Where the Light Falls(45)
“Fine, then. But won’t let that stop me,” Gavreau answered, his words slurred. “G’night, gentlemen. A fine evening.”
Jean-Luc cast a glance in the direction of his friend’s retreating frame before turning back to Merignac. The two of them stood alone now, outside the café. “Here we are.” Merignac pointed toward a halted coach that waited at the end of the darkened street. A footman hopped down and opened the door for them, and they stepped inside. The night was indeed cold, and Jean-Luc was grateful for the covered ride as the carriage sped across the island and south over the Pont Neuf. They sat for several minutes without speaking. It was Merignac who broke the silence. “I enjoyed our little discussion at dinner—and I believe that Citizen Lazare would find you to be quite an interesting fellow.”
Jean-Luc looked at the orange-haired man across from him in the carriage. “You are too kind to say so, citizen.” Jean-Luc hoped that his reply came out sounding enthusiastic, even if he felt the tinge of irrefutable unease.
“Don’t you think you are destined for greater things than counting inventory for a fool like Gavreau?”
Jean-Luc was taken aback by the candor of the remark; by the fact that Merignac spoke that way about an old friend, and to someone whom he’d only just met. Perhaps a bit defensively, Jean-Luc answered: “I am doing the work that is necessary for the new Republic.”
The carriage had turned onto Jean-Luc’s street, and just then the horses halted. The footman hopped down and opened the door. In the sliver of light that spilled into the coach now, Jean-Luc noticed Merignac’s derisive smile. “That may be. But if you ever wish to make something of your talents, rather than defending poor widows and struggling to pay the rent on a Left Bank garret, you know where to find us. I would be more than pleased to introduce you to Guillaume Lazare.”
Marie had stayed awake and sat waiting for Jean-Luc. She jumped up from her chair and ran to greet him as he walked through the door. “I got your note about the Widow Poitier’s case. Out celebrating?” She planted a kiss on his cheek and took his satchel from his hands.
He shook his head.
“You look exhausted.” Her brown eyes now showed concern as she helped him out of his jacket.
In the corner where the roof slanted downward, wrapped in a blanket and tucked into his small cradle, Mathieu slept. Jean-Luc crossed the room and pressed his palm into the rosy, plump cheek of the snoring baby. He remained still for several minutes, staring down at his son, the rounded features soft with sleep.
“Where were you, then?” Marie was beside him now, whispering so as not to wake the baby.
Jean-Luc turned to face her. “At a dinner with Guillaume Lazare’s personal secretary,” he said, his voice relaying his own confusion at the entire evening. Her eyes widened in surprise.
“What a husband I have. Winning cases and dining with the likes of Guillaume Lazare’s secretary.” Jean-Luc was too lost in his own thoughts to notice her wide smile.
“I think it was some sort of test,” Jean-Luc said, scratching the top of his head as they moved away from Mathieu’s cradle.
“And? Did you pass?”
“As a matter of fact, I believe I did.”
Marie cocked her head to the side, smiling up at her husband. “Pretty soon you’re going to be too important for Mathieu and me and this tiny garret.”
“Never.”
“Well then, how was it?”
“My darling.” He paused, looking down at her as he wrapped his arms around her waist. “It was…unexpected. I think that everyone in this world has gone a little bit mad, except for you.”
She sighed, but her smile remained. “I went mad long ago. How else could I explain my decision to marry you and move to this dreadful neighborhood?”
He leaned his face toward her now, his lips inches from hers. “If it was madness that caused you to first love me, are you still ailing?”
“Very much.” She smiled, balancing on her toes to reach up and kiss him.
“Good,” he said, kissing her in reply, his whole body yearning for her. “I would hate for you to ever be cured.”
Summer 1793
Back in the French capital, having marched with his men as far as the city of Strasbourg, André took his residence once more in the Saint-Paul quarter, just a short walk from the former Bastille prison. The city smoldered in the summer heat, its narrow cobblestoned streets ripe with the stench of so many close-packed bodies. The fear of both foreign and domestic enemies hung heavy like the humid air, and the free French citizens seemed as determined as ever to witness the murderous apparatus mete out its particular manner of revolutionary justice.