Where the Light Falls(76)
The crowd hissed, agitated by this memory of their former king. The lawyer continued, his voice growing louder.
“That was the moment that united us as a people. That heroic stand of the French citizens against the tyranny of the monarchy and their aristocratic lapdogs. When we, the new Republic, put a tyrant on trial and demanded an end to the lies and abuse! It took extraordinary courage and bloody sacrifice on the part of this city to do that which had never before been done in history.” The lawyer seemed to be gaining confidence, and he slid the spectacles farther up his nose, nodding at Lazare before continuing.
“When we demanded justice, and we sent those two necks to the guillotine, it was the moment of glory for our Revolution!” Now the crowd was whipped up into a frenzy, reminded and proud once more of its regicide. André watched, alarmed, as he sensed the momentum shifting back to the opposing side.
“Today we are looking at a man who, no doubt, has served this country. No one would question the Comte de Kellermann’s skill as a warrior. Many even called him a savior.” Mouchetard did not glance at the man about whom he spoke, but instead kept his eyes fixed on the gallery as he crossed his arms.
“Most of us are but common people. We have little use for the lofty rhetoric and high-flung ideas so often summoned in the defense’s legal statements. We have even less use for those who preach to us as if we were attending a sermon.” An emphatic laugh came out from the balcony. “Like many of you, I’m a humble man; some years ago, I began as a pruner of fruit trees. And as such, if there is one thing I do know quite well, it is the proper tending of a garden. Might I share with you one of the basic principles of this occupation? It is this: when a weed grows too tall, at the expense of every other life around it, it must be thrashed and cut before it threatens the well-being of those that languish under its shadow.” He made a cutting gesture with his arm and, as he did so, the crowd erupted in roars and fist thumpings.
“Objection!” Jean-Luc rose up. “Why must we hear this lesson in horticulture? Of what relevance is this analogy?”
The judge interceded, ringing his bell irritably. “Out of order—await your turn, defense!”
“Your Honor, I’m not sure what the lesson in gardening has to do with the prosecution of General Kellermann,” Jean-Luc said, his jaw twitching as he kept his tone composed. “For my part, I’ve heard that most gardens grow fertile with water, rather than blood.”
“Order! Defense, you have had your say. The prosecution holds the floor.” The judge turned toward the prosecution’s table. Mouchetard stammered, momentarily thrown off his argument. The crowd, sensing the hesitation, began to buzz.
“Well?” The judge arched an eyebrow at the speaker.
“Well, I was making the point that…er—” he sputtered, fumbling for words but having lost his thread. Those in the balcony began to murmur, sensing the prosecutor’s weakness, losing interest in his aborted analogy. André felt the faint embers of hope stirring once more. If only Jean-Luc could recapture the energy of the crowd.
And then Guillaume Lazare stood up. Lifting a hand, he asked: “May I, Your Honor?”
The judge nodded, and the room went quiet. As the younger lawyer retreated to his seat, the older lawyer glided across the front of the courtroom. Tracing a hand around his mouth, he cast a look at the defense, the hint of a smile appearing on his face. Finally, after what felt like several minutes, he turned and faced the crowd. When he did at last begin, Lazare spoke very quietly, so that everyone in the gallery was obliged to lean forward to hear him.
“I ask Citizen St. Clair, and all the citizens present in this assembly one question: how were the ancient monarchs empowered to rule this land, if not through violence and force, even bloodshed?”
Thoughtful silence stretched across the hall until Lazare continued. “How did the princes and lords of past years come into their noble seats of power? Or better yet, how was King George III, England’s tyrant, expelled from the colonies in the New World? How do a people throw off the mantle of tyranny, if not through righteous force?” Lazare paused, knitting his thin fingers together in front of his narrow waist.
“Would you have had them wait patiently? Pray? Philosophize?” Lazare smirked. “Hope that the despot would one day wake up and decide to trade in his scepter for a constitution? Will patience mean anything against a tyrant’s henchmen and cold steel bayonets? When the king’s minister told our people to eat grass, should they have obliged his scornful remark?”