“I can swear it by my mother’s grave—the Four-Colour Problem has no solution. Not now, nor within the next two centuries.”

  André had repeated that line so many times to curious acquaintances that he could no longer remember to whom he had last said it.

  Prieur stamped his foot in mock impatience. “You orphan raised by monks in Reims, perhaps you should find your real mother before swearing oaths upon her grave.”

  Robespierre, ever proper, stifled a laugh. He considered it deeply impolite to mock a friend’s parentage, even in jest.

  André merely shrugged, unwilling to argue—the more one explained, the deeper the misunderstanding. By now, all of Paris believed that the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court had invented the Four-Colour Problem merely to humiliate the scholars of the Académie des Sciences who had once slighted him.

  If they wished to misunderstand, so be it. The question had been asked so many times that André stopped clarifying altogether, shifting his focus instead to the upcoming Festival of the Federation.

  To the French of the twenty-first century, the name might sound unfamiliar, but it was nothing less than the forerunner of the modern national holiday—July fourteenth, Bastille Day. It was also the first secular festival in continental Europe, unbound from any Christian liturgy.

  Today was July thirteenth, the eve of the festival, and the day of the final rehearsal.

  The Champ de Mars was ready at last. After nearly 2,000,000 man-days of voluntary labour, the ground had been levelled and reinforced with stone; citizens could now stroll freely across the vast square, casting reverent glances toward the immense oval amphitheater that cradled the National Altar.

  “Two football fields in size, and yet the stands are far too low,” André concluded after circling the arena.

  That final day, the arrival of King Louis XVI and the Queen for the rehearsal brought unprecedented security. Even the mounted police squadrons had been redeployed—Augereau’s unit among them—to guard the southern gate.

  Near the altar, the Breton delegation stood out for its perfect discipline. While other regions sent only one or two representatives for the rehearsal, Brittany’s contingent appeared in full force, playing their distinctive octave bagpipes and earning the applause of the royal couple.

  When the rehearsal ended, all the Bretons fell to their knees upon the altar platform, weeping like children. Their young captain stepped forward, half-kneeling before the royal dais. Drawing his sword and turning its hilt toward the King, he swore solemnly: “The Bretons shall forever be loyal to His Majesty.”

  At this, Prieur, Robespierre, and André—three radical republicans standing upon the stone steps of the amphitheater—exchanged wary glances but kept silent. They all remembered the captain’s name. A dangerous man, a future Royalist Party figure.

  “He’s called Jacques Cathelineau,” said Second Lieutenant Hoche, riding up on horseback. Dismounting, he climbed the steps and saluted the prosecutor and the two deputies in turn.

  As for Augereau, he remained on patrol, deliberately keeping his distance from Prosecutor André.

  “Remember Cathelineau’s face,” André told Hoche quietly. “You may find it useful one day.” Then he signalled his companions to board the carriage.

  Since the Festival of the Federation would be held the next morning, the Constituent Assembly had adjourned for a two-day recess—which meant their next stop was naturally the Jacobin Club.

  As the carriage swayed through the streets, Prieur broke the silence.

  “The fiscal deficit for the second quarter has reached 2.2 billion livres. Damn that Necker! His disastrous policies are bleeding France dry. André, if we were to establish the Fiscal Court now, could you recover at least 100 million for the nation?”

  “You want the truth?” André asked. Both deputies nodded.

  “Then here it is.” He spread his hands. “It’s no longer possible, gentlemen. Three months ago, I could still say so with confidence—back then, the tax farmers’ assets were still in France. But as of today, my sources tell me that most of their illicit wealth has been moved abroad or hidden in the provinces. We might recover 50 million livres at best. Give it another three months, and that number will drop below 20 million.”

  Robespierre and Prieur accepted the grim reality. They would have done no better in his place.

  “Still,” André went on, “taxing the farmers isn’t the only way to close the deficit. Those damned Americans still owe us 1.06 billion livres from their war debts. I propose the Assembly issue a formal demand for repayment—gold, silver, dollars, grain, wool, cotton, tobacco, or even mortgaged merchant ships, we take it all. And please, don’t be swayed by that fool Lafayette. In claiming to be Washington’s ‘son,’ he seems to have forgotten he was born a Frenchman.”

  The mere mention of General Lafayette drew groans from the two deputies. The man had repeatedly urged them to forgive America’s colossal debt, insisting that “the friendship between France and America must not be measured in money.” Yet by the late eighteenth century, the United States was little more than a sentimental vanity project for France—a convenient tool for needling Britain, but of no real value.

  After a moment’s thought, Robespierre replied calmly, “Yes, the American debt must be pressed, but that won’t solve our short-term crisis. Necker’s ministry is already defaulting on soldiers’ pay along the border. Reports from the Nancy branch of the Club say troops there haven’t received wages for five months. I fear the aristocratic officers may exploit that to incite a mutiny.”

  By now, Robespierre had formally withdrawn from all Assembly committees, devoting himself to building the Jacobin Club’s Communications Committee—a network collecting reports from provincial branches, summarising and analysing them into biweekly bulletins to guide national opinion. Through this organisation, he was gradually uniting Paris with the provinces and consolidating control over the entire Jacobin movement.

  André sometimes felt like a wind-up automaton. Whenever financial or tax questions arose, Prieur and Robespierre would immediately turn to him, expecting him to pull another trick from his sleeve. He complained, yet secretly enjoyed it. The more powerful allies he surrounded himself with, the easier it became to make money—or to flee if necessary.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Soon, he presented a seemingly simple plan.

  “To raise money quickly,” André said, “we could—well, let’s say issue a lottery. I once did the math: if each ticket costs two sous, and we sell ten rounds a month among Paris’s 600,000 residents, that’s about 1 million livres raised monthly. After deducting prizes, costs, and distribution, net revenue would still be around 600,000 livres—enough to pay 20,000 soldiers. Extend the lottery to the fifty largest cities in France, and we can easily cover wages for 128,000 border troops.”

  Lotteries were nothing new to the French. Under Louis XIV, even the royal cabinet had a Minister of Lotteries; half the Sun King’s war budget came from that source. But under Louis XVI, the system had been abolished by those “men of virtue”—Enlightenment idealists who naively believed lotteries would turn citizens into gamblers and undermine social order.

  For Prieur, the idea was mildly embarrassing. Back in his student days at the University of Reims under Louis XV, he had fiercely denounced lotteries as “the devil’s temptation.” Yet now, facing a bankrupt nation, even he found his moral purity softening.

  “Do you have any other suggestions?” Prieur asked, noticing the thoughtful look on the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court’s face.

  André decided to reveal his longer plan. “Yes, something more complex. I’ll summarise briefly—if it interests you, I’ll present a full proposal later. I’m speaking of a personal income adjustment tax applied to France’s 6,000,000 active citizens—essentially a new head tax.”

  He elaborated, using Paris as an example:

  Monthly household income ≤150 livres: exempt.

  150–400 livres: tax 5% on the excess.

  401–900 livres: tax 10%.

  901–1,500 livres: tax 15%.

  1,501–2,000 livres: tax 20%.

  Above 2,001 livres: tax 25%, with no rate exceeding that ceiling.

  “If applied in Paris,” André concluded, “the monthly revenue could reach 1.5 million livres, with at least 500,000 guaranteed in net yield.”

  The idea of an income tax was not purely André’s invention. Since 1765, the British Parliament had debated a similar nobility tax for a quarter of a century; by 1799, they would finally implement it, making income tax a permanent institution. France, however, had never pursued it seriously—until now.

  André, of course, had his own motives. As the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, such a reform would vastly expand his authority. From his prior life, he knew the French well: tax evasion was practically a national pastime. Arrests under that charge would never lack for suspects—only for hours in the day.

  There was another reason too. Mirabeau and Sieyès had privately urged André to persuade the far-left deputies—Prieur and Robespierre among them—to temper their attacks on the electoral system dividing active and passive citizens, so that the French Constitution of 1791 might pass without endless obstruction.

  “In principle,” André explained, “citizens pay taxes because they enjoy public goods in return. Taxes both fund these goods and balance income inequality—the rich contribute more, the poor benefit more. It’s a way of smoothing the peaks and filling the valleys.

  From an academic standpoint, the citizen pays the state, and the state uses that revenue to maintain armies, police, culture, transport—the structure of civilisation itself.

  At the same time, income tax serves to redistribute wealth: heavier taxation of the rich allows transfers to the poor, easing resentment and stabilising society.”

  André took pains to frame his argument in plain, methodical language that two lawyer-deputies with limited economic sense could follow. Whether it would persuade them, he did not much care.

  After all, the country had only just abolished most individual levies in the fervour of revolutionary zeal; restoring a tax now would be immensely difficult. And from proposal to debate to enforcement could take years—with the Assembly’s current pace, the Constitution itself would be done before they finished talking.

  But André had other aims. He wanted to craft an image among the left-wing deputies—of a man who cared for the people, who worked for them, and thought for them.

  In truth, the prosecutor’s personal fortune had already swelled to nearly 400,000 livres through a string of illicit insider deals. And it was still growing.

  Until he possessed real power to secure his life and property, André resolved to play the part wisely—to appear modest, ascetic, devoted to the common good.

  A perfect politician’s mask.

  Note:

  Mirabeau – A noble-born revolutionary orator and early leader of the Constituent Assembly; advocated constitutional monarchy and gradual reform.

  Billaud-Varenne – Jacques-Nicolas Billaud-Varenne: A radical Jacobin politician and member of the Committee of Public Safety; one of the chief architects of the Reign of Terror.

  Prieur – Pierre-Louis Prieur (Prieur de la Marne): Member of the Committee of Public Safety, known for rigorously enforcing the Terror throughout the provinces.

  Lavoisier – Antoine-Laurent de Lavoisier: The "Father of Modern Chemistry"; a Paris tax official and scientist executed during the Revolution as a former tax farmer.

  Paulze – Jacques Paulze: Lavoisier's father-in-law and finance manager of the Ferme Générale; symbol of ancien-régime fiscal oligarchy, executed alongside him.

  Lefebvre – Fran?ois-Joseph Lefebvre: General of the Republic and Empire; rose from humble origins to Marshal of France, embodying the new military nobility.

  Necker – Jacques Necker: Swiss-born banker and royal finance minister; his reforms and fiscal crisis led directly to the calling of the Estates-General.

  Charles Ouvrard – Charles Ouvrard: Financier and military supplier from a merchant family; speculated in bonds and army contracts during the Revolution and Empire.

  Périer brothers: founders of the Paris Water Company; pioneers of early French industrial and financial enterprise.

  Robespierre – Maximilien Robespierre: Leader of the Jacobins and lawyer by training; promoted the "Republic of Virtue" and directed the Reign of Terror.

  Jean-Baptiste Say – Jean-Baptiste Say: Classical economist, author of A Treatise on Political Economy; advocate of free markets and entrepreneurial initiative.

  Saint-Just – Louis Antoine Léon de Saint-Just: Jacobin statesman and Robespierre's ally; known as the "Angel of the Revolution," symbolizing cold reason and moral rigor.

  Pierre Villiers – Pierre Villiers: Journalist and playwright; served as Robespierre's secretary and later wrote memoirs critical of the Terror.

  Laplace – Pierre-Simon Laplace: Mathematician and astronomer; author of Celestial Mechanics, later served as Minister of the Interior, embodying rational science in politics.

  Fourcroy – Antoine Fran?ois Fourcroy: Chemist and educational reformer; collaborator of Lavoisier, helped standardize chemical nomenclature and founded polytechnic education.

  Condorcet – Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas de Caritat, marquis de Condorcet: Enlightenment philosopher advocating universal education and gender equality; Girondin thinker who died in prison.

  Robert Surcouf – Robert Surcouf: Privateer from Brittany; famed for raiding British merchant ships in the Indian Ocean, symbolizing French maritime daring.

  Jean-Marie Roland – Jean-Marie Roland de la Platière: Minister and economist of the Girondin faction; proponent of liberal economics and moderate republicanism.

  Madame Roland – Marie-Jeanne Roland de la Platière (Manon Phlipon): Political writer and salon hostess; moral center of the Girondins, remembered for her final words, "O Liberty, what crimes are committed in thy name!"

  Manon – Marie-Jeanne Phlipon (Madame Roland): Madame Roland's familiar name; represents the rational courage of Enlightenment womanhood.

  Jér?me Pétion de Villeneuve: Former Mayor of Paris and Girondin leader; supporter of constitutional republicanism, died while fleeing persecution.

  Fran?ois Buzot: Lawyer and deputy; idealistic Girondin and confidant of Madame Roland, who committed suicide in exile.

  Fourier – Joseph Fourier: Mathematician and physicist; pioneer of heat theory and Fourier series, foundational to modern engineering and astronomy.

  Bailly – Jean-Sylvain Bailly: Astronomer and initiator of the Tennis Court Oath; first Mayor of Paris and a moderate revolutionary.

  Augereau – Pierre Fran?ois Charles Augereau: General of the Republic and Empire; rose from common origins to become Marshal of France, noted for bravery and discipline.