André paced the room, running his hands through his hair. “I’m sure he said it in the heat of the battle, when his men’s lives were being sacrificed by incompetent, meddling fools. Any general ought to be able to assert his own military expertise when making battle plans, rather than taking the orders of a few self-righteous lawyers who sit safely in Paris, surrounded by books.”
“Lawyers are some of the worst scum I’ve ever met,” Remy mused. “And now they run this country.”
“It’s not just the Committee’s military mistakes,” Sophie replied. “Apparently, on a number of occasions, he has expressed disapproval of their other decisions.”
“Such as?” Remy asked.
Sophie paused, as if afraid to repeat the damning words. When she spoke, her voice was so quiet that André barely heard her. “He did not agree with the decision to behead the king and queen. He told my uncle as much.”
“A conversation spoken in confidence to a friend.”
“But now repeated to the Committee,” Sophie said, shaking her head.
André clenched his fists, feeling as though he would strangle Murat, if he could only find him. “But that’s absurd! Even if Kellermann did say that, Murat can’t prove it.”
Sophie sighed. “What proof is required these days? You’ve seen what the Law of Suspects has led to. Do you suppose that each man and woman paraded to the guillotine today was convicted on proof?”
“But this all seems completely fabricated. Kellermann will be able to clear his name.”
But Sophie did not seem to share André’s optimism, and she put a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry. I know how you admire him.”
“He’ll find a lawyer and will be back with his men before the spring campaign resumes,” André said, his tone carrying perhaps more conviction than he truly felt.
“That’s just it.” Sophie edged closer to André. “That’s what I’ve come running to tell you. I fear that Kellermann might not be able to find a defense counsel.”
“Why not?” André asked.
“Because my uncle has arranged for the best legal team in Paris to convict Kellermann.”
“Who? Who would possibly build a case against General Kellermann? He’s a hero, for God’s sake,” André said.
Sophie’s face dropped, her eyes growing hopeless, as she pronounced the name: “Guillaume Lazare.”
André absorbed the news, his shoulders growing heavier as understanding seeped in. Guillaume Lazare. The man who had tried and convicted his own father, the Marquis de Valière. And the king. Lazare was the most feared statesman in France. After his recent consolidation of the Committee, no one would go up against Guillaume Lazare; not even Danton or Robespierre himself could challenge him at this point.
André’s birthday dinner was meant to be a festive occasion, a final evening with Sophie before he, LaSalle, and Remy were sent to the Italian front. She had snuck out after Parsy retired to sleep for the night. LaSalle had invited Henriette, with whom he claimed to be enamored, and Remy had invited Celine, the ballerina who had seemed to hold his interest longer than any previous lover. The group had taken a table toward the front of Le Pont Blanc, the same café where André had first dined with Sophie. But news of the Kellermann imprisonment had darkened all of their spirits, and no one felt much like celebrating that evening.
Remy did his best to remain cheerful throughout dinner, ordering what the tavern keeper swore was champagne for his brother. “A toast to you, big brother. Cheer up; there is no way a tribunal would condemn General Kellermann, the hero of Valmy.”
André shrugged, gulping his drink. If indeed it was champagne, it had been so diluted that it tasted like a distant relative of the drink.
“The mob would storm the Bastille again, this time taking arms against the Convention itself, if the Committee convicted our man,” Remy predicted, his speech slowed after several bottles of wine.
But the journal reports and street gossip in recent days showed a clear and disarming bias toward the Murat and Lazare faction.
It was troublingly clear to André, as he read the countless articles pronouncing le Comte de Kellermann a “traitor to the Revolution,” that public sentiment had shifted. The old hero, the brave officer with gregarious manners and unimpeachable integrity, was no longer the darling of the people. Paris, these days, venerated a different sort of man. The angry mob looked for men who offered decisive judgment and quick punishment for the enemies of the people. Men who accused their fellow men of dark and treacherous motives, men who understood how hungry the people were—not just for bread but for blood as well.