In his dual capacity as the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court and as a trusted friend, André’s lobbying of the two left-wing (indeed, far-left) deputies of the Constituent Assembly had one more purpose: to secure political backing for his impending journey to the Girondin province.

  Earlier that year, a local prosecutor named Randel in Bordeaux, capital of the Gironde, had filed a lawsuit accusing several tax farmers of conspiring with municipal officials to extort local wine merchants—charging illegal indirect taxes of thirty-five to fifty percent on commercial goods. Soon after, Judge Duranthon of the Bordeaux court defied opposition and formally accepted the case. Yet three days before the hearing, Prosecutor Randel was killed when his carriage plunged into a ravine, leaving the case suspended indefinitely.

  At the start of the month, when Randel’s successor, Luchon, petitioned to withdraw the case, Judge Duranthon refused. He instead sent a formal request for judicial assistance to the Palais de Justice, asking that the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court be dispatched from Paris to resume the investigation into the Bordeaux wine-tax scandal.

  André’s appointment to the Special Fiscal Court—and the full backing he now enjoyed from the Palais de Justice—had come with a price. Acceptance of the Gironde case was that price: authority came paired with obligation. To ascend so quickly, he had to shoulder immense pressure and pay for it in kind.

  After Randel’s mysterious death, the Palais de Justice took precautions. To prevent “accidents” during the inquiry, André was granted command of a mounted fiscal police detachment, with secret orders instructing the Paris Police Department to cooperate fully.

  Prieur and Robespierre were not ignorant of these arrangements. Back during the Babeuf trial, André had already confided in them. Bringing it up again now was a signal—he sought their open support.

  Robespierre promised immediately. He would write to Vergniaud, the lawyer heading the Bordeaux and Gironde branches of the Jacobin Club, asking that they assist the prosecutor’s work—even mobilising the local National Guard if necessary.

  Prieur, for his part, pledged to contact an old acquaintance—the retired privateer Captain Surcouf, whose fleet and private militia would be instructed to remain on standby near the port of Bordeaux. Years earlier, Prieur had defended Surcouf in court, saving the captain from imprisonment in Paris.

  Before the three men ended their confidential meeting, Prieur asked,

  “Have you fixed your date of departure?”

  “Yes,” André nodded. “Right after the Festival of the Federation, no later than July twentieth. As agreed with Judge Duranthon, I must arrive in Bordeaux before August. By the time I return to Paris, I hope to find that Necker and his banker’s Treasury have finally been thrown out.”

  Originally, André had considered travelling with the delegation from Bordeaux. But after reading the case dossier forwarded from the Palais de Justice—Duranthon’s full report and evidence copies—he decided to go alone, two days ahead of schedule.

  When Robespierre rose to leave, Prieur stayed behind for a few more words.

  “You must pay close attention to the Bordeaux Customs Office,” he said. “As France’s third-largest port, its customs revenues have fallen sharply for five consecutive months. Both the Financial Committee and the Treasury hope that, during your stay, you’ll restore order there and remit the collected taxes to the National Treasury in Paris. 2,000,000 livres is your minimum target—but you must not, under any circumstances, destabilise the city.

  “By custom, seven percent of the recovered revenue will be yours to disburse—to expand your detachment or for other expenses. The committee and ministry have already approved it, and a team of accountants will travel to Bordeaux to assist you. Should the total exceed 4,000,000, your share will rise to ten percent. Remember: collect the taxes, but keep the customs stable—and above all, keep Bordeaux calm.”

  Since June, all 6,000,000 active citizens of France had been mobilised to prepare for the Festival of the Federation—the great Festival of the Victors. Across the eighty-three provinces, tricolour-sashed deputies and officials quarrelled endlessly for the honour of representing their cities in the grand national procession. The National Guard’s enthusiasm soared: the lucky men chosen by lot gathered in their provincial capitals, rehearsing parade drills and musket volleys, ready to march under the flags of Law and the Kingdom, escorted by music, waving hats, perfumed handkerchiefs, and the cheers of patriots—all bound for Paris.

  By mid-July, with delegations from all eighty-three provinces (including Paris itself)—nearly 300,000 people—flooding the capital, post-revolutionary Paris had become a sea of jubilation. The banners of Brittany, Burgundy, and others lined both banks of the Seine.

  Everywhere in the streets, one saw dusty yet radiant travellers from the provinces, moving to the drums and fifes of All Shall Be Well Together. The proud Parisians had laid aside their old hauteur, bringing out wine and food to welcome the patriots who had marched on foot for ten or more days.

  At the former site of the Bastille, the first arrivals—Lyon’s delegation and unemployed workers from Saint-Antoine—joined forces to build a large mock mountain of discarded planks and plaster. They carved steps into it, shaped bushes from shavings, and even erected a small temple and a statue of Liberty—both of which collapsed in a sudden downpour and had to be dismantled in the mud.

  By dusk, as André’s carriage left the Jacobin Club and entered the riverside avenue, he found the rain-soaked streets hopelessly clogged. Crossing either the Pont Neuf or the Pont Vieux before nightfall was impossible.

  So he alighted, walked to the quay, and for three livres hired a small boat to ferry him across the Seine. As he was about to board, a man in his fifties, escorting a beautiful young wife, approached and asked to share the passage, offering to pay the full fare.

  “Paris welcomes you!” André said, pressing down the brim of his hat with a smile and inviting the provincial couple aboard.

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  The husband, a stiff and slow-minded yet good-natured man, bore every mark of a modest shopkeeper—plain speech, humble manners, and the sober appearance of a Quaker. But his wife left a far stronger impression: tall, slender, with perfectly shaped legs and a soft, generous figure beneath her thin dress. Her face was delicate rather than beautiful, touched by fine wrinkles at the eyes—faint traces of her thirty-some years.

  The Seine flowed gently as ever, and the crossing took barely ten minutes.

  André soon realised that the couple were speaking quite openly, making no effort to hide their conversation from him—perhaps because his bearing as a lawyer was evident.

  “From Lyon... the Roland couple?” André frowned slightly. The world was indeed small. Only hours earlier, he had confirmed his own journey to Gironde—and now he met two people who would soon lead it. The husband, Jean-Marie Roland, was an inspector of industrial works under the national manufactories; his wife, Madame Manon Roland, would one day become the Girondins’ spiritual leader and their salon goddess.

  They were discussing which friends to invite to their new home in Paris. André caught familiar names in passing—Pétion, Brissot, Condorcet, Buzot, even Robespierre.

  “Sir, may I have the honour of knowing your name?” Madame Roland asked when they reached the Left Bank. After a brief exchange with her husband, she stepped forward gracefully, her light steps echoing on the stone quay.

  André smiled, bending slightly at the waist to give a courtly hat-flourish worthy of the old nobility.

  “André. André Franck, my beautiful lady.”

  Pleased by the gallant gesture, Madame Roland returned his smile.

  “Then, Monsieur André, as thanks for your kindness today, my husband and I would be delighted if you joined us in three days’ time for a salon gathering at No. 1 Rue de Bac.”

  André accepted without hesitation. He could not resist the sparkle in her half-turned glance—that playful smile tinged with the faintest flame of seduction.

  When she rejoined her husband, Monsieur Roland asked quietly, “Why invite a complete stranger to our salon?”

  Manon licked her lips, slipped her arm through his, and whispered, “Because, my dear, the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, André Franck, is no stranger to Paris.”

  Even in distant Lyon, the Rolands had followed his rise through newspapers and letters from friends. Within a year, André Franck had risen from a minor clerk at the Palais de Justice to one of the city’s most famous figures. He had overturned the seemingly airtight Babeuf murder case, forcing the prosecutor to withdraw all charges.

  As the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, he had driven the once-mighty tax-farmer syndicate to the brink of collapse. Necker’s personal guarantee had saved them from ruin—barely. Few, including the Rolands, believed the Finance Minister could long survive the mounting deficit.

  André’s influence now extended far beyond the courts: he held allies in the Assembly’s left wing, reach within the Paris Police Department, and an uncanny talent for financial speculation—his manoeuvres in the securities market were legendary. His poetry too had captivated high society: If Life Deceives You was beloved by Lyon’s fashionable women, and his Four-Colour Problem had driven France’s mathematicians mad for weeks.

  Roland fell silent, then muttered, “But the Marquis de Condorcet dislikes that prosecutor. Aren’t you afraid the gathering will become awkward?”

  Manon only smiled. Condorcet himself, in a private letter to her, had confessed admiration for André’s intellect. The academician hoped to reconcile him with the tax-farming circle—or at least persuade him to spare Lavoisier and his father-in-law from further reprisals.

  The encounter with the Rolands left André thoughtful, though not much moved. His philosophy by now was simple: before a ship sinks, make sure you have another to board. The Girondins would be one such ship. He had stopped bothering to count which.

  He hurried home before the next downpour.

  Climbing to the second floor, André was pleasantly surprised to find a young man in a blue officer’s uniform waiting on the salon sofa—an old friend he had not seen for some time.

  “Saint-Just, my friend! When did you arrive?”

  André embraced him warmly, then turned to his aide. “Meldar, go reserve a table at the street restaurant.” Since the arrival of 300,000 provincials, every café and tavern in Paris was packed to the rafters; to dine before eight, one had to book two hours ahead.

  The strikingly handsome young officer smiled shyly. “Our Nevers contingent entered the city this morning. But Paris is so vast—it took us three or four hours to find this place.”

  As André handed him a glass of red wine, he noticed someone else sitting quietly opposite—a young girl, fifteen or sixteen, with a bright, innocent face. She seemed oddly familiar.

  “Wait, don’t tell me,” André interrupted Saint-Just’s attempt at an introduction. He frowned, then laughed.

  “Ah, the brave little Marie! I remember you. You came alone by coach to Reims to visit your brother—what was it, a year ago? You were this tall then.” He gestured absurdly at his waist, making the girl blush and glare at him—to which both men laughed heartily.

  Marie was the youngest of Saint-Just’s two sisters, and had idolised her brother since childhood. When he stormed off to study in Reims, she had secretly sent him living expenses and tuition—with their mother’s silent consent. Upon arriving, the clever girl had even exposed a con artist who tried to swindle her, delivering him to the city watch.

  “She’s been begging me for a month,” Saint-Just explained, “and another month persuading our mother. I finally allowed her to come—but only for a day. After tomorrow’s Federation oath ceremony, we must return to Blérancourt at once.”

  “So soon?” André was surprised. The Festival of the Federation would continue for seven days of celebrations after the oath; most provincial contingents would remain in Paris until the twenty-second.

  “A sudden situation,” Saint-Just said. “A band of violent brigands has crossed into neighbouring Loire province. The National Guard in Nevers has been mobilised, and we must intercept them before they reach our borders.”

  He paused, then added, “Tonight I must visit Deputy Robespierre in Saint-Antoine. I’d be grateful if you could look after my sister until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Of course,” André replied. He pointed to a door. “That’s the guest room. I’ll have Anna prepare it. Tomorrow my mounted patrol will handle security at the south gate of the National Altar—Marie may accompany me or Second Lieutenant Hoche.”

  Though prepared for this reunion, André could not help but feel a pang. He wanted to warn his brilliant, steely friend—to tell him of the peril that awaited. But Saint-Just’s cold clarity, his unbending will, stopped him. Better silence than words that would change nothing.

  Their conversation turned to poetry, to Reims, to memories of youth. Yet when politics arose, Saint-Just’s fervour outstripped even André’s.

  When André cautioned him to consider “the limits of reason in politics,” Saint-Just replied calmly, “The sword in my hand will erase those limits.”

  The prosecutor frowned in silence.

  At dinner, André remained as genial as ever, yet a flicker of doubt shadowed his eyes—a look that did not escape the sharp gaze of young Marie.

  When the evening ended and Saint-Just departed, she lingered by the doorway.

  “André,” she asked softly, “you don’t seem to agree with my brother’s ideas. Are you... afraid for him?”

  The question startled him. He nodded, then shook his head, glancing away, dodging her gaze. Finally, he smiled faintly and sent her off to rest.

  That night, André tossed in bed, sleepless until dawn.

  “To intervene—or to let history take its course?”

  He still did not know the answer.