“People are like the apples you find in a harvest bushel.” Gavreau shrugged. “Some are right and good, and some are rotten.”
Jean-Luc narrowed his eyes, surprised by his colleague’s rare display of wisdom.
“And some are like me,” Gavreau continued. “You just eat around the rotten parts.”
“Or leave you for the worms.” Jean-Luc flashed his boss a grin.
“Say, you ever hear from the big shot lawyer?”
“Guillaume Lazare?” Jean-Luc asked, his heart beginning to race.
Gavreau nodded.
“Not since André’s trial.” Jean-Luc pushed his stew away, his appetite suddenly gone. “I wrote him a note following it, trying to be cordial. But he never replied.”
“He’s probably upset that your client escaped his grasp. Not something he’s accustomed to, from the sound of it.”
—
After the afternoon meal Jean-Luc crossed the Seine to the Left Bank. His steps fell lightly on the stone bridge as he watched the gentle afternoon light glint off the river’s surface, shimmering streaks that ebbed and dissipated along with the shifting current.
It was still light out when he turned onto his street. He walked slowly, feeling, for the first time in a while, a sense of ease. He would be home before his boy went to bed. He would be home in time to have supper with Marie and hear about her day.
Through the opened window of the ground floor he spotted Madame Grocque sweeping the front room of her tavern. “Citizeness Grocque.” Jean-Luc tipped his hat to the thick-shouldered woman. She didn’t reply but rather looked with her beady eyes toward a carriage parked on the nearby corner.
Dread shot through Jean-Luc, a cold blast of ice melting the warm glow he’d felt just a moment earlier. As if awaiting his arrival, the carriage door opened and out stepped the narrow figure of Guillaume Lazare.
“Citizen St. Clair.” The man’s yellow hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, his skin blanched an unnatural chalky color. Only his lips were red, an artificial painted red, and they now curled into an unconvincing smile.
“Citizen Lazare.” Jean-Luc paused where he stood. He threw a quick glance up in the direction of their garret, and he instantly regretted it. The old man’s eyes followed.
“You look surprised to see me, citizen.”
“A little, yes,” Jean-Luc replied.
“Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“No, no, it’s just…how can I help you?”
“Oh, I don’t need your help, citizen.” Lazare braided his long, spindly fingers together in front of his waist. “I’ve simply come to congratulate you on your recent victory.”
Jean-Luc forced a smile, but he was certain that the old man could sense the tension in the gesture. “Thank you, Citizen Lazare. That’s kind of you.”
“I’ve always said I appreciate a challenge.” The old man narrowed his eyes, studying Jean-Luc as if the young man were some dense bit of text in which the meaning was not immediately clear. After several moments, Lazare sighed. “Well, I should let you go. I am sure your wife is anxious to have you back, now that the business of that unfortunate trial is over.”
“Indeed.” Jean-Luc stepped up to the doorway, feeling as if he could not be done with this interview quickly enough. “Thank you again for your well wishes.” He accepted Lazare’s outstretched hand—as flimsy as paper in his grip, the old man’s skin cold.
“Please give my best to your family.” With that, Lazare threw one more glance upward toward the apartment before turning back to the carriage. The footman opened the door but Lazare paused, gazing back to Jean-Luc. “Oh, and by the way, I thought it was interesting that she was visiting. I had never realized that you were so friendly with Captain Valière. Perhaps it was naïve of me to think that you were simply serving as his counsel. I suppose we all have our secrets, hmm?” Lazare paused, his eyes gliding up toward the garret window, which Marie must have opened, for now the sound of Mathieu’s distant laughter rained down over the street. Lazare turned back toward Jean-Luc.
“I took you for an honest man, St. Clair. Imagine my disappointment if it turns out that I have been deceived.”
“Citizen.” Jean-Luc, visibly shaken by that last remark, fumbled to offer some reply. “I assure you, I have no idea to what you’re referring.”
“Peace! All is well, my friend. I am but a man of the law; the personal affairs of others are no concern of mine.” With that, Lazare put on his cap and climbed into the coach. The driver’s whip cracked and the carriage lurched forward. Lazare called out from his retreating window. “Though, of course, I cannot speak for her uncle, General Murat. Evening to you and your family, citizen!”