Their torches appeared first, and Jean-Luc scampered back with the others to clear space as the horsemen became visible, approaching at a steady trot. At the front of the column rode a narrow figure, a nearby torch throwing enough light on his face to show dark hair and bright, delicate features, his black eyes fixed intently forward. He wore a jacket of a deep blue with golden epaulets on his shoulders, a bicorn hat on his head.
As his horse charged onto the bridge at the head of the column, Bonaparte raised his sword and cried out: “To the Tuileries! For France!”
In a blur, the horses approached and then passed, racing up toward the Right Bank and the siege. The group surrounding Jean-Luc roared back its response, chasing after General Bonaparte, the tricolor flag waving like a banner carrying them to battle.
Jean-Luc seized upon the momentary excitement of the crowd and slipped off, unnoticed, in the opposite direction. He had been struck by an idea, as sudden and abrupt as the frenzied dancing of the crowd. He ran toward home now, thinking that, perhaps, he’d finally landed upon the line of argument that might actually save André Valière. He could not wait to tell Marie.
At home, the garret apartment was dark and quiet. Marie would not have expected him home this late, not when he had taken to spending so many nights at the office. He found his wife and son curled up together in the corner of the room on Mathieu’s small sleeping pallet, their bodies intertwined in the blissful web of sleep. Jean-Luc slid out of his shoes and tiptoed toward them. He stared down at their serene faces for several minutes, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. Mathieu was snoring, his plump little body enfolded in his mother’s arms.
Jean-Luc lowered himself down beside them on the pallet. Marie shifted, sighing in her sleep, but settling back down into the arms that her husband now wrapped around her. “I love you, Marie,” Jean-Luc whispered into her ear. “I love you both.” Whether in her sleep or in waking, she smiled, and he kissed her soft cheek. The warmth of their bodies softened his entire frame, and fatigue pulled on him; he might actually sleep well tonight, for the first night since he could remember.
But just then, Jean-Luc’s eyes landed on a spot next to the sleeping pallet, just inches from his son’s head. There rested the shiny, elaborate figurine that Mathieu had been given by the mysterious, unseen “nice man.” The gift that had made both Marie and Jean-Luc so unsettled; it had been an unwelcome presence in their apartment since Mathieu had first displayed it.
But that miniature was not what made Jean-Luc’s heart lurch this evening. What made his heart lurch this evening was that right beside the figurine, its glossy paint catching the light of the moon, rested yet another new toy, and one that surely had not been given to the boy by his mother—a miniature guillotine.
Spring 1795
Jean-Luc had smuggled in two letters from Sophie in the past year, and that was the only word André had had from her. The first letter had been a quick note scrawled to tell André that she was hidden safely in the country; Remy had done his job getting her out of the city and beyond her uncle’s grasp. As long as he heard no other news, André had assured himself that she remained safe. Hidden. Her silence had afforded him a small measure of peace of mind, in recent months, to think about and prepare for his trial.
Until this morning. On the day of André’s long-awaited and -postponed trial, Jean-Luc had come to the prison bearing another letter. It had been early. André had been lying in the corner of the cell, his body curled up in the damp straw and his eyes shut as he tried not to consider the potential outcomes of the day ahead, when his counsel appeared, bearing the note from Sophie.
“I wasn’t sure whether to give it to you or to wait until after the trial,” Jean-Luc admitted, his brow bearing a new worry line between his eyes that André had never before noticed. “But I decided that I couldn’t, in good conscience, keep this from you. I hope that Sophie’s words will give you strength today.”
André took the note, the paper shaking in his dirty fingers, wondering whether perhaps Jean-Luc had been correct to consider holding on to it; perhaps he ought to wait until after the trial to read it. Keep his mind clear, or as clear as it could be, for the day’s ordeal. But then, he reasoned, if he was found guilty, the opportunity to read this letter could be gone forever.
He tore through the wax seal and unfolded the paper, his chest contracting as if squeezed by a rope when he beheld her familiar handwriting.
My love,
I’ve left the château where Remy had installed me. I was forced to leave, in fact. My uncle found me.