Where people gather, disputes follow — that was as natural as breathing.

  In July 1789, in the second week after the president of the Third Estate, Bailly, and its vice-president, Lafayette, had been elected respectively Mayor of Paris and commander of the Paris National Guard, the newly renamed National Constituent Assembly abruptly announced that national deputies could no longer hold government offices concurrently. Hurt and disgraced, Bailly and Lafayette withdrew from the Assembly.

  By late October the Constituent Assembly had returned to Paris with Louis XVI; its meeting chamber occupied the recently refurbished riding school, just a wall away from the Tuileries. The deputies soon discovered with mounting alarm that their every movement was effectively under the close supervision of the city’s former president and his erstwhile vice-president — for the instruments of state force in the capital, the army and the police, lay in the hands of the Paris municipality and its allies.

  In truth, for the next four or five years the central government of France would remain subject to Parisian sway. Parisians, styling themselves guardians of the Revolution, repeatedly intervened in national politics and drove the institutions and factions they distrusted — the royal house, the constitutional monarchists, the Girondins, the Jacobins, and even sections of the people themselves — to their knees. The great terrace of the Tuileries would, in turn, see its occupants change again and again.

  Politicians who felt personally imperilled began to stir. They tried by every means to force Lafayette from his command, but they failed. The North American war hero’s prestige was simply too great: of the forty-eight sections that made up the Paris National Guard, forty were willing to swear loyalty to General Lafayette.

  So the attacks turned to Mayor Bailly. Deputies secretly encouraged radicals like Marat, Danton and Santerre to run in the Paris Commune elections — a strategy that likewise miscarried. Of the twelve members of the Commune’s executive committee, only three, among them Billaud-Varenne, leaned toward the Constituent Assembly at the centre.

  Just as the deputies pinned their last hope on the Paris police, the Palais de Justice — which had kept a stance of neutrality — extended an unexpected olive branch to the Assembly. At André’s instigation the powers of justice and of legislation were quickly drawn together.

  In January 1790, by André’s careful design, the Paris police directorate obtained an allocation of 200 patrolmen; senior officers in the force were grateful to the Palais de Justice for its timely advocacy. In the following month the Constituent Assembly approved, on the proposal presented by local prosecutor LeGoff (a draft penned by André), that — citing Paris’s explosive population growth and the resultant collapse of public order — the Palais de Justice should reorganize the Paris police directorate and establish a new Paris Police Bureau, with several direct-reporting precincts and mobile reaction units.

  In April the incumbent first director of the Paris police retired on grounds of illness. Backed by both the Palais de Justice and the Constituent Assembly, Prosecutor LeGoff won sufficient trust in the Commune’s internal vote to be chosen as the new director of the Paris police directorate — the future head of the Paris Police Bureau — and took up office that same day.

  Forty years old, Director LeGoff was the brother of Madame Vinault, the wife of Justice Vinault. He presented himself as a broad-shouldered, imposing man. Perhaps hardened by long dealings with criminal matters, the new director often wore the air of a man used to wielding life and death — an authority that made listeners shiver.

  Yet on that afternoon, tucked into a corner café and speaking with André, Director LeGoff was all smiles. The proprietor, having dutifully brought coffee to his two distinguished guests, retreated discreetly behind the counter and waited for the next summons.

  After two o’clock in the afternoon the café was otherwise empty. Inspector Javert, with several trusted subordinates, patrolled the area in strict detail to escort and watch over the two sirs.

  Six days after the closure of the Babeuf case, André received his letter of appointment early from the Palais de Justice: henceforth he would enjoy a salary of 4,000 livres as the Prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court — though the court itself remained a distant prospect.

  “The Assembly has hit a stall,” Director LeGoff confessed, embarrassed. “We underestimated the power of the tax-farmers. Lavoisier has been using his influence, rallying many well-known academicians of the Académie des Sciences, and with the help of Finance Minister Necker has persuaded royalist and centrist deputies to table a motion of no confidence in the Tax Committee. This morning the motion passed; the committee’s president resigned and the committee was dissolved, its duties now assumed directly by the Assembly. By rule, a new committee cannot be constituted until twenty days have passed.”

  Twenty days? André doubted that even five such periods would suffice. As long as the tax-farmers could keep sending salvoes of influence, they could push the re-creation of the Tax Committee into the next legislative session in 1791.

  In fact, a week earlier, just after the Babeuf trial ended, André had repeatedly urged Justice Vinault and his allies to act swiftly: establish the Special Fiscal Court without delay, cut off all openings for opposition. Instead, everyone’s energy had been absorbed by the scramble for the police directorship.

  Now LeGoff had achieved that prize. Paradoxically, André — the architect and chief contributor — found himself standing alone. Without an actual Special Court, the mere title “the Prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court” was an empty honor; a paid sinecure without teeth.

  From the start André had shown no great affection for the newly appointed director. He sat with his gaze lowered, stirring the foam on his coffee with a narrow iron spoon; as the spoon struck the rim it produced a clear, ringing sound, one peal following another. To the ears of the police director that noise sounded like a debt-collector’s cry.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “A claim for compensation?” LeGoff began to understand the prosecutor’s intent: “You want restitution.” Had the speaker been any other man, a proud director might have slammed down his cup and left.

  André was no ordinary man. He was the justice’s sister’s most trusted protégé; he had been the leading hand in securing the police directorship; and he was a rising star in the Paris legal world. Beyond the support of the Palais de Justice, André counted allies in the Assembly — Mirabeau, Prieur, and even Robespierre had expressed their backing. Even Mayor Bailly had sided with André during the Babeuf trial.

  LeGoff therefore recognised that a rupture with André served neither man. He must, on his brother-in-law’s behalf, offer some compensation — in money or in power.

  “Inspector Javert is from your hometown in Reims?” LeGoff asked after a moment’s thought. “I think he could serve as deputy chief of a precinct.”

  André showed no interest. “Wait another fortnight on Javert’s appointment,” he said. “There will be stranger gains by then.”

  For André, a mere precinct deputy would not satisfy his appetite. He wanted a branch of the police that carried actual executive authority. Formally, a prosecutor might direct investigations, but only if the police hierarchy agreed to cooperate.

  “A mounted civic troop of one hundred?” LeGoff shook his head at André’s audacity. “Impossible. The entire mobile force numbers only 200. You expect half of it. The directorate does not belong to the Palais de Justice alone. At most, twenty-two men — a single mounted squad.”

  André, the Prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, smiled and held up two fingers. “Two mounted squads, forming a mounted company of no more than fifty men,” he said. Seeing the director’s inclination to object, he added quickly: “Once the fiscal court is established, the company’s equipment and pay will be charged to the Special Court. Yes, including expenses the directorate has been fronting to date.”

  Those expenses, of course, would include the director’s perquisites. Once the Special Fiscal Court opened, André, as its fiscal prosecutor, would command favour and resources. The cost of a fifty-man mounted troop would be but a drizzle.

  “Agreed.”

  “Pleasure doing business.”

  The two men clinked their coffee cups together in salute.

  “Who will you appoint as captain of your cavalry?” LeGoff asked casually. Since the company was effectively being ceded, André would determine the personnel; the directorate would merely file the paperwork.

  “Hoche — Louis-Lazare Hoche,” André replied. “He is a corporal now; I expect him to be promoted to second lieutenant when he takes command.”

  A junior cavalry officer meant little to Director LeGoff; he nodded, rose, and took his leave. Outside, he climbed into a light four-wheeled carriage waiting nearby and departed at a trot.

  Watching the carriage speed away, André beckoned Javert to his side, gave him a few brief instructions, and prepared to go home. At the corner of Rue Saint-Jacques, he saw Legendre waving from across the street; the man hurried over.

  “Danton has returned!” the landlord said. “He arrived last night with his wife and the newborn.”

  André brightened. “Shall I prepare a gift? Shall we go to Danton’s house in the commercial court, or wait for him at the Cordeliers Club?” he asked, taking Legendre by the arm.

  “Neither,” Legendre replied, hesitating.

  André’s enthusiasm cooled. He understood at once: Danton did not wish to see him. The man refused to meet André, who had, by now, attained a stature that cast a shadow over others.

  Even though André had extended the Cordeliers Club’s influence across Paris and set up semi-public branches in twenty sections (though law allowed only one public club per section); even though he had persuaded judges at the Chatelet to withdraw the arrest warrant against Georges Danton; and although the municipal edicts would render Paul Marat’s summons void before the first fédération of July 14 — none of these achievements made up for the slanders from Desmoulins, Fabre, Fréron, and perhaps Séchelles, in Danton’s ears. Jealousy is a hidden serpent; set it loose in certain circumstances, and it gnaws and bleeds its rivals.

  In under a year, a once-obscure apprentice lawyer at the Palais de Justice had won the favour of Justice Vinault and the patronage of the Duc d'Orléans; he had vaulted to the prosecutorial office that most Parisian advocates envied. Naturally, the twenty-four-year-old André had become a target.

  He had expected political divergence with Danton’s Cordeliers — that was a given of his convictions. But the speed of the split and the arrival of two unpleasant pieces of news that day left him ill at ease.

  At least he was still the Prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court: his power had not diminished.

  André inhaled, and to the good-hearted Legendre, with a face constraining a forced calm, said: “Thank you, my friend. I know what must be done. Tell Chairman Danton that Hoche and I will, at an appropriate moment, withdraw from the Cordeliers Club.”

  “Forgive me, André,” Legendre stammered, contrite. “I failed to sway Danton. He spoke with passion and sense in our conversations before.”

  André embraced the kindly man, then turned away.

  When vexation presses on the mind, one seeks an elegant, secluded spot to calm it. Without quite knowing why, André walked two blocks and entered the royal gardens before the Luxembourg Palace.

  In 1790 the still-attractive Luxembourg remained a Bourbon retreat, not yet a prison to be feared. The palace had been built by Henry IV’s queen, Marie de’ Medici, in a Tuscan style recalling her native Italy. Its central fa?ade rose between paired columns and was surmounted by a small four-cornered cupola; pavilions extended on either side, connected by a colonnade.

  In earlier days, when André had lived among the Chinese quarter of Paris, he had made a habit of wandering and jogging in the Luxembourg Gardens. Sometimes he invited a few compatriots to gather on the lawns around the central pond to read, chat, picnic or nap.

  Now the royal guards of Louis-Capet still dutifully watched the palace. Yet for ordinary citizens who came to stroll, unless they invaded the palace interior, harassed guests, or shouted revolutionary slogans at the fountain, the guards rarely intervened.

  Soon, the two sentries at the Luxembourg gate noticed André and exchanged whispers.

  The short private asked his companion: “Augereau, who is that fellow? He looks like a lawyer. I’ve seen him pacing the pond for several laps. Is he trying to drown himself?”

  Augereau, tall and lean, handsome and well built, glanced, then shook his head. “I don’t know him. The fool probably arrived from the provinces. He doesn’t know that the deepest part only comes up to the knee. Once his soles touch the water I’ll jab his arse with my bayonet.”

  At thirty-two years old, Augereau still held the rank of sergeant. Though seasoned — he had served in elite regiments in Prussia, Russia, Switzerland, and Naples — the National Guard in Paris would not accept him; Lafayette disliked insubordinate swordsmen. The royal guards had taken him on, but only reinstated the rank he had held before 1796: sergeant.

  Augereau’s violent joke never came to pass. A luxury carriage rolled up beside André. A lady in a pink silk gown — like an enchantress — stepped out, extended a slender ivory hand and, with an air of languid condescension, helped the somewhat dispirited Prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court into her carriage. Together, they departed the royal garden.