Jean-Luc shifted his weight, his eyes darting back and forth between Murat and André. The lawyer leaned close, barely whispering: “Please, watch your words.”
André nodded. “A moment, please.”
Jean-Luc sighed, clasping his hands in front of his waist. “I’ll be in the carriage when you’re ready to go.” With that, Jean-Luc stepped away.
Left alone with Murat, the guards hovering nearby like nervous chaperones, André stood still and stared at his tormenter. “General Murat.” But there was no deference in the young man’s use of his superior’s title.
After a pause, the general spoke: “I suppose congratulations are in order.” Murat traced two fingers along the tip of his mustache. “Never thought that young lawyer had it in him. I must say, I’m impressed.”
André clenched his jaw, willing himself to master his nerves and his temper before saying anything. He would not give Murat the satisfaction of seeing any of the pain he had inflicted.
“Not that it’s certain you’ve escaped death,” Murat continued. “No doubt you’ll be sent straight to the cannon’s mouth, perhaps to face Nelson and his dreaded English ships.”
André offered nothing by way of a reply.
“But the young lawyer put up quite a fight, didn’t he?” Pausing, Murat smirked. “Which is more than I can say for your brother.”
At this, André’s chest collapsed. “What did you say?”
Murat’s lips curled under his mustache. “I found him skulking about in some abandoned château in the country near Le Mans, where he had my niece holed up like a rat. How dare you?” The general’s eyes narrowed. He hissed the next question: “Where is she?”
André didn’t answer. His vision patchy, he tried to understand what could have possibly become of Remy. After a long pause, Murat, his voice calm once more, continued: “Never mind. I’ll find her. She can’t have gone far. Your brother may have tried his best, but it was not enough.”
André prepared to lunge forward, but he knew that by choking the man, he’d miss his chance to learn his brother’s fate. “Tell me what happened to my brother.”
Murat laughed—a joyless, ragged sneer, his gray eyes seething like a gathering storm. “When I find my niece, then perhaps I will tell you where to find your brother’s body.”
Summer 1795
“I suppose you’ve got a right high opinion of yourself now.”
Jean-Luc looked up into the face of Gavreau, who hovered before his desk. The man had been circling, like a hungry dog, for a quarter of an hour and had finally decided that no invitation was necessary to interrupt Jean-Luc’s work.
Jean-Luc sighed, lowering his quill. “I beg your pardon?”
Gavreau tossed the day’s news journals forward, adding to the pile of papers covering Jean-Luc’s desk. “Front page of the papers. This pamphlet dubs you ‘the most promising young lawyer in Paris.’ So, as I said: I suppose you’ve got a right high opinion of yourself now.”
Jean-Luc threw a cursory glance at the top pamphlet, skimming the first sentence before noting, with a quiver of pride, that it was written by his favorite writer, Citizen Persephone. He looked back up at his boss, concealing his urge to smile. “Marie would never allow me to get a high opinion of myself. I suppose it’s her sworn duty to remind me on a daily basis of how far I am from perfection.” Jean-Luc shrugged, and his manager began to laugh.
“Then she’s good for something, your wife, even if she does keep you from ever accompanying me out to the cafés at night.”
“Now that,” Jean-Luc said, leaning his head to one side, “I can’t blame on my wife.”
“But why was she at Valière’s trial?”
“Hmm?” Jean-Luc looked up at his boss, confused.
“Your woman,” Gavreau said. “I saw her there, tucked way in the back. It looked as if she was taking notes, or recording something for herself. Thought perhaps you’ve got her working as one of your clerks, now that you’re too busy for one man.”
“Marie, at the trial of André Valière?” Jean-Luc repeated the claim. “Surely you’re mistaken. She wasn’t there.” Marie had never mentioned anything about attending the trial. He’d insisted she stay far away.
“She was there, I tell you. I never miss a pretty brunette.”
“No.” Jean-Luc shook his head, convinced of his supervisor’s error. “You’d enjoyed too much wine at lunch and noticed someone who resembled her. But, speaking of Marie, I’ve got this pile to get through and I’ve promised to be home in time for supper.”