In both his lives—past and present—André had heard the same maxim echoed by every law professor he had ever studied under: a lawsuit is a battle, and the courtroom, a battlefield. He believed it with all his heart.

  That very night, after accepting the Babeuf case, he made his way to the residence of Judge Vinault, a grand villa on the ?le Saint-Louis. It was a mansion of unmistakable luxury, its air steeped in the classical grace of the fifteenth century, surrounded by neighbours of wealth and consequence.

  Judge Vinault himself was a florid, plump man in his fifties, his hands and cheeks soft and round. Perhaps it was his twenty years as a prosecutor that had trained his booming, authoritative voice—a voice that could command any courtroom.

  “You are quite certain you mean to take on Babeuf’s defence?” he asked gravely. Even as he spoke, footsteps sounded beyond the door.

  André looked up. Entering with an elegant sway was Madame Vinault, wearing a rose-coloured silk gown heavy with pearls and gold. She carried a silver tray bearing two steaming cups of coffee. The judge rose at once, took the tray from her hands, and passed one cup to André. Taking her delicate fingers in his, he kissed her cheek with a gentle murmur, and did not return to the study for the next hour.

  Each man lifted his cup. They drank in silence, unceremoniously—Vinault’s rustic way of taking coffee, lacking all aristocratic refinement but oddly comforting to André, who for a moment felt as though he were back in some twenty-first-century café corner.

  As she withdrew, the young wife cast the visitor a playful glance, raising an eyebrow with deliberate grace. Between her fingers fluttered a small folded note. She turned at the doorway, her figure poised and supple, before disappearing with a teasing sway of her hips.

  Her boldness embarrassed André. So that’s it, he thought wryly. A harmless attempt to extract another pair of flattering verses. Must she act as though we were conspirators exchanging secret codes across the street? My heart’s thumping like a schoolboy’s. He forced his gaze back onto his cup of coffee, breathing in the steam until the dangerous thoughts subsided.

  Vinault, meanwhile, had noticed every detail. Far from jealous, he looked positively pleased; in Paris, a man of rank took pride in a wife whose beauty drew admiration. That his student should compose verses that elevated her standing among the salons of the capital only added to his satisfaction. Beyond that, he preferred not to think.

  When the door closed again, André gathered himself and resumed the conversation. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I’ve joined Georges Danton’s Law Office, and the Babeuf affair will be my first criminal case. For the sake of judicial propriety, I intend to submit my resignation from the Palais de Justice.”

  The judge nodded, eyes half-closed as he savoured his coffee—or rather, as he weighed in silence the balance of risk and reward.

  For years, he had discreetly lent his support to men like Paulze, the tax-farmers who bought and sold the state’s revenues. Yet his involvement had been professional, never personal—a matter of transactions, not of friendship.

  But times had changed. Since 1789, the Constituent Assembly, now wielding real power, had grown openly hostile to the fermiers-généraux and their feudal privileges. Deputies from the Champagne region—among them Prieur, André’s compatriot—had condemned the system in withering terms:

  “The miserly tax-farmers pay 500,000 livres to the Crown and extort six times that sum from the people, leaving the nation to cover the cost of their abuses.”

  Prieur had once moved to abolish the tax-farm outright. Though the motion failed under the resistance of conservatives and moderate nobles, it had spurred another resolution: when the current contracts expired, they would not be renewed. From that moment, taxation would belong solely to the nation.

  That very morning, while serving as legal consultant to the Constitutional Committee at The Manège Hall, Vinault had learned that the forthcoming Constitution of 1791 would go further still—abolishing not only the tax-farm but every vestige of feudal privilege.

  As a jurist of thirty years, he grasped the magnitude of the change. The August Decrees of 1789 had been appeals to conscience; the coming Constitution would be the mother law—enforced by police, soldiers, and the full weight of the state.

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  If the tax-farmers had any wisdom, they would surrender now: renounce their contracts, offer partial restitution, and beg for clemency. Instead, they hid their wealth or sent it abroad. It was folly, pure and simple.

  And yet, watching the young lawyer before him, Vinault felt a pang that was half envy, half pride. André stood at the edge of a turning age, poised to carve his name into the chronicles of justice. Win or lose, this case would make him known.

  The judge’s thoughts drifted to another scene, years ago—the day Georges Danton had come to resign. Both young, both towering, both filled with fire and gratitude. Danton’s rise from clerk to barrister had owed much to Vinault’s patronage; now, perhaps, it was André’s turn. The youth was diligent, fearless, and—above all—good-hearted. His reforms to the Paris police and his defence in the Blair case had earned universal praise.

  For that reason, Vinault decided. He would not stand with the sinking ship of the tax-farmers. As André’s mentor, he would aid him—openly and secretly alike.

  He understood why the visit had come at night. The resignation was a formality; what André wanted were details—the inside anatomy of the Babeuf trial. He would need everything: the presiding judge, the prosecutor, the witnesses, the twelve jurors—their professions, sympathies, temperaments, and fears. Even the clerks, bailiffs, wardens, and jailers might prove useful.

  Vinault agreed without hesitation. They set a time and place for the exchange. Helping another is helping oneself, he thought; perhaps this protégé would yet surprise him.

  When André offered four assignats of 300 livres each as payment, the famously avaricious judge only laughed, pocketed one note of 300, and returned the rest.

  The transaction—technically bribery, the theft of judicial secrets, and obstruction of justice—could have earned André a decade in prison. But this was not the twenty-first century, and discretion was easy to buy.

  Besides, corruption had begun higher up. Even the jury list bore proof of bias: of twelve active citizens—men paying over 4.5 livres in direct taxes—two were clergymen, seven were nobles or rural gentry, two were urban property owners, and the last a timid farmer newly come to Paris.

  How could such men sympathize with a peasant agitator accused of inciting revolt? The verdict was practically written.

  Under the criminal code of 1790, a conviction required only seven votes out of twelve. The judge could then impose any sentence he deemed fit—imprisonment, forced labour for life, or hanging. (The guillotine, as yet, had not been invented.)

  For the next three weeks, André lived like a hermit. Apart from meals and brief walks, he never left his attic. Day and night he pored over the confidential files Vinault had sent, filling hundreds of pages with notes. The whitewashed walls were covered with timelines, charts, and sketches mapping every connection in the case.

  Before the trial, however, he needed to see his client—the accused Gracchus Babeuf, imprisoned in the cells beneath the Chatelet Court.

  The French judicial machine was ponderous and bureaucratic. Criminal cases could drag on for years. Fortunately, this one was moving swiftly: the preliminary hearing had been held in early March; the second session was fixed for mid-April.

  Beginning on March twelfth, André filed repeated petitions for access to his client—only to be rebuffed each time by the court’s officials.

  The first time, they claimed to be “verifying his professional credentials.” Absurd—his degree from the University of Reims, his two years as an assistant lecturer, and his certification from the Paris Bar were all in perfect order.

  Days later, he returned. This time they said Babeuf was ill, unfit to meet counsel. They permitted only written correspondence, which they promised to inspect before delivery. André sent a few books by trusted hands.

  The third visit ended the same way—with lies thinly wrapped in formality. André turned on his heel without a word and crossed the river to the Palais de Justice. There he filed a formal complaint before the High Court, accusing the Chatelet Tribunal of obstructing counsel’s access to his client and violating the most fundamental principle of justice.

  The effect was explosive. In the already tense atmosphere of the capital’s judiciary, André’s petition fell like a lit match into a powder barrel.

  In every system—common or civil—the sanctity of the client’s right to counsel was its foundation stone. Now, under the very shadow of the Palais de Justice, that stone had been openly defiled. Unless the abuse was corrected, Paris—and France—would face a judicial scandal without precedent.

  Even those judges who despised Babeuf’s politics could not allow such disgrace.

  That same afternoon, at Vinault’s urging, the High Court convened a five-member committee of inquiry. André, for his part, discreetly rewarded their diligence with 2,000 livres in assignats.

  On April eighth, the committee issued a scathing reprimand, demanding that the Criminal Tribunal uphold the principles of openness, fairness, and justice. The order spread quickly through the capital’s salons and court corridors, turning the Chatelet into the laughingstock of Parisian society.

  Note:

  Palais de Justice — The central court complex in Paris, housing the High Court and judicial offices.

  The Manège Hall — The former royal riding school used as the meeting place of the National Constituent Assembly.

  fermiers-généraux — Tax-farmers.

  August Decrees: the 1789 reforms abolishing feudal privileges and the Old Regime's inequalities.