”
Jean-Luc glanced toward Gavreau, whose face betrayed the same surprise that Jean-Luc now felt. And then, turning back to Merignac, Jean-Luc nodded. “That would be an honor. Thank you.”
And then, as if seeing with stark clarity the question on Jean-Luc’s mind, Merignac added: “My esteemed superior is always willing to meet a bright young man employed in the service of the Republic. He is generous—very generous indeed—with young talent. He calls such men as you”—and now Merignac leaned forward—“ses petits projets.”
His little projects.
Jean-Luc nodded just as the server returned, refilling Gavreau’s wineglass and depositing their bowls of fish stew. Merignac took his linen napkin in his spindly fingers and tucked it fastidiously into the collar of his suit before he reached for his spoon.
Taking just the smallest, slowest bite of his dinner, Merignac looked up at Jean-Luc. “Robespierre is someone you’ll want to meet, as well. But you already know that.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if meeting two of the most powerful men in Paris was as easily done as introducing oneself to a neighbor or passerby on the street.
Jean-Luc followed the elder man’s lead, hungrily spooning himself a bite of the thin, watery stew. It needed salt and butter, and he tasted very little fish; Marie was correct to complain about Parisian seafood. Turning his focus back to his companions, he said: “I think that a great number of people would like an audience with Citizen Robespierre, as well as Citizen Lazare.”