Read Chapter 13: The Trial

The stone corridors of the Conciergerie swallowed sound, but Célie could hear her own heartbeat pounding against her ribs as the guard's key turned in the lock. Marguerite squeezed her arm once, a gesture that said more than words could. Marthe watched from the corner, eyes glittering in the torchlight like a rat scenting blood.

"La citoyenne Laurent," the guard barked. "The Tribunal will see you now."

Célie rose on legs that felt borrowed. Her bodice pressed against her chest where the seal lay hidden—a small, flat weight that had become both anchor and accusation. She had promised herself she would face this questioning alone, as she had told Marguerite, but the older woman's gaze followed her to the door with something close to maternal worry.

The Revolutionary Tribunal chamber was smaller than she had imagined, and louder. Citizens packed the galleries, their faces hungry for spectacle. At the center sat the judges in their tricolor sashes, and below them, the public prosecutor—a thin man with spectacles perched on a nose like a blade. He shuffled papers with theatrical deliberation as the guards positioned Célie before the bar.

"Citoyenne Célie Laurent," the president of the Tribunal intoned, "you are charged with sedition, forgery, and conspiracy against the Republic. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty," Célie said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The prosecutor rose. "Not guilty? When you were discovered in a printer's cellar surrounded by counter-revolutionary pamphlets? When the seal of an aristocratic family was found in your possession?" He paused, letting the gallery murmur. "The house of Laurent has been émigré since '89. And yet here you stand, a Laurent herself, denying your own blood."

Célie's hands were cold. The seal against her chest seemed to burn. He did not have it—that was the one thing she had managed to preserve—but he knew of its existence. Someone had talked. Marthe. It had to be Marthe.

"You are mistaken, Citizen Prosecutor," Célie said, forcing her voice into the register of calm reason. "I am no relation to the émigré Laurents. My family has been bourgeois for three generations—printers, booksellers, loyal servants of the Revolution."

"Then what were you doing in that cellar?"

"Printing," Célie said. "As I have done since I was a girl. Did the Revolution not proclaim the liberty of the press? Or does that liberty extend only to those who print what pleases you?"

The gallery stirred. Several citizens nodded. The prosecutor's thin lips pressed together.

"Clever words," he said. "But the pamphlets we found were not mere exercises in rhetoric. They called for the restoration of the monarchy. They bore the mark of the Society of the Friends of the King."

Célie had read those pamphlets—every word, every treasonous phrase—but she had not written them. She and Jean had been printing them, yes, but only because the man who had hired them had promised payment that would feed a dozen starving families. She had known what they contained. She had told herself it was only paper, only ink.

Now paper and ink had become a noose.

"I am no royalist," Célie said. "I have bled for this Republic. I watched my own brother die at Valmy, fighting for the principles you claim to defend."

It was a lie. Her brother had died of fever in Lyons two years before the war. But the prosecutor did not know that, and the gallery gasped with sympathy.

The prosecutor's eyes narrowed. He was not convinced—she could see it in the set of his jaw—but he could feel the crowd turning. Public sentiment was a weapon in these chambers, and he had lost the first exchange.

"Citizens of the Tribunal," the prosecutor said, pivoting to address the judges directly, "this woman speaks of her loyalty, yet she was caught red-handed with seditious materials. She speaks of republican virtue, yet she carries an aristocrat's seal. I submit that these are not the actions of a loyal citoyenne, but of a counter-revolutionary who has woven a web of lies to disguise her true allegiance."

"Then where is this seal?" Célie asked, seizing on the opening. "You accuse me of carrying it, yet you have produced no evidence. Unless"—she let her voice drip with disdain—"the Tribunal convicts on rumor now?"

The president of the Tribunal shifted in his seat. He was an old man with tired eyes, and Célie could see that he was weary of these proceedings, weary of the endless parade of the accused, weary of the blood that stained the cobblestones of the Place de la Révolution.

"The Tribunal does not convict on rumor," he said. "It convicts on evidence. Continue, Citizen Prosecutor."

The prosecutor's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for water. He had overplayed his hand, and he knew it. He had staked his case on the seal, and the seal was hidden safely against Célie's skin.

"Perhaps," Célie said, pressing her advantage, "there is a way I can prove my loyalty to this Tribunal and to the Republic it serves."

Silence fell. Even the gallery stopped its restless shuffling.

"I have heard names," Célie said. "Names of aristocrats who remain in Paris, disguised as citizens, plotting against the Revolution from within. If the Tribunal will grant me a week, I will produce evidence of their conspiracy. I will give you the crown of their plotting, delivered into your hands."

The prosecutor's face went pale. "This is a trick. She seeks only to delay her sentence."

But the president of the Tribunal raised a hand. "A week is a small price for the heads of conspirators. The Republic is patient when it hunts its enemies."

Célie kept her face impassive, but inside, something loosened. A week. Seven days. Time enough to think, to plan, to send word to Jean, to find a way out of this stone tomb.

"A week, then," the president said. "Return her to her cell. We will reconvene when she has provided her evidence—or when she has failed to do so."

The guards took her arms, but as they turned her toward the door, the prosecutor stepped close. His breath was sour, his voice a whisper meant only for her.

"You have bought yourself a week, Citoyenne Laurent," he said. "But I will be watching. And when you fail to produce your imaginary conspirators, I will see to it that your trial is short, and your end is swift."

Célie met his gaze without flinching. "Then I suggest you enjoy the week, Citizen Prosecutor. It may be the last peace you know."

The guards pulled her away, and she did not look back.

When the cell door clanged shut behind her, Marguerite was there, her face drawn with worry. Marthe hovered in the corner, pretending to pick at her nails, but Célie could feel the woman's attention like a burr caught in cloth.

"Well?" Marguerite demanded. "What happened?"

"The Tribunal has given me a week," Célie said, speaking loudly enough for Marthe to hear. "A week to produce evidence against the enemies of the Republic. And I know exactly where to find them."

Marthe's fingers stilled. Her eyes flickered up, met Célie's, and slid away too quickly.

Célie smiled.

She had bought herself time. Now she had to make it count.

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