Paris was burning, the city turned into a war front. With Robespierre dead and the Convention now unleashing a fresh Terror on a ravaged populace, thousands of irate, hungry Parisians ran amok over the city, with no one at the helm to harness the sails of discontent, to steer the ship of vengeance into a sound harbor. Winter was coming with its promise of further starvation and fuel shortages. Their hero, Kellermann, had died to expiate their misery and fear. And yet, still they suffered. Who, then, was left to pay for the mass suffering?
Sensing the void of leadership, and the pliable anger of the mob, thousands of Old Guard royalists had now risen up in open rebellion against the Republican government. The royalists declared themselves at war with the National Convention and planned to take back the Tuileries Palace.
Rumors flew throughout the city now with an effect more powerful than the sporadic volleys of musket fire. And so the Convention decided to throttle the opposition before they could gain more power. They’d called in the army to thwart the insurrection; now the city of Paris waited, wondering if the army would answer the summons.
Jean-Luc sighed, pushing aside the papers and turning to the lone political pamphlet on his desk. “Let there be no more death meted out or received between Frenchmen,” the writer urged, his voice a rare and welcome dose of rationality and clemency. This theorist, this Citizen Persephone, urged members of the government to meet in a peaceful manner with the leaders of the royalist faction, reasoning that any government composed of free Frenchmen would be preferable to foreign invaders.
Finally, a philosopher with whom he could agree, Jean-Luc mused, wishing he knew the identity of this mysterious and reasonable man, Citizen Persephone.
But his thoughts were disrupted by the sudden barking of gunfire on the streets below, followed by cries of anger and rapid footfalls outside. Nightly battles like this had become common, and yet Jean-Luc considered spending the night in his office rather than risk traveling on foot to the bridge and the comparatively peaceful Left Bank.
The trial date of André Valière had already been moved once, on account of the internecine conflicts raging in the government. Jean-Luc did not know when the new trial date would come, but the longer he sat at his desk that evening, allowing himself to be distracted by the noises below, the more certain he became that his arguments would fall short, whenever the day might be.
He had visited the prisoner several times in his shadowy, dank cell at Le Temple. Those interviews had left Jean-Luc carrying a gloom and melancholy so heavy that he had felt the blackness of despair seeping into the very marrow of his bones. Jean-Luc consoled himself with one fact: that they were holding André at Le Temple, and not at the Conciergerie, meant that he might, in fact, be granted the tribunal hearing he had been promised. The Conciergerie, everyone knew, usually held men for only one night—always their last.
And yet everything about the prison, it seemed, had been engineered to sap the hope from a man’s spirits. The block of black, rock-hard bread that was slipped through a creaky slit in the door. The sunless, tunnel-like passage that echoed with the cries of the other prisoners, their beards ragged and their minds in varying states of decay. The solitude of the place, where nothing but the shadows and the rats kept a man company. Jean-Luc dreaded his trips to Le Temple but reminded himself that his duties kept him there for a mere hour or two, while his client had to remain there indefinitely.
Through his conversations with the prisoner, Jean-Luc had heard about André’s father’s execution as well as his mother’s exile abroad. He came to understand what the loss of General Kellermann meant to André. How did this man keep hope alive while all else crumbled around him? It perplexed Jean-Luc, while also filling him with profound admiration. If André still allowed himself to hope, it was Jean-Luc’s duty to demand the same of himself.
Just then, suddenly, Jean-Luc noticed a lone envelope tucked in with the pile of papers delivered by the errand boy. He lowered his eyes, reading the note:
Citizen St. Clair,
I write to you as the fiancée of André Valière. I beg you to tell him that I am safe, thanks to his brother. I will not tell you where, as that would be far too dangerous. I fear writing André directly, as I suspect that my uncle would prevent my letter being delivered to him. Yes, it is my uncle, Nicolai Murat, who first brought the charges.
And yet I must write and beg that you will tell André that I am well, and that I love him.
I hope that, someday, André and I might be able to repay you for your kindness and courage.
Your faithful admirer and servant,