Where the Light Falls(65)
April 1794
The news pulsed through the city that day like the drumbeat of execution.
Haven’t you heard?
But can you believe it?
How can it be?
—
Christophe Kellermann had found himself a defense counsel.
The journals printed the story on the first page, devoting paragraphs to speculation as to who might have been the man foolish enough to go up against Guillaume Lazare. Whoever it was, he had accepted the job willingly, the papers knew, and so it was clear he was not a man of particularly good judgment; as such, the papers wrote, events were already progressing poorly for the general.
Though many of the papers seemed firmly behind Lazare and Murat, the city itself seemed more evenly divided. Half of Paris still recalled that Kellermann had saved the city and the very Revolution in its early days, when the Prussians had been encamped mere miles from the capital. Kellermann had been the man to fight for the values of liberty, equality, and fraternity when they were still only words, a nascent rallying cry of the Revolution.
And so, while public sentiment split on the question of Kellermann’s guilt, all of Paris united with the same confusion, fixating on a singular question: who was the man who had signed on to argue against Guillaume Lazare?
“Have you gone absolutely mad?” Gavreau stood over Jean-Luc’s desk, his face red and the veins of his neck swollen. He let out a loud grunt as he threw the front page of Le Vieux Cordelier, the popular paper penned by Camille Desmoulins, down on the desk. “Defending the man against Guillaume Lazare? Do you hope to make Marie a widow and Mathieu an orphan?”
Jean-Luc pushed himself from his desk, leaning back in his chair as he folded his hands together in his lap. A position of perfect ease. After a pause, he answered the question with a question of his own: “To what, citizen, do you refer?”
“Don’t feed me bullshit, St. Clair, I know it’s you. Who else would be mad enough to gamble his professional reputation—hell, his very life—against the likes of Lazare? I just wish to know if you’re trying to take our whole damned department down with you.”
Jean-Luc looked down at the news journal that his boss had hurled in front of him. On the front page, the latest report indicated that the lawyer who had taken up Kellermann’s case was a young man—a man who had never spoken before either the National Convention or the Revolutionary Tribunal. An unknown amateur, whose only experience thus far had been the work of a midlevel clerk buried in one of the many overcrowded administrative buildings on the Right Bank.
“I know it’s you,” Gavreau said, raising a finger to Jean-Luc’s face. “I could call in some favors. I could get you out of it. But we don’t have much time.”
Jean-Luc sighed, perusing the rest of the article. “I have no intention of taking you up on that offer, generous as it is.”
“So you admit it! It is you?”
Jean-Luc looked up at his boss, tilting his head to one side as if to admit his guilt.
“I always knew you were a damned fool.”
“Why is it so terrible that General Kellermann have someone to defend him?” Jean-Luc asked, his voice remaining calm.
“He’ll have someone to defend him. I just don’t want it to be you.”
“Why not? Have you so little faith in my abilities?”
“Faith? Ha! I could have all the faith of heaven and earth in your abilities, but faith doesn’t mean a damned thing. ’Specially not in times like these, or with people of this sort. What I know is that you’re about to make a very powerful enemy.”
“Of course I believe in the Revolution, and in justice. I just don’t see why you need to thrust yourself onto such a dangerous stage.” Marie was irate that night. She had given Jean-Luc her reluctant approval—if not her blessing—days earlier, when he had confessed to her his desire to represent Kellermann. However, having seen the explosion with which the news broke across the city, and having read the copious articles and pamphlets outlining the many reasons why this young lawyer stood no chance in court, her opinion had shifted dramatically.
“I’m terrified that they’re going to label you an enemy of the Revolution. You know how easy it is to denounce someone these days. And how quick the mob is to heed that denunciation. All it takes is one person to sniff you the wrong way and they can send you to the guillotine.”
Jean-Luc sat with her at the table. Their dinner had long grown cold, neither of them touching their food. Mathieu was, for once, allowing them the peace to discuss this in private, as he played in the corner, happily preoccupied with a new wooden figurine.