Where the Light Falls(95)

“If we kill André Valière today, his head rolls and his once-noble blood spills. Where does that leave us? It gives us a show. A few minutes of…entertainment.” Jean-Luc shrugged, pressing his palms together. “But if we take his body and put it into the service of our Revolution—what does that get us? André Valière becomes a servant of our people and principles. A warrior for our General Bonaparte. And not just any warrior—André Valière is well trained, battle hardened, and proven. Can we squander such a man as this, just because a few vengeful persons wish to see a fleeting show of blood?”

The crowd cried out at this point, as the jury members shifted in their seats, casting sidelong glances at one another, noting the mood of the hall.

“I, for one, would not have it so.” Jean-Luc paused, short of breath, his voice now hoarse, but he held every pair of eyes in the room. “I say: make André Valière fight for this country. Put him to work. Send him to Bonaparte. There, his blood might be shed, but not without first serving our Republic.” Jean-Luc pounded his fist into his palm at the conclusion of each sentence for emphasis, and each gesture was greeted with fresh cheers from the crowd.

“In that way, the wealth and riches of André Valière’s family—so long squandered due to an undue title—may at last be earned back for us all. Citizens of France, I say this man owes it to us to fight for our Revolution!”

André barely heard the rousing words of his lawyer’s closing argument. Barely looked up as the jury deliberated. Barely heard the voice of the bailiff who announced that a verdict had been reached after only a matter of minutes.

André greeted the reading of the verdict with a barely perceptible shrug. “André de Valière is found guilty.”

But then, he felt a strange sensation, as if his mind and body had been forcefully thrown back into the present moment, when the second half of the verdict was read. He had been waiting for that dreaded word, had been expecting to hear the utterance of guillotine. Instead, the judge declared in an expressionless voice: “Sentence for the guilty shall be permanent exile from the Republic of France, mandatory service in the navy of General Bonaparte.”

André looked sideways at Jean-Luc, the lawyer’s face alight with the same disbelief as his own. They had done it; they had squeezed some small feeling of mercy from the people. André would not face the guillotine after all. André would be forced to live.



Later, outside the court, André was jostled through the crowd, a handful of guards forming a protective ring around him and Jean-Luc. “Can you believe it, André?” The lawyer was alternating between laughter and seriousness, as if he himself had not fully absorbed the news of his own victory. “Ha! God bless, your life is yours, my friend.”

André nodded, still struggling to comprehend the outcome. “I have no words…but thank you.”

“Thank you, for not giving in to those who tried to destroy you,” the lawyer answered, his tone low and serious against the shouts of the surrounding crowd. “You know, your strength gave me new spirit, and dare I say, made it possible to build your case.”

Though André had been freed of his ankle shackles, his wrists were still bound, but he and Jean-Luc clasped hands.

“It would appear, André, son of the former marquis”—Jean-Luc said the latter part quietly—“that your story was not meant to end today.”

The crowd began to disperse. Some of the stragglers still lingered, hoping for a closer look at the man who had been ripped from death’s grip. But as the crowd thinned, André realized they were not alone.

Waiting next to the carriage that would transport André Valière back to the prison to gather his belongings stood Nicolai Murat. The tall man’s demeanor was entirely changed from that which he had shown in the courtroom, where he had appeared animated. Now his face was blank, his seawater-gray eyes devoid of emotion.

“Captain de Valière.” Murat leaned up against the carriage, arms crossed before his chest. Hearing his own name uttered by the man’s lips, André’s entire frame stiffened; he had not known it possible to hate this passionately.

“André?” Jean-Luc shuffled closer to his client, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve just been spared, do not…” Jean-Luc threw a hard gaze toward Murat. “Please get into the carriage.”

“No.” André lifted a hand, pausing in his steps. “It’s all right.” Turning to Jean-Luc, he asked: “Would you give us a moment?”