“I commend you for engaging with me. I hope that we can do it again. I relish a challenge.” The carriage slowed and rolled to a halt in front of Jean-Luc’s building. “I relish a challenge indeed,” Lazare repeated, turning toward the window again.
“This is my stop, citizen.” Jean-Luc leaned forward in the carriage, glancing up at the window of his garret. The light from inside spilled out onto the street, a gentle glow, and he could see a woman’s shadow moving within. Marie was probably chasing Mathieu around in an attempt to lure him to bed.
The footman opened the carriage door and, to Jean-Luc’s surprise, Lazare stepped out first. Jean-Luc followed him. Standing opposite each other on the cold, snow-lined street, the two men were silent for several moments.
Lazare, his face now illuminated by the nearby streetlamp, smiled. “I hope you’ve benefited from our company tonight, citizen.” His words came out with a visible mist of warm breath.
“Very much so, Citizen Lazare. It was an honor to meet you.”
“I hope that you will return, and soon. I should very much like to see your talents utilized to the fullest extent. For your sake, and for the sake of our nation. I could arrange to have you work a more prominent role.”
Jean-Luc’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and he suppressed the smile that such frank praise from a man like Guillaume Lazare elicited. “You’re too generous, citizen.”
“A man is unworthy of admiration until he earns it. One must embrace the chaos of this world and shape it according to his own will.” Lazare paused, oblivious of the snowflake that had landed on his nose, the stark white crystal disappearing against the pallor of his face. “I believe you desire to achieve more than you let on, St. Clair.”
“Oh, well,” Jean-Luc stammered, shuffling from one foot to the other. “I thank you for the interest you’ve shown in my future.” Of course he wished to move up and out of a department that had him cataloging furniture. He wished to move Marie out of this dingy neighborhood. And this man certainly seemed capable of helping him with all of that.
But Lazare’s mind seemed to have drifted toward other thoughts, and his eyes reflected that as he stared down the street. “As for me, I might have my greatest conquest yet.” At this cryptic statement, another one of his characteristic riddles, Lazare’s voice trailed off, his breath filing out of his nostrils in two thin clouds of vapor. “Yes, my greatest conquest yet. If I can take this one down, I will know I could have crucified Christ himself.”
Jean-Luc tensed involuntarily, his brow creasing at this odd declaration. This sudden change in topic. “But…Citizen Lazare…would you have wanted to take down the Christ?”
Lazare glanced up now, meeting Jean-Luc’s gaze with his eyes. They were expressionless when he next spoke: “I would tear down any man guilty of the people’s false worship. Our late king was but the first.” He leaned in closer to Jean-Luc and spoke in a hushed tone: “There will be more to come.” His eyes seemed to glow with a zeal that Jean-Luc had rarely seen in other men.
Just then, Mathieu leaned out the window, the light spilling into the street as his voice called out. “Papa!”
Both Jean-Luc and Lazare lifted their stares to the sound issuing from the window above. “Mathieu!” Jean-Luc frowned, seeing his tiny son’s face bathed in the warm glow of their rooms. “Step back away from that window! And do not lean out of it again.”
“Yes, Papa!” The little boy, despite his father’s stern voice, remained at the opened window.
“I will be right up,” Jean-Luc insisted, before hollering even louder: “Marie?”
From within, Marie’s calm voice was barely audible. “Come here, my darling. What have I told you about the window?” And the little boy’s face disappeared from sight, leaving Jean-Luc and Lazare standing in silence on the cobblestones below.
“A beautiful boy.” Lazare’s gaze still rested on the brightly lit window, now vacant of Mathieu’s frame. The sound of Marie’s playful tones, mixed with the little boy’s joyful laughter, just barely reached the street, and Jean-Luc longed to be upstairs, in that warm room with his family.
“Your son?”
Jean-Luc nodded. “He has his mother’s looks; for that I am grateful.”
“In that case, your wife must be quite a beauty,” Lazare said, turning his eyes back on Jean-Luc. There, in the cold night, Jean-Luc shivered, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat and wondering if his sudden chill was due entirely to the frigid December air.