Of course not.

  Though André and Hoche had both declared their withdrawal from the Cordeliers Club, its president, Danton, refused to approve it—arguing that they had already paid their annual dues in full.

  In truth, Danton, eager to expand his influence within the Paris Commune, had been looking for a way to reconcile with André. There was, after all, no real enmity between them; only a rivalry fuelled by the insecurities of others—chiefly Desmoulins—who feared André’s rising prestige within the Club.

  Now that André and Hoche had voluntarily stepped aside, the cause of friction was gone, and a return to their former cooperation seemed possible once more.

  There could be no doubt: when Marat called upon the Cordeliers to avenge themselves against André, the lawyers, journalists, and men of letters who formed the Danton faction offered him no support.

  If anything, they were secretly pleased to see the People’s Friend stumble. A touch of incentive from André, and Danton’s circle might well turn upon Marat’s.

  Meanwhile, Legendre and others loyal to André stood firmly against the Cordeliers’ radical wing. Though André and Hoche had formally resigned, Legendre continued to manage the twenty-odd Parisian branches André had established, and soon entered into open alliance with Tallien and his associates.

  Thus, the meeting dissolved in quarrels and confusion, ending without resolution.

  And to attack the People’s Lawyer in print—a man Marat himself had once publicly praised—would have been farcical. The People’s Friend and Hébert possessed no evidence, only conjecture. Any public accusation would hand André the perfect excuse for yet another round of political retribution.

  As for assassination—neither Marat nor Hébert dared imagine it.

  “So we compromise,” Marat said at last, weariness softening his voice. “We do not provoke him further.”

  Then, seeing Hébert’s crestfallen expression, he added almost kindly, “We have not lost entirely. That fool Piero cost him five soldiers. Trust me, I know André—he will leave it there.”

  When Hébert had gone, Marat’s mistress Simonne emerged from the adjoining room.

  She was an unremarkable woman in appearance, neither beautiful nor fierce as rumour suggested, but gentle, devoted, and steadfast—a quiet soul who had nursed the agitator through years of exile and fever.

  “Is it truly over?” she asked, spreading ointment across his raw, diseased skin.

  As a founding member of the Cordeliers Club, she had once witnessed André’s mastery in the Babeuf trial—how he could turn the political tide with a gesture.

  Marat smiled bitterly. “A prosecutor’s anger is not so easily cooled. I shall write to him. You will give the letter to Legendre for delivery.

  He is a political animal—he will understand my offer of peace.

  If he meant to strike again, he would not have begun with a nobody.”

  Privately, Marat felt disgust for Hébert.

  A leader without restraint was no leader at all. By contrast, his other disciple, Pierre Chaumette, possessed the discipline and intellect he admired. Like himself, Chaumette had studied medicine and worked as an apothecary before the Revolution—a man of reason, not impulse.

  Marat’s instinct proved correct.

  That same night, when André received his letter, he exhaled deeply and set it aside. The weight in his chest lifted.

  He ordered Javert to halt all remaining reprisals.

  Marat had underestimated his own importance in André’s eyes.

  Unless their conflict became irreconcilable, the People’s Lawyer would never strike at the People’s Friend.

  As long as their common enemies still walked the corridors of power, alliance remained the wiser course.

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  On July nineteenth, the eve of André’s departure for the Gironde, he rode down to the river docks to bid farewell to the Joint Steam Engine Company’s delegation bound for England.

  The industrial mission, composed of twelve men, included Jean-Baptiste Say, Périer (the elder brother), Fourier, and several engineers, metallurgists, architects, accountants, and clerks.

  Over the previous month, Say and Périer had travelled along the Seine and Marne rivers, surveying possible sites for their new factory.

  They had finally chosen Chalons, on the Marne—a town favoured for its proximity to coal and iron routes from Alsace and Lorraine, its modest construction costs, and its relative security.

  Most of the technical staff, lured by generous relocation allowances, had agreed to move their families to the new provincial capital.

  Say, twenty-four, was tall and broad-shouldered, his face earnest, his manner plain.

  He could scarcely imagine that he would one day be hailed as the first professor of political economy in France, the man who would bring the light of liberal thought to the continent.

  In another age, Say would co-found a textile mill near Paris, run it with exemplary skill, and amass both fortune and fame.

  To André, he was already more than an engineer—he was a builder, a mechanic, a future economist, and, in modern terms, a chief executive of rare talent.

  It was for these reasons that André had courted him personally.

  After several visits, Say had agreed to serve as general manager of the Joint Steam Engine Company.

  As majority shareholder, André pledged not to interfere in daily management.

  Technical matters, however, remained under the authority of Chief Engineer Périer.

  Before embarkation, André handed Say a folded sheet—a list of names, more than ten in total, most unfamiliar. Among them were Richard Trevithick, Robert Fulton, and Edward Jenner.

  “This should have been the engineer’s duty,” André explained, “but Périer is too reserved for negotiation.

  I must ask you to handle it. Bring every man on this list to France if you can; pay them well. But these three—Trevithick, Fulton, and Jenner—are indispensable.

  Trevithick is a young mechanical engineer working in a tin mine in Cornwall.

  Fulton, an American studying drafting here in Britain, is experimenting with steam engines in Watt’s factory.

  As for Jenner, he is not an engineer but a country physician in Berkeley, Gloucestershire.

  Tell him André offers funding for his research on vaccination by cowpox, in the hope of finding a safer, more effective prevention against smallpox.”

  He handed Say a sealed letter. “Deliver this to him personally.”

  Say frowned, not from reluctance but from concern.

  The 200,000 livres André had already advanced were nearly spent—on machinery, relocation, and construction.

  André read his thoughts and said quietly, “The accountant still holds another 100,000.

  And through Ouvrard’s brother in London, the Bank of England has agreed to issue a six-month acceptance for ￡30,000—about 600,000 livres—for the purchase of British goods and machinery.”

  Say’s face eased. The arrangements were sound.

  Five days after leaving Paris, André and his Horse Guards reached Chalus, a small town on the southwestern edge of the Haute-Vienne, four leagues—some sixteen kilometres—from the River Isle, marking the border with the Dordogne.

  If all went well, they would embark by dawn and drift downstream to Bordeaux within forty-eight hours, ending their long and punishing march.

  Punishing, at least, for André himself.

  His troopers, sons of herdsmen, were born riders, hardened by wind and rain.

  But their commander, spending five days continuously in the saddle, now suffered aching shoulders, raw thighs, and every symptom of endurance.

  More than once he was tempted to hire a carriage, but pride forbade it.

  Even for appearances’ sake, a commander must not yield before his men.

  To quit the saddle would be to invite contempt—and André detested weakness as deeply as he despised Louis XVI.

  When he turned in the saddle, he saw his troopers as exhausted as himself yet buoyant in spirit, for their officers shared every hardship.

  And when he announced that they would sleep tonight in an inn, not a damp tent, they erupted in cheers, waving their hats in delight.

  “Augereau!” André called, raising his riding whip.

  The Prussian sergeant, ever fond of display, was at that moment juggling his reins with a flourish.

  “Clear the way. That inn—eight hundred metres ahead.”

  It was a plain, grey building at the edge of town.

  By dusk, it was alive with noise—the clatter of crockery, the chatter of travellers, and the shrill laughter of painted women from the roadside taverns.

  From the street, André could already hear the din within—the sound of life, heat, and humanity—waiting to receive the weary riders from Paris.