“Yes?” Merignac was listening intently now, his dark eyes shimmering with the excitement of discussion.
Jean-Luc continued: “I’ve sometimes wondered about the expedience with which our tribunals send men and women—even children—to this device of death.”
Merignac considered this, his chin resting on his narrow index finger. “So you would hope for a more bloodless form of revolution?”
Jean-Luc opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. All he could think of was the countless hours he’d spent documenting the seized goods of the Revolution’s enemies—priests, nuns, nobles, accused spies. Families pulled from their homes in the dark of night. Furniture, china emblazoned with the crests of the former owners, empty beds, some of them no larger than the size of a toddler’s little frame.
Finally, his voice faint, Jean-Luc continued: “I suppose I do wish that less blood might be shed. Or, at least, that it would be proven entirely necessary before shedding so much blood; I believe our courts could demand more proof of treason before damning one to the guillotine.” Jean-Luc wondered if what he was saying was dangerous—he had never before uttered these nagging doubts. Not even to Marie.
Merignac looked at him intently as he answered: “In any revolution, there must be blood. How else can the sins of past evils be washed clean in expiation? Monsieur Jefferson himself said as much.”
Merignac seized on Jean-Luc’s pause to continue. “Citizen Lazare knew our former tyrant quite well, as I’m sure you have heard. He lived with him, and that queen of his, at court. Do you know what our blessed monarch wrote in his journal the day that the Bastille was stormed?”
Jean-Luc knew the answer to this question. Every news journal had been sure to print this fact, so that all Parisians knew the answer to this question. Quietly, he answered: “Rien.”
“Rien.” Merignac nodded. “Nothing.”
“Nothing!” Gavreau repeated, running a finger along the rim of his empty stew bowl.
Merignac, still ignoring Gavreau, continued. “He wrote rien, because he had caught rien while out hunting that day.” Merignac spoke with a cold, emotionless tone. “What do you think the men and women who stormed the Bastille would have written in their diaries, had they been able to afford ink and paper that day?” His thin black eyebrows arched, touching the border of his orange wig. “Perhaps they would have written a line about how starving they were. Or that another one of their children had died, due to the filth and hunger in the city.”
Jean-Luc’s heart beat faster now, as he sensed the zeal lurking behind the man’s calm, measured voice. He sat there mute, unsure of how to answer, feeling panicked that he had been a fool to advocate for clemency when, clearly, this man loathed the nobility as much as any wronged citizen or citizeness in La Place de la Révolution. But then, to Jean-Luc’s utter relief, Merignac cracked a smile. And like a clap of thunder disperses the humidity of a heavy summer evening, the tension at the table was dispelled as Merignac, suddenly, began to laugh.
“Come now, Citizen St. Clair.” He reached his hand toward Jean-Luc. Beside them, Gavreau, too, was laughing, for a reason that Jean-Luc could not deduce. “You know, I believe that you love a spirited debate quite as much as my employer does,” Merignac said, taking Jean-Luc’s hand in his; his palm felt cold. Like a father might soothe a child, Merignac patted the top of Jean-Luc’s hand. “What a fascinating conversation. I believe my employer would have enjoyed it! But it’s getting late. What do you say, Jean-Luc, shall we retire?” Merignac was suddenly as informal and relaxed as an old friend. “It seems that this one needs his bed.” He cast a sideways glance toward Gavreau.
Merignac insisted on paying for the dinner, and the three of them rose from the table. “Where do you live, citizen?”
Jean-Luc felt a moment’s flash of embarrassment as he gave his Left Bank address.
“That’s too far to walk on a cold night such as this one. I’ll see you home in the carriage.”
“I thank you for the offer but that won’t be necessary, I assure you.”
“Come now, haven’t you quarreled with me enough for one night? I won’t hear your refusal. Besides, Citizen Lazare was gracious enough to lend the coach this evening.” And then, turning his eyes on Gavreau, Merignac said: “Gavreau, you’ll be fine on foot, no?”
“I’ll be more than fine! Might even stop at the tavern on the way for a nightcap, if you two gentlemen care to join me?”
The two of them politely declined.