Where the Light Falls(72)
André nodded, pulling her toward him. “I wish for nothing more in this entire world than to marry you.”
She slid on top of him now, her body pressing onto his. The bed was warm and her cheeks were rosy. Surely she felt how much he desired her. She tilted her head down and kissed his neck. “Tell me yes,” he said, closing his eyes as her lips touched his skin.
“But do I wish to marry you, André Valière?”
“Yes, you do,” he said, pulling her face back toward his so that he could kiss her. “Regardless of what happens tomorrow, whatever the outcome may be, I am going to marry you before I leave the city.”
“I think I need a little more time to decide,” she teased.
“Nonsense. It’s decided. Now be quiet and let me make love to my fiancée.”
Summer 1794
André had hoped to arrive early, but the courtroom he walked into was filled beyond capacity. He gave his name to the nearest bailiff. The man, considering André’s military uniform and declaration that he was to serve as a witness, directed him to a bench one row behind where the defense would sit. One other person already sat there.
“Madame Kellermann.” André tucked his chin and nodded toward the elegant woman he had met at the Christmas ball. He was about to reintroduce himself when she spoke.
“Captain Valière, how good to see you.” Christianne Kellermann, to André’s surprise, recognized him. She extended a gloved hand. “Thank goodness you’ve come.” Her hair was laced with quite a few more strands of gray than the last time they’d met, and her features bore the drawn, pinched quality of sleepless nights and perpetual anxiety, but she offered him an attempt at a smile. “Please, won’t you sit beside me?”
“It would be my honor, madame.” André took the seat and surveyed the room, every inch of it buzzing with bodies, whispers, and roving eyes. The crowds were especially thick in the gallery above, where row after row spilled with curious spectators who vied and jockeyed for seats. It was a swarm of dirty faces, red caps, and tricolor cockades. Many of the women sat knitting while the men exchanged the latest news, and the children pulled one another’s hair, avoiding their mothers’ slaps and giggling as they leaned over the balcony. Also mixed in with this lot were soldiers. André recognized some of the enlisted men, their bodies packed tight in the rafters. He saw the round face of Leroux and several of his companions. It filled André with a small measure of pride: these men were here, like he was, to support the general who had led them to victory at Valmy.
Also in the crowded gallery appeared several chalky white faces: a cluster of men from the various legislative committees, André guessed. These men, like Lazare, had skillfully ridden the wave of growing dissatisfaction from ruling party to ruling party, surviving while so many of their colleagues had been condemned to the guillotine. Now they sat in silence in the gallery of this crowded courtroom, their postures tilting away from the hordes, though there was not sufficient room on the benches for them to distance themselves much. In contrast to those surrounding them, these stern men did not exchange gossip or even speak to one another.
On the lower level, several soldiers and uniformed officers sat on Kellermann’s side. A few rows back André spotted LaSalle, and beside him Remy. André nodded at them. Another group of National Guard soldiers stood toward the front, holding muskets with their backs to the wall, casting unpleasant glares at the men on Kellermann’s side of the aisle. Though they had fought under the same flag, one could not help but feel the mutual hatred that cast a chill over the chamber. One of the soldiers standing toward the front lowered his musket, leered in Remy’s direction, and cast a wad of brown spit onto the wooden floor. LaSalle threw an arm across Remy’s chest and shook his head as Remy muttered a stifled curse.
At the back of the court hung a massive flag, the new republic’s tricolor. Along the wall a large white banner brandished the words “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” scrawled in blood-red paint. The main aisle cut through the middle of the courtroom, not unlike a church or cathedral. Indeed, for many, these courts had taken on a solemn, even religious function in the new Republic.
Sophie sat across the aisle on the prosecution’s side; André had made her promise that she would do so, when she had insisted on attending the morning’s proceedings. Seeing André enter, her eyes rested on him for just a moment, a flicker of acknowledgment and support, before she returned her gaze to the front of the room. All around her sat the supporters of Lazare and Murat: surviving Jacobin lawyers, a half dozen members of the Committee, ambitious advocates hoping to make a name for themselves in the new government. A man in an unnaturally orange wig sat right behind the table where the barristers would take their seats.