Where the Light Falls(67)

Mathieu took the figure back in his hand, hugging it close to his tiny body as if he feared he might have to surrender it. “The nice man gave it to me.”

The words, as vague and garbled as they were coming from his toddler’s mouth, sent a chill through Jean-Luc from the crown of his head down to the base of his gut. “The nice man?” he repeated the phrase. “Who is the nice man?”

Mathieu shrugged, bored of the questions. Marie turned around from the dishes, listening now with keen interest.

Jean-Luc put his hands on his son’s shoulders, looking from his wife’s worried expression back toward his child. “Mathieu, where did you see this nice man?”

“Downstairs.” Mathieu pointed in the direction of the street, of Madame Grocque’s tavern, of the wretched neighborhood.

“You mean Monsieur Grocque, the tavern keeper?”

“No, Papa.” Mathieu shook his head. “He comes in his carriage sometimes.”

“Do you know his name?”

Mathieu shook his head. “But he said he would come back. He promised me.”

Marie was by their sides now, leaning forward to speak to the little boy. “What did he look like, Mathieu?”

The boy considered the question, his little brow creasing in thought. “I don’t know, Papa. Old. A very white face.”

Jean-Luc exchanged a tortured look with his wife before pulling his son close to him, his heart tightening as if constricted by a noose. He clung to Mathieu, needing to enfold the child in a safe, protective embrace. As he did so, a feeling somewhere deep inside him told him that he was foolish to think that he could protect anyone, or anything. Not in this world.

Marie spoke again, clutching her husband and son. “Mathieu, you listen to your papa. This man in a carriage—you are never to speak to him again unless you are with your mama or papa, do you hear me?”

Mathieu nodded, his sweet, soft features impervious to the fear that unnerved his parents. “Don’t worry, Mama. If you don’t wish me to see him, I’ll ask him to disappear.”

“What do you mean, my darling?” Marie asked, looking at Jean-Luc.

“Because, Mama,” Mathieu explained, “he told me that he can make people disappear.”



Jean-Luc had taken to staying late at the office; there was always more work to be done than hours in which to do it, and it wasn’t until the rest of his colleagues had left for the evening that he found he could accomplish most of his tasks. That, and it was easier to get home after Marie had already gone to sleep. Living alongside her nervous presence, avoiding her short, detached comments, was growing more and more difficult. He hated being at odds with her, hated seeing her so unhappy. Especially when he knew his own actions had inspired her anxious looks and the evasive turning of her back when he tried to embrace her. It was better, he had decided, that they see as little of each other as possible until after the Kellermann case had been decided.

Outside, the ground had thawed and spring had bloomed across Paris. The trees lining the Seine hung heavy with chestnut blossoms, and the days stretched out so long that the sun did not set over the western barrier of the city until only a few hours before midnight. It was a cruel taunt on the part of Mother Nature, to see the city so ripe with beauty and promise, so full of new life, all the while knowing that these very streets were a cauldron of death and destruction.

On a night in early summer, Jean-Luc sat at his desk before a pile of papers and a nearly expired candle. Hours had passed since his last colleague had left. The days were approaching their longest of the year, and the time was now that delicate hour in Paris during which the sun and moon hung simultaneously, sending a faint, milky glow through his window that made his eyelids heavy. He sighed. He felt as if he was retreading the same barren ground, hour after hour, night after night, seeking desperately for some fertile plot from which to coax some seed of hope for his client, Kellermann.

The trial approached, and, still, he had found nothing. Not knowing what proof the accusing team might produce, Jean-Luc had yet to develop a plan to counter the charges. Since the Law of Suspects had been decreed the previous September, a mere rumor of a man’s royalist leanings or support for the antirepublican clergy was substantial enough to send him on a tumbril ride to the guillotine. And Jean-Luc’s interviews in the old general’s dank prison cell had only discouraged him further; Kellermann seemed undaunted, bent on telling the full truth as if the act of preserving his own life meant nothing to him.

“Yes, I questioned the necessity of beheading Louis and Antoinette. Since when has it become a crime to ask a question aloud?”