“But this man harbors doubts about our Revolution. He has questioned the means we have used, measures taken out of necessity in order that our Revolution may progress. You heard his statements today. He doubts whether we should have killed Citizen Capet. He doubts whether the Austrian adulteress was what we knew her to be. He doubts whether the guillotine even need be in use!” Lazare paused at this before continuing on, his tone lilting toward quiet once more.
“Citizens and citizenesses, this is no time for doubt. This is no time for hesitant and halfhearted patriots. This is no time to put trust in those who question our efforts, our sacred work. There is too much at stake. Those who don’t support the Revolution are enemies of the people; it is plain as that. What is not plain is how we are to find and root out these enemies. That’s the difficult task that falls to each patriot. And harder still is to look them in the eyes and tell them they must die. But when have the French people ever been cowed by the hard work that must be done? You are not a people who shirk your duties. You never have been. Not when you have known repression for so long, and when you know how many still roam free who would return you to that darkness.
“No, my good, enlightened people of France, you know your duty, and you shall do it. On the order of this court, the blade must fall. For the Comte de Kellermann, and all who question our Revolution, we shall be swift and decisive. It is us or them. Mercy for them today means enslavement for us tomorrow. We know this. We must not, we will not, allow this fate to befall the French people. The entire nation looks to us. Today, we do our duty. Today, and all days, we choose freedom.”
When Lazare finished, no one cheered. No one clapped. No one even whispered. André looked aloft and saw how the women in the gallery had ceased their knitting and now sat clutching their children closer. The husbands had put protective arms over the shoulders of their wives.
It was not about Kellermann anymore. It was not about Valmy or Murat or any ball where an officer might have made vague political statements. It was about an unseen but ever-present feeling shared by all. The shadow felt deep in each man and woman’s breast. Lazare had reminded them all of what they had temporarily forgotten: that any one of them could die in this city on any day. Defending the wrong person would make that a certainty. Saying the wrong thing would lead to the guillotine. They did not hate Kellermann; they did not wish to kill him. They merely wished to save themselves. And that, André thought to himself, was the genius of Lazare.
When the justices took their recess, the people stayed, but the giddiness from the balcony, the circus-like mood from earlier, was no more, not even among the children. The cold breath of fear had entered the courtroom, casting a frost over hearts that, minutes earlier, had been inclined toward compassion and fraternity.
The justices were out of the room for only a matter of minutes. When they reentered, the crowd was on its feet, straining and leaning close.
The middle judge read from a scroll. He read as he had spoken all day: quickly and without emotion. André, feeling his knees giving out beneath him, listened as the words were pronounced.
“The tribunal of the people of France finds General Christophe Kellermann guilty of conspiracy against the state and people of France. He is hereby sentenced to death by guillotine within four and twenty hours.”
July 1794
Jean-Luc did not know where he walked; he simply knew that on that warm, black night, stillness was not an option. Marie would have heard the news by now. She would be awake, waiting, worried for him and eager to console him upon his return. But the hours had passed and, still, guilt unlike anything he had ever known hung over him, prompting him to wander aimlessly through the darkened streets of Paris. His thoughts, too, wandered, in and out of a dreamlike state. He didn’t deserve the comfort of a loving wife’s arms, the joy of seeing his child tucked in under a blanket, his reposing face free of worry. Jean-Luc knew that he could not go home, not when Kellermann, the man who had put his faith in him, passed his last night in a dank prison with nothing but the scaffold to greet him at dawn.
And so Jean-Luc walked deep into the night. Not another soul haunted the streets, his only companions the large linden trees that rustled in the wind. The Seine shimmered to his left, but for the occasional barge that lumbered past, bearing its cargo west on the black water, there was no noise in the Parisian night.
Suddenly, Jean-Luc heard voices. He came to, emerging from his tormented reverie, and realized that he was entirely unaware of his surroundings.
“Slide her in there, easy does it. Just like Sanson’ll do it later today.”