“I call the attorney for the defense, Jean-Luc St. Clair, to rise and answer these charges.”
Some in the gallery above hissed as Jean-Luc stood, straightening his vest to smooth it of wrinkles. The audience seemed to lean forward and crane their necks in one motion, the benches creaking under their combined weight. André took in a silent breath, as curious as every other soul in the room as to how the young lawyer would respond to the charges. The prolonged silence filled the already rapt room with a palpable tension.
When Jean-Luc spoke, it was with a clear, confident voice. “I thank you, Your Honors.” Jean-Luc nodded at the five robed men before him. “Citizens and citizenesses of Paris.” The lawyer turned, his gaze and his hands sweeping upward to the gallery. That was where the contest would be lost or won, André knew. That was the crowd that must be swayed, for their voices would ring loudest, telling the justices how to vote.
“My client, the hero of the Battle of Valmy, General Christophe Kellermann, has been accused of sympathizing with the deposed and decapitated tyrant, Citizen Capet. And of undermining the efforts of the French army in the campaigns on the Rhine. Charges that we, this very day, shall hold up before the infallible lights of evidence, reason, and justice. Charges that you, the good and honest people of the Republic of France, will examine and scrutinize yourselves. And charges that you, the good and honest people of the Republic of France, shall find as preposterous as they are untrue, before this court is adjourned.”
Listening to this calm, cogent opening argument, André felt his taut muscles soften slightly; the young attorney was perfectly confident, his words unequivocally competent. More than competent, even. Good. His mannerisms were sure and forceful without surrendering any graciousness. His language was clear and direct. He did not stumble over a single word as he rolled out his client’s case.
It was a story of a young man who, given everything by his noble birth, eschewed the privilege that those of his own social order told him was his right. A young man who, after disavowing the leisure and riches that might have been his birthright, instead sought a career in the army, rejecting a life of inactivity and profligacy. A young man who served with valor and duty and, as a result, climbed upward through the ranks, becoming a trusted officer and seasoned general. A leader of men who had aligned with and even aided the people when they had risen up against a system of tyranny and undue privilege. And a champion who had rushed to the defense of the nascent Republic when a foreign enemy crossed the borders of France, ready to invade and stamp out the new Revolution.
“These two men.” Jean-Luc was striding before the front of the courtroom, his two arms now spread between Murat and Kellermann. “Both heroes. Both generals. These two men who have been friends for longer than some of us in this room have been alive—these two men have fought alongside each other for France. You must ask yourself: would a man such as Nicolai Murat, who has put his very life in this man’s hands, and vice versa—would he have done so had he not trusted General Kellermann? Had he not thought him an honest, worthy, and patriotic citizen?” Jean-Luc paused, and André sensed it was more for effect than necessity. The young lawyer forced himself to break momentarily, André saw, even as he was ready to glide forward on the building swell of his argument. He took a sip of water and continued.
“Let’s think of this time not two years ago.” Jean-Luc’s tone was calm yet authoritative, the tone of a schoolmaster laying out a series of complicated facts for a room full of pupils. “This entire city, this entire nation, was hoisting this man, General Kellermann, the hero of Valmy, atop its shoulders. This man had risked his life in order to preserve the promise of our free nation. His words, his rallying cry of ‘Vive la nation,’ had driven our brave soldiers to repel the Prussian invasion at Valmy.
“Now the calls for General Kellermann’s head are just as loud and ubiquitous as were those earlier cries of praise. Why is that? What has changed?” Jean-Luc shrugged his shoulders as he allowed his eyes to move over the faces of the gallery.
“Is it perhaps”—he lifted a finger, cocking his head—“that we have changed? Have we become so inflamed by our good and righteous desire to steer this Revolution forward, so overburdened by the arduous task of rooting out our true and real enemies, that we have become temporarily overzealous to condemn?”
Jean-Luc did not look at Murat but kept his gaze on the people in the gallery.
“Paris, trust your better instincts, your true instincts. You know this man, General Christophe Kellermann. You know him as a defender of the people. He has not changed.” Now Jean-Luc’s voice rose gradually in volume as he lifted his arms, as if beckoning the people in the gallery forward to him. “Do not allow yourself to be moved by the barbs that come from a quarrel, personal in nature. Old friends who have reached such heights that, when they are at odds, one of them has the power to bring the entire government against the other.”