André noticed for the first time now, as he tried to swallow, just how dry his mouth was. He opened his lips and, in a loud voice, answered: “I understand that, and I willingly accept the consequences. General Kellermann would do the same for any other loyal Frenchman.”
Now members of the crowd were nodding. One man in the gallery whistled his support for the defense’s witness.
“Thank you, Captain Valière.” Jean-Luc offered his witness a barely perceptible wink. Turning to the judge, Jean-Luc said: “Your Honor, the defense has no further questions for the witness.”
Lazare raised a finger, and the judge, seeing it, nodded. “Citizen Lazare?”
“May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”
“You may,” the judge replied, and Lazare rose. André felt his entire body go rigid as the image of his father on trial burst across his mind. He blinked, forcing himself to maintain mastery of his surging emotions as Lazare walked slowly toward him.
“Captain Valière, is it?”
André nodded, using all his strength to keep his voice quiet as he answered. “Yes.”
Lazare flashed a quizzical expression, tapping his chin with his thumb. “What have you done with the antecedent of nobility—the ‘de’ that preceded your name at birth?”
The crowd began to whisper and André fidgeted in his chair, feeling it creak beneath his movements. “I denounced the noble title and lands years ago. I swore an oath to the Republic.”
Lazare nodded, pacing the floor before the witness but not looking directly at him. “And your father before you, did he, too, denounce the title?”
André felt the overpowering urge to rise and lunge at his father’s assailant, but he clutched the sides of his chair, holding himself in place. “My father…he…well…”
Lazare waited, his face now holding André’s with his eyes, his features placid.
“My father no longer lives,” André said eventually, his mouth dry as the words came out. His heart hammered his chest.
“Pity.” Lazare cocked his head. “How, if you don’t mind my asking, did your father perish?”
“He was killed.”
“The guillotine, I believe?”
André nodded.
“Guillotined? Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ Captain de Valière. We must record these facts for the court,” Lazare said, crossing his arms.
“That is correct,” André answered, resisting the urge to look toward Sophie.
“On what charge was the late Marquis de Valière convicted?”
“Royalist sympathies.”
Lazare touched a spindly finger to his ear. “I can’t hear you. Mind speaking up, Captain de Valière?”
“Royalist sympathies,” André repeated, louder this time. Even as the blood thrummed in his skull, André heard the buzzing once more from the gallery, and he knew that Lazare was succeeding in his aim, which was to discredit him as a witness.
Lazare nodded, recommencing his pacing. “Captain, you have served bravely. We all thank you for your service to this Republic.”
André swallowed but did not reply to the compliment, certain that there was a blow to follow.
“Captain de Valière, have you ever heard the Comte de Kellermann defend the deceased tyrant known as Citizen Capet?”
“Never.”
Lazare nodded. “You served at Valmy under the Comte de Kellermann. Have you seen him since the day of that battle?”
“Of course I have seen General Kellermann since then,” André answered.
“And was it ever in an informal setting? A time when you were not under direct orders of his command?”
André thought about this. “I do not believe I have ever associated with him as a private citizen, no.”
“Never?” Lazare asked. “Not even once, right here in Paris?”
André paused; it seemed as if Lazare had some hidden angle. And then he remembered one occasion. “I suppose there was one time.”
“Ah, yes, you suppose there was one time.” Lazare looked up at the gallery, ensuring that they’d recorded this witness’s changing testimony. “And what were the circumstances of this one time?”
André paused for a moment and took a deep breath, willing himself not to grow flustered, even if the interrogation seemed to be spiraling out of control. “It was here in Paris. There was a ball given by the Jacobins shortly after Valmy. It was wintertime, just after Christmas.”
“Christmas?” Lazare repeated, and André grimaced as he realized his error—surely the result of his nerves.