“They’re reciting their lines like actors in a play,” murmured Counsel Séchelles, leaning closer to André.

  “Hah. Clowns performing a farce,” André replied, his tone dripping with disdain.

  When the judge handed over the right to cross-examine the prosecution’s witness, André rose slowly, walked toward the stand, and studied the burly cook called Fide with deliberate curiosity. The man squirmed, shifting in his seat, clearly unnerved.

  “Monsieur Franck, please proceed with your questions,” the judge warned, sensing danger. “If you have none, return to your seat.”

  After a minute of silent psychological warfare, André began in an almost casual voice:

  “Monsieur Fide, you said you were attacked on the night of February 13—a little after midnight—more than two months ago?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “And both your right arm and your ribs were broken at the same time?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  At that, someone in the back row stood up. André gestured lightly.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur Fide. It seems our friends in the last row could not hear you clearly. For the sake of transparency and fairness, would you kindly take a deep breath and answer again, in the loudest voice you can manage?”

  “Yes, monsieur!”

  Fide bellowed the words so loudly that they echoed against the vaulted ceiling. A few physicians in the audience exchanged amused looks.

  André’s eyebrows rose in feigned astonishment.

  “Curious indeed,” he said. “Your arm remains unhealed, yet your ribs—by far the more fragile bones—seem to have recovered completely. No pain when you draw breath, your voice steady, your lungs full. Tell me, Monsieur Fide, how can that be?”

  The cook blinked, momentarily bewildered, and then, sensing the trap, clamped his mouth shut.

  André, smiling faintly, turned to the defense table and took a document from Séchelles. It passed from clerk to judge.

  “This statement,” André announced, “comes from the Paris Medical Society. It certifies that rib injuries, unlike those of the arm, heal far more slowly—typically five to six months—and make breathing painful or shouting impossible. Therefore, unless Monsieur Fide is a creature of miraculous constitution, his testimony must be false.”

  A wave of murmurs rippled through the hall. André advanced on the witness stand, his gaze sharp as a blade. Fide suddenly doubled over, clutching his ribs, groaning that they hurt again—then his arm, then his whole body—until laughter swept the courtroom.

  The judge finally intervened and dismissed the witness.

  “For certain considerations,” Judge Faria told the jury dryly, “you may treat Monsieur Fide’s testimony with caution.”

  The crowd jeered openly.

  André, unfazed, knew this was all he needed. He had never expected fairness from the bench or the twelve jurors. His audience was the 500 citizens in the gallery—among them magistrates, journalists, and deputies of the Assembly.

  The “medical document,” in truth, was a forgery he had bought for 500 livres from the president of the society: nine parts truth wrapped around a single useful lie. Whether the judge accepted it or not hardly mattered. Doubt had already been sown.

  In the rear corner, Hoche handed a bundle of shorthand notes to Meldar—the transcriptions of twenty journalists. The bailiffs, sympathetic, even opened the door for him. Within two hours, the trial record would be in print across Paris.

  When the laughter faded, Judge Faria declared a fifteen-minute recess. He wanted time to verify the next witness, to prevent another humiliation.

  Inside his chamber, he slammed a palm on the desk.

  “Monsieur Pratty, are you certain there will be no more blunders?”

  “I swear it—to God Himself!” cried the prosecutor, raising a trembling hand.

  “Good. Because if there is, I expect you to withdraw the case at once.”

  Faria’s patience was exhausted. The bribes of the tax-farmers now seemed a curse. In two weeks’ time he would be working under André at the forthcoming Fiscal Tribunal, and he had no wish to cross the man.

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  During the break, André faced a far less glorious challenge: he discovered the entire courthouse lacked a lavatory. He was forced to relieve himself, half-hidden, in a deserted stairwell—a humiliation fit for history’s footnotes.

  Fifteen minutes later, the session resumed. The prosecution called its second witness.

  A middle-aged gentleman appeared—powdered wig, gentle manner, the very image of probity. He placed a hand upon the Declaration of the Rights of Man and swore his oath with impeccable decorum.

  “André is in trouble,” whispered Billaud-Varenne to Prieur. Even Robespierre, watching from afar, had the same thought.

  Under gentle prompting, the witness—Madin, a provincial landowner—began:

  “Yes, Monsieur Prosecutor. I am certain that the man in the dock, Citizen Babeuf, is the one who murdered Captain Prand. I saw him give the order with my own eyes. They hanged the poor man from a tree like an animal—yes, I swear it.”

  His voice trembled between terror and righteous fury.

  Séchelles murmured, “He isn’t lying.” André nodded slightly. The testimony was tight, the tone consistent; there was no visible flaw. Even Babeuf avoided the man’s gaze, eyes fixed on the floor.

  Then came the defense’s turn. André rose and strode to the stand.

  “Monsieur Madin, how is your eyesight? I mean—how far can you see clearly?”

  “From here to the back row, perfectly.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  André turned to the judge.

  “Your Honour, I request a brief experiment to test the witness’s vision.”

  “Objection!” shouted Pratty. “Irrelevant and intended to waste the court’s time.”

  “It will take five minutes.”

  The judge sighed.

  “Very well, Monsieur Franck. Five minutes, no more.”

  André gestured toward the doors. Hoche, in civilian clothes, stood at the far end.

  “Monsieur Madin, do you see that young man by the entrance?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “What is he holding?”

  “A rolled newspaper.”

  André nodded. Then he motioned to the sides. Legendre and others hurried to draw all six curtains tight. The courtroom plunged into darkness.

  “Monsieur Madin, can you still see him?”

  “Not clearly,” the witness admitted.

  “Can you see anyone at all?”

  “No. None.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Absolutely. A gentleman does not lie.”

  “Splendid,” said André. “You may open the curtains.”

  Light flooded the hall once more.

  “Monsieur Madin, you testified that between 1:10 and 1:25 after midnight on February 13, you stood five yards from the scene and saw my client order the death of Captain Prand—clearly, by moonlight?”

  “I am certain,” the witness replied.

  “Yet this courtroom measures only 32 yards to the back row. You could not see 30 in bright daylight, yet claim to see 35 at midnight. How do you explain that?”

  “That is not strange, monsieur. The night was bright with moonlight—like snow across the fields.”

  “So, moonlight—not torches or candles?”

  “Only moonlight, monsieur.”

  André paused. Then he drew another paper from Séchelles’ hands. It passed again from clerk to judge.

  “This,” André said evenly, “is an extract from the Paris Observatory’s astronomical calendar for the first quarter of 1790. It records that during mid-February the skies over Saint-Quentin were thick with cloud—no moonlight visible.”

  Before he could finish, the witness burst out:

  “No! Impossible! There was moonlight—I saw it, I swear by God!”

  “But you have already sworn by my God—the Law,” André replied coldly, leaning upon the rail.

  A clerk from the prosecution suddenly interjected:

  “Counsel, your document says most nights were clouded, not all.”

  André clapped his hands in delight.

  “Excellent point! I, too, doubted it—so I sought further proof. A helpful scholar from the College assisted me.”

  Another sheet changed hands.

  “This second record confirms that at exactly 1:10 a.m. to 1:25 a.m. on February 13, the sky above Saint-Quentin was completely overcast. And who attests to this? None other than Mayor Bailly—astronomer, scholar, and head of the Paris Observatory.”

  The effect was explosive. Gasps swept the room. Who would dare dispute Bailly—the city’s mayor, the Revolution’s man of science? Clearly, it was the witness who lied.

  “Liar! Liar!”

  The cry grew to a roar. The poor gentleman collapsed back onto the bench, pale as chalk.

  André exhaled slowly. He knew Madin was probably telling the truth. The deception lay not in the witness, but in the document itself—purchased through Laclos for 2,000 livres, forged within the observatory’s own archives. The great Bailly, deceived by false data, had unwittingly written a report that served André’s cause perfectly.

  Would Bailly one day resent him? Perhaps. But as a politician, not as a scientist, Bailly could not afford to retract his own official record, however wrong it might be.

  And in any case, André reflected grimly,

  Ninety-nine men out of one hundred forget the sky after three nights;

  nine hundred and ninety-nine forget it after ten;

  and no living soul remembers what it looked like sixty days ago.

  Outside, news of the courtroom upheaval spread like fire. Crowds gathered, shouting for justice, denouncing the “liars.” The tumult shook the Chatelet to its foundations.

  Judge Faria, terrified, declared another hour’s recess—to verify the defense’s evidence. Within 30 minutes, a messenger returned from the H?tel de Ville: Mayor Bailly himself had signed a statement confirming the astronomical report’s accuracy.

  The rest unfolded swiftly. In Faria’s private chamber, prosecution and defense reached a polite agreement. The state withdrew all charges against Babeuf; the prosecutor issued a written apology and paid 100 livres in compensation. The two false witnesses would face the local court of Saint-Quentin—most likely a fine, nothing more.

  When the acquittal was announced, the court erupted in cheers. People surged forward, hoisting Babeuf onto their shoulders and carrying him through the gates into the jubilant streets.

  André, however, felt no triumph. Slipping aside from the celebrating crowd, he climbed a quiet stairwell and leaned against the wall.

  “Seeking redemption?” came Séchelles’ familiar voice.

  “My heart isn’t that fragile,” André said without turning.

  “Perhaps. But you destroyed a man’s honour today—a man who believed himself honest.”

  André’s reply was calm, almost weary:

  “The courtroom is a battlefield, Séchelles. Litigation is war. Once you step onto the field, there is no retreat—only victory or death.”

  He moved to go.

  “Oh, and Babeuf wishes to thank you in person,” Séchelles added.

  “The contract is over. Tell him to take care of himself. Fortune rarely knocks twice.”

  With that, André descended the steps alone, his footsteps fading beneath the distant roar of the cheering crowd.