When André’s carriage reached No. 30, Rue Saintonge, it was already past five o’clock.

  As he stepped down, he noticed a young woman crouched by the steps. She wore a half-worn white dress, its collar frayed, her hair loose and unkempt. Her face was hidden in her hands, buried between her knees. Passing her, André thought he heard the faint sound of sobbing.

  Inside, he was greeted by Robespierre’s secretary, Villiers, who sat at the dining table of the ground-floor hall, sorting through his employer’s correspondence. With Robespierre’s fame and influence growing by the day, letters poured in from every corner of France, drowning his modest apartment in an unending tide of paper. Villiers’ chief task was to read them all carefully, classify and summarize them, and place the most important—or the unopened official ones—directly on his master’s desk. The rest he handled himself.

  When André explained his purpose, Villiers informed the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court that his employer happened to be out. Still, he readily promised to place the letter from Lieutenant Colonel Saint-Just among the priority papers, ensuring that it would lie on Robespierre’s writing desk before dusk.

  “Much obliged,” said André, slipping the letter across the table—along with a silver coin worth twenty livres.

  Robespierre himself was L’Incorruptible (The Incorruptible), refusing any hint of bribery or favour, even when none was expected in return. But the same could not be said of those around him. Villiers, for instance, had a family to feed. Robespierre paid him no more than two livres a week—a pittance—so the secretary’s acceptance of visitors’ “gratitude” was as natural as it was necessary. Robespierre had scolded him for it more than once.

  “Who’s the woman outside?” André asked casually.

  Villiers glanced about, lowered his voice, and said, “The deputy’s secret mistress. She used to come twice a week. Last month, he gave her some money and told her never to return. But she came again this morning, saying her child was ill and she needed money for a doctor.”

  “Oh?” André was genuinely surprised. The famed L’Incorruptible having a romance—how inconceivable. He drew out an assignat of 300 livres, pointed toward the door, and said, “See to it quietly. Don’t let Robespierre find out.”

  Without another word, he turned and left.

  Back in the carriage, André did not depart at once. He extended a hand out the window, making a brief gesture. A plain-clothed police informant—one of his men—stepped closer to receive orders.

  “Follow the woman on the steps,” André murmured. “Find out everything.” Then he motioned the driver toward the Jacobin Club.

  For Robespierre, life in 1790 traced a strict triangle between his apartment on Rue Saintonge, the National Constituent Assembly, and the Jacobin Club.

  It was not yet four o’clock; he was likely still seated in the Assembly chamber. But André had no desire to go there. The summer heat turned the cramped hall into a suffocating pit of sweat and stench—an ordeal for anyone with a functioning sense of smell.

  The Jacobin Club—officially the Society of the Friends of the Constitution—had begun as the Breton Club during the Estates-General of 1789 and moved to Paris in October of that year, meeting in the former Dominican monastery from which it took its new name.

  The club stood on Rue Saint-Honoré near the Palais Royal. From outside, it looked like any derelict monastery; the church beneath its tower served as the debating hall. Before its gate hung a black-and-white Breton flag, which to André’s eyes resembled an American banner. In time, during the Jacobin dictatorship, the tricolour of red, white, and blue would replace it.

  Behind the church stretched a row of low houses—once monks’ cells—now refitted for the members’ rest. Endless sessions, late-night quarrels, debates over national policy and the destiny of France—such was the Jacobin routine.

  Until 1793, it was not yet a formal political party but a prestigious society with clear procedures: a president, four secretaries, and a treasurer, all serving in rotation.

  Of its thousand members, one quarter were deputies of the National Assembly; the rest were the notables of Parisian society.

  Deputies could join automatically; non-deputies required the sponsorship of two members and the payment of twelve livres entrance fee plus four in annual dues—a total of thirty-six.

  At the entrance, a guard was arguing with a servant carrying a small bottle. The man insisted he was merely delivering medicine—an eye ointment—for his master. But the rules were clear: no servants or non-members were allowed inside.

  “Who’s your master?” André asked, stepping forward. The guard immediately halted and saluted, recognizing the well-known prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court.

  “Comte de Mirabeau, Monsieur,” replied the servant.

  “You should say Citizen Mirabeau,” corrected the doorkeeper sharply. Just that month, in June, the Constituent Assembly had decreed that no man might retain a noble title—Prince, Duc, Comte, Marquis, Vicomte, Baron, or Knight—and that henceforth every citizen should be addressed only by his family name.

  “I’ll take it,” said André, accepting the ointment from the servant. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

  It was near five o’clock now, and the hall inside was crowded—though few deputies were present; they were still in the Manège Hall, shaping the Constitution. They would come later, after supper, for the “Candlelight Session.”

  André scanned the faces, recognizing no one nearby, and decided to deliver the ointment first. After several inquiries, he learned that Mirabeau was in a private room behind the debating hall.

  Following the directions, he reached a second door, but it was closed, voices audible within. Out of courtesy, André stepped back to the corner. Ten minutes later, the door opened and a tall man emerged—a familiar figure in a silver waistcoat: the Marquis de Lafayette, or rather, Citizen de Motier.

  The American war hero and current Commander of the National Guard was a tall, lean man with a long nose, pale face, and bright red hair. Holding his hat adorned with a tricolour cockade, he walked briskly toward the exit.

  André paused and nodded politely. Lafayette stopped and spoke first.

  “Monsieur Franck, the prosecutor—rumour has it you’ve accepted favours from the Palais Royal to speak on behalf of certain interests?”

  André’s reply was cold and clear: “Forgive me, General, but I speak only on behalf of the law.”

  Inwardly, he cursed. The Commandant of Paris was a political fool: a man who held dynamite in his hand yet insisted on striking matches one by one until the room exploded around him.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Without another glance, André stepped past and entered the room. Lafayette shrugged with theatrical hauteur and left.

  If André had to name his teachers of 1790, three came to mind: Professor Thuriot at Reims, Judge Vinault at the Palais de Justice—and the man reclining on the sofa before him, Comte de Mirabeau.

  The forty-something giant was broad-shouldered and thick-armed, his heavy lips drawn into a mocking smile, his hawkish eyes burning black beneath a proud, scarred face.

  Once despised as the degenerate son of a noble house, a man of debts, scandals, and defiance, Mirabeau had become the most formidable voice in the Assembly—arrogant, tempestuous, but possessed of a genius for command and persuasion that crushed opposition by sheer force of presence.

  “Boy, put the ointment on my eyes,” he said without greeting, as if addressing a servant. André obeyed without hesitation, as a pupil tending a master.

  The cool touch eased Mirabeau’s pain. He waved André to a chair.

  “I’ve been watching you, André—yes, I know you like to be called that.” He chuckled, then his face hardened. “I know you dislike the King at the Tuileries—think him timid and unfit to guide this nation. You are right. But remember this: monarchy is the ship’s last anchor. That is why I insisted, against all opposition, on giving Louis XVI a royal veto. Do you know why?”

  André stayed silent, glancing around the room until Mirabeau snapped, “No one dares eavesdrop when I speak.”

  “Because of the 1,000,000 livres from the royal treasury,” André answered bluntly, “and your wish to divide power—to keep 745 dictators from emerging.”

  He was right. The Assembly was increasingly overreaching itself, stretching its legislative hand toward the executive and judiciary. Even under Louis XV’s absolutism, the Palais de Justice had remained independent. Now, through André’s own coordination, it had become entangled with the Assembly, to Mirabeau’s quiet alarm. His manoeuvres had already led to the dissolution of the Tax Committee, frustrating further cooperation.

  Mirabeau laughed, unconcerned. “You bear a grudge, but you’re right. Now tell me—define your politics in one sentence.”

  Under that penetrating gaze, André felt his mind laid bare. After a pause, he replied, “Whether monarchy or republic, I believe the law is the final bulwark of order.”

  Mirabeau smiled faintly, raising a finger. “You’re fencing words, André. You see yourself as the law incarnate, perched upon the mountains like a vulture over the tax-farmers. Clever. You’ve chosen the rich and politically weak as your sacrificial enemies—and in doing so, you’ve won allies among the mob. But tell me, at the hearing two months ago, when the Tax Committee was dissolved—do you know why I said nothing to defend you?”

  André, who had pondered that question for half a year, now saw the truth. “Because you wanted Necker’s failure,” he said. “You needed the Finance Minister to fall under the weight of his own deficits, so you could claim his office—or the Ministry of Justice. And only through me could the state extract money from the tax-farmers’ pockets.”

  “Ha! You are clever indeed. My apologies for using you as the price of power,” said Mirabeau, with little sincerity.

  André merely smiled. Politics was a marketplace; betrayal came with the trade.

  “I no longer hope for much,” Mirabeau sighed. “My doctors—and my body—tell me I’ll not live to see next summer.”

  André said nothing. Years of debauchery and indulgence had ruined the great man’s health beyond repair. In an age without antibiotics, it was a death sentence.

  “I once hoped, like you, to restore order through law,” Mirabeau went on. “But no one believes a scoundrel could serve virtue. They let anarchy devour this country I love. I fought alone in the Assembly—shouted myself hoarse—to stop it, in vain. I need allies. Perhaps you are one.”

  Hearing this, André looked up. The dying lion’s eyes glimmered with weary brilliance.

  “You’re cunning and cautious,” Mirabeau said. “You won’t sell yourself to that charlatan, the Duc d'Orléans. In truth, the Capet family are all alike, though the King at least has a heart. You despise the throne, yet envy it. You charm the crowd, yet keep your knife hidden. You are peaceful in manner but ruthless in spirit.”

  André was startled, about to protest, but Mirabeau cut him off with a growl.

  “Damn it, don’t argue with a man who’ll be dead in ten months.”

  He paused, then continued in a low voice:

  “France stands lost. Its people pander to the sans-culottes, not realizing that their greed will birth a tyrant. Ending a revolution is far harder than starting one—it takes discipline and courage. Tell me, how will your law keep order—with speeches, debates, or a pound of gunpowder?”

  André remained silent.

  “You and Lafayette are opposites,” Mirabeau said. “He believes in mankind; you doubt it. He dreams; you disbelieve. He hesitates; you decide. Yet he, for all his foolish vanity, embodies honesty, conscience, and compassion. Help him, André. He might lead France to safety—with less blood. Will you?”

  “If possible,” André answered after a pause, “I will try.”

  “That is enough,” Mirabeau nodded. “I meant to say this to Danton, but you’ll do better. I’ll repay you, the God-Favoured. But now, for the King’s sake, you must cut ties with the Duc d'Orléans.”

  Minutes later, the room erupted in furious shouting.

  “You Reims bastard!” roared Mirabeau. “Tell your patron that Mirabeau takes no orders from the Palais Royal! The King and Queen live at the Tuileries, not in the Duc’s study! Now get out—get out!”

  André emerged pale and trembling, fists clenched, humiliated. None dared console him; no one wished to be the next target of the lion’s rage.

  He retreated to a quiet corner of the hall and reviewed the conversation in his mind. Mirabeau had urged him to leave Paris—to return to Reims and build his own base of power, rather than linger among the fickle Parisians who praised today and destroyed tomorrow.

  “Go before year’s end,” Mirabeau had said. “Return next spring as a legislative deputy. As for your… private concerns, leave them to me.”

  “Accept or refuse?” André pondered bitterly.

  Just then, he heard two familiar voices. Turning, he saw Deputies Prieur and Robespierre entering the hall, locked in argument.

  “Three months ago,” Prieur was saying, “the Assembly voted to hold the Festival of the Federation. Now the Paris City Hall claims it has no money, no manpower, and no time to build the national altar on the Champ de Mars!”

  Prieur, small and lean, always dressed like a courtroom lawyer: dark coat, white cravat, powdered wig. His voice carried, his energy seemed endless. As secretary of the Finance Committee and a leading radical, he had recently been tasked with reorganizing the new Tax Committee.

  Robespierre defended Mayor Bailly. “The Assembly only finalized the design yesterday. With less than three weeks before July fourteenth, who wouldn’t be anxious?”

  “He’s the Mayor of Paris!” Prieur snapped. “Astronomers should chart stars, not politics.”

  André stepped forward, greeted them both, and offered a suggestion.

  “Voluntary labour?” The two deputies looked puzzled.

  “Yes,” André said solemnly, inventing the concept on the spot. “Work without quotas or pay—citizens contributing freely to the nation. Through such collective labour, people will feel the strength and warmth of unity, the dignity of work. It will correct the idle habits of the old nobility, teach the idle rich to respect honest toil, and bridge the gulf between those who eat and those who earn their bread.”

  “Excellent!” said Prieur, glancing at Robespierre. Both men approved at once.

  They urged André, the idea’s author, to speak from the podium that evening. André refused quickly. “I’d rather not be booed off the stage by Mirabeau,” he said, explaining the earlier encounter. Neither deputy pressed him; even in the clubs, few dared to challenge the roaring lion.

  “Maximilien, it’s your turn,” said Prieur at last, and together they pushed Robespierre toward the dais.

  …

  In truth, the first historical advocate of “voluntary labour” during the Revolution was an anonymous soldier. Learning that the altar on the Champ de Mars was behind schedule for lack of workers, he wrote to the newspapers calling on citizens to join the effort.

  André, unknowingly, had given that idea to Robespierre a week early.

  “Yes, citizens!” Robespierre’s voice rang out through the Jacobin hall. “I look forward to seeing, on the Champ de Mars, priests with the badge of the nation upon their chests, labouring side by side with soldiers, workers, and well-dressed women—all united in the same dust of patriotism!”

  The speech electrified the audience. Men wept, shouting, “Tomorrow we’ll go—we must go!” as the revolutionary hymn Tout ira bien (“All Shall Be Well”) echoed once again.

  The following afternoon, June sixth, the 15,000 hired labourers at the Champ de Mars, paid double wages yet sluggish in their work, were stunned to find tens of thousands of Parisians gathered around the site—watching them with grief and scorn. Then, at a single cry, the citizens seized shovels, picks, and barrows from the idlers and joined the work themselves.

  By dusk, 30,000 patriots had replaced the hired men.

  They worked with zeal and order, completing in a single day what had been scheduled to take three.

  Note:

  L’Incorruptible: means "the Incorruptible" to refer to Robespierre.