Where the Light Falls(66)

“Guillaume Lazare respects men who challenge him. He told me so the first time we met.”

“Fine.” Marie shrugged. “But even if he respects you for taking the case, what about the hundreds of other rabid Jacobins who will now focus on you as the man defending an accused royalist?” Marie’s dark eyes smoldered. “You know better than anyone, Jean, how dangerous it is to draw attention to yourself, especially as a champion of a perceived traitor.”

Jean-Luc rested his head in his hands, his mind weary and his convictions being assailed like a ship’s mast facing a strong headwind.

“It’s not too late, Jean. The papers haven’t found you out yet. You could withdraw.”

Jean-Luc sighed, a forlorn, defeated sigh. Both of them looked to the dark-haired little boy playing in the corner, his rosy lips slurring out the marching orders to his tiny wooden soldier.

Jean-Luc turned back toward his wife. “Marie, someone has to defend him. Otherwise, what was all of this for? Our whole Revolution would be a sham.”

“Someone, all right, but why you?”

“No one else will do it. Can’t you see that?”

She glowered, her full lips pressed in a straight, unyielding line.

“Marie, I’ve waited days, weeks, hoping and praying that someone would come forward. Someone with more experience and influence than I have.” Jean-Luc shrugged. “But no one has come.”

“You must realize, Jean, there’s a reason for that. Are you to be the only one foolish enough to take this job?”

“I have to do it, Marie!” Jean-Luc landed a fist on the table, and he instantly regretted the force of the action. Mathieu looked up from the corner, scared. Marie’s eyes dropped, filling with tears.

“I’m sorry.” He reached across the table, taking her hand in his own and raising it to his lips. “What is all of this for?” He looked around—at the tiny apartment in this squalid neighborhood, their paltry dinner table that rarely had meat. “Why are we here? What are we fighting for, if not justice? I have to believe that our new nation is a place where an innocent man gets a fair trial. Where the rights of a man are upheld by the law. Where fear and hate are not yet more potent than justice and truth.”

He wanted to continue. To beg her forgiveness. To promise her that he would do whatever he could to keep them safe. But he was overcome, and the words caught in his throat before he could utter them. He lowered his face once more into his cupped hands.

She made a low, guttural noise, before reaching across the table and taking his hands in hers. “Jean-Luc St. Clair, why must you always be so damned decent?”

He met her eyes, pausing a moment before answering. “I have to be.”

She offered a sad, resigned smile. “But why?”

“To be worthy of you.”

She sighed, a joyless sound, as she looked down at their intertwined hands.

“But perhaps you’re right, Marie, perhaps it is foolish to put our entire family in danger. Perhaps you and Mathieu should visit your father. Spend some time back in Marseille. Only while the trial is ongoing, just until this chaos has passed. It might make sense for you to be far enough away in case—”

“Oh, you can stop right there.” She raised her hand.

“It would be prudent.”

“Don’t you say another word, Jean-Luc St. Clair.” Her tone was suddenly stern and authoritative. “If you think you will be shipping us out, if you think we’d leave you behind at a moment such as this, then you are not as intelligent as you think you are.”

“Papa?” Mathieu was by his side now at the table, tugging on the jacket of his father’s frayed suit. “Papa?”

Jean-Luc collected himself with a long inhale and looked down at his son. “Yes, my boy?” He put a palm on the top of his son’s soft brunette curls.

“Papa, don’t be sad.”

“I’m not sad, my dear boy,” Jean-Luc lied.

“Here, Papa, you may have my new toy.” Mathieu extended a chubby hand toward his father, offering the wooden figurine. Jean-Luc took the soldier in his hands.

“This is a very nice toy, Mathieu.” Then, looking up at his wife, he whispered: “How did we afford this?”

Marie rose, taking the two cold plates between them to clear the table. “I didn’t buy that,” she said. “I thought you did.”

Jean-Luc was confused now and looked back at the toy—its glossy paint, its fine features carved with expert artistry. “Not me. How did he get it?”

Marie was scrubbing the dishes, her back to them. Jean-Luc turned to his son. Had his little boy stolen the expensive figurine from somewhere? “Mathieu, where did you get this?”