February 1794
Remy lay on his back, sprawled across André’s bed in the boardinghouse in the Saint-Paul quarter. Together, the two brothers were crafting a letter for their mother, though they had little idea of whether it might actually reach her. They had not heard from her in well over a year, a fact that gave André grave concerns, though he did his best to conceal them from his younger brother.
“I’m not going to mention that we’re being sent back to the front,” André said, concluding his letter with the promise of their continued love and devotion.
“Probably for the best,” Remy agreed.
André blotted the ink and allowed the words to dry before folding the note and sealing it with wax. He would send it to London, to the one address from which he had received a letter, so many months prior.
“So, do you think we’ll get to see this boy general when we get down there?” Remy asked, propping himself on his elbows on the bed.
“Bonaparte?” The room around them darkened with the coming evening, and André lit a second candle as he considered his brother’s question.
“Yes. They say he’s unlike any of the other generals. He’s the only one who’s defeated the English, and on our own soil. They say he’s better than all the rest,” Remy said, a tinge of awe apparent in his voice. “It would be something to catch a glimpse of him.”
“I’m certain we will see him at some point, even if we are not encamped with him. You might be more likely to, since he comes from the artillery.”
“How far away is Saorgio from Nice?” Remy asked, referring to the two different camps to which the brothers were to be assigned.
“I’m not sure,” André said. “Nice is near the Piedmont border, that much I know. So I shouldn’t be too far from you.”
“I wonder what Italian women are like.”
“You’ll know soon enough—of that I have no doubt.”
Just then, there was a hurried knock on the door. Remy sat up.
“Come in.” André rose from his chair in time to see a cloaked figure glide into the room. “Sophie?” He was surprised, even if delighted, to see her. And then he looked around, embarrassed; she had never been to his room before, and it was far from tidy.
But Sophie did not seem concerned with her surroundings. She stood for a moment and looked at him, a heavy cape of dark blue wool around her shoulders, a hood pulled close around her blond curls to ward off the winter chill. Her cheeks were flushed from the weather, and her face bore a troubled expression. “André.” Her voice was hoarse as she panted, striding to him and collapsing into his arms.
“What is the matter?” He brought his hand to her face, sliding the cape back so that he might see her more clearly. When she looked up at him, he noted that her eyes were dry of tears but full of fear. “My darling, what is it? We weren’t supposed to meet until later.”
“I had to tell you.” Her breath was ragged, and it was clear that she had run here. “News has not yet reached the streets.”
“What is it?” André asked, his own pulse quickening.
“It’s General Kellermann,” Sophie said. “My uncle has denounced him to the National Convention. He has been formally charged.”
André’s hands fell to his sides, and he faintly noticed Remy standing beside him now. “Kellermann denounced?” Remy repeated the statement, incredulous. “But that’s absurd. No one would ever dare question his loyalty to—”
“He’s been arrested, thrown in jail,” Sophie continued, shaking her head from side to side in small, tight gestures. “He’s being held at Le Temple prison. Robespierre himself signed the orders.”
“On what charges?” André asked.
Sophie bit her lower lip. “My uncle has reported the details of several conversations, going back as far as a year ago. Apparently Kellermann has, on occasion, referred to the deceased…er, monarch…by his former title rather than the correct one of ‘Citizen Capet.’ ”
“Please, Sophie, you know you can trust us. You don’t have to watch your words in here.” André put a hand on her arm.
“My uncle referred to Kellermann by his full title in the charges.”
“As a count,” Remy said. “Made guilty by his noble birth.”
“But your uncle is noble himself. What a hypocritical—” André choked off his insult to Sophie’s uncle, instead mumbling: “This is madness.”
Sophie nodded. “He’s drawn up a full list of charges. Apparently Kellermann was critical of some of the Committee members for their decisions on the battle plans in the Rhineland. He accused one member of interfering with the army and called him a foolish Jacobin schoolboy.”