To most observers, the Marquis de Fontenay appeared a man of modest stature and unremarkable looks, yet one endowed with considerable wealth—a French noble of means, if not of grace. But after a brief luncheon aboard the vessel, André could not help but feel that this city aristocrat’s reputation was somewhat undeserved. There was nothing in the man’s manner or speech that bespoke the refinement of la noblesse fran?aise; instead, he exuded the coarse odour of money newly acquired. André strongly suspected that the Marquis’s title had been purchased—perhaps at a handsome price—from the impoverished descendants of some forgotten noble house.

  Before the Revolution, such transactions were hardly uncommon. Particularly in the southern provinces—Lyon, Bordeaux, and Marseille foremost among them—the burgeoning merchant class, enriched by manufacture, inland trade, and overseas shipping, sought to fill the void in their political standing by purchasing titles of nobility as tokens of social ascent. The practice was ubiquitous throughout the eighteenth century and, in time, even became one of the sparks that set the Palais de Justice against the forces of royal absolutism. Yet in the regions surrounding Paris, and throughout the north of France, noble blood remained largely untainted by such commerce.

  For a man of André’s rank—formerly a distinguished prosecutor of Paris, and now a Lieutenant Colonel—to dine with a provincial upstart was in itself a gesture of condescension. Sharing luncheon had been courtesy enough; thus André declined, with polite firmness, the Marquis de Fontenay’s invitation to tea.

  Yet the moment the Marquise de Fontenay stepped gracefully out of the cabin—a vision of youth and beauty, her manners at once coquettish and exquisitely polite—the situation altered entirely. With her soft voice and delicate poise, she renewed her husband’s invitation to afternoon tea, and this time André accepted without hesitation.

  He assured her that he would attend punctually, and before departing, he bowed with impeccable courtly grace, brushed his lips lightly upon the Marquise’s slender, alabaster fingers, and offered her the most gallant of wishes.

  As he left the afterdeck and returned toward the prow, Lieutenant Senarmont and Second Lieutenant Hoche exchanged amused glances. They could not understand why their Sir André—so austere only moments ago—had suddenly altered his tone to such cordiality, consenting to the Marquis and his wife’s tea invitation. Perhaps, they whispered, the good Lieutenant Colonel had fallen for that radiant Marquise and meant to pay his compliments—or, as they crudely jested, to “hookup.”

  “Enough of your nonsense, gentlemen,” André said with an awkward smile. When their laughter persisted, he waved a hand impatiently, signalling them back toward the forecabin for private discussion. Inwardly, André swore that he would never again teach twenty-first-century vocabulary to anyone around him.

  Closing the cabin door behind him, he continued in a lowered voice: “If I’m not mistaken, my identity has already been compromised—at least that clever and beautiful Marquise knows the true purpose of our journey to Bordeaux. From what I gathered through Lussac the elder’s introduction, the Marquis and his wife have no ties with the Bordeaux tax-farm syndicate. Their family enterprise manufactures oak barrels for the wine merchants, controlling nearly half of the regional market. Moreover, the Marquise, being the daughter of a banker, maintains extensive connections throughout the commercial world. She likely possesses information about the tax-farmers that could prove useful to us later.”

  After several days of travel together, Lieutenant Senarmont had grown accustomed to the Lieutenant Colonel’s unflappable solemnity when delivering such pronouncements. The two young officers, each polished and well-mannered, exchanged a knowing glance and a smile, teasingly assuring their superior that they understood perfectly and would not intrude upon his “tea-time diplomacy.” If need be, they added, they would gladly invite the Marquis for a stroll on the forward deck.

  His intentions so plainly exposed, André grew visibly irritable. “Out—all of you!” he barked. “Senarmont, tutor young Lussac in mathematics, and stop wasting time on the four-colour problem—it’s insoluble. As for you, Hoche, go below deck and check on our naval prisoners. Treat them decently: one ration of dry bread and soup per day will suffice.”

  Whether he harboured amorous designs himself, André could not have said. Yet he was convinced that the Marquise he had encountered today must be none other than the future Madame Tallien—the so-called “Goddess of Thermidor,” idolised by a legion of fools in years to come. The conviction owed much to a certain oil painting he recalled from the Louvre, in which that same face—then plump and decadent—was immortalised. But now, scarcely a year into marriage, the Marquise remained fresh and luminously youthful, untouched by the indolence and fleshly excesses that would later define the age of the Directory.

  Meanwhile, in the aftercabin, the Marquis de Fontenay and his wife were discussing precisely the same subject—the Lieutenant Colonel André Franck.

  “No,” said the Marquise softly, “that man is no mere officer. His true identity must be that of the Prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, appointed by the Palais de Justice last May. His journey to Bordeaux concerns the indirect taxes collected by the tax-farm companies.”

  In those few deliberate words, the intelligent and alluring Marquise had drawn André’s portrait to perfection. As for her source, she gave her husband no explanation—and the Marquis, timid by nature, did not press her. Still, the cautious nobleman expressed his unease.

  “My dear,” he murmured, “this concerns us little—unless, of course, Monsieur Franck the Lieutenant Colonel—or rather, the prosecutor from Paris—should choose to accept that small token of 5,000 livres. Apart from that, we would do well to remain neutral once we reach Bordeaux. No sense in being drawn into this affair.”

  His excessive prudence visibly displeased his wife. The Marquise knew full well that her husband still clung to his fading, shop-worn title of nobility. As a banker’s daughter, she understood that, in a sense, the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court represented both the National Constituent Assembly and the Palais de Justice—a plenipotentiary envoy of the law. With a judge’s endorsement, such a prosecutor could stir tempests through the commercial circles of Bordeaux—though he would, of course, bear the full consequences of the upheaval himself.

  For years, the tax-farm companies in Bordeaux—and indeed throughout the Gironde—had amassed vast reserves of wealth and influence. They would not easily surrender their dominion; resistance was inevitable and fierce. The murder of Bordeaux’s former prosecutor had been a flagrant warning, an act of audacity meant to remind Paris how far their reach extended. Yet the deed only strengthened the capital’s resolve to eradicate them once and for all.

  This time, however, the emissaries from Paris were not unprepared. The special prosecutor travelled south accompanied by a mounted detachment—an unmistakable sign that the mission would not rely solely on parchment and signatures.

  The young Marquise paid no heed to her husband’s timid caution. Inwardly she had already resolved: since fate had allowed her, before returning to Bordeaux, to cross paths with such a powerful man—young, handsome, and richly favoured—she would not squander so rare an opportunity.

  By mid-afternoon, André kept his promise and arrived at the stern cabin for tea. The quarters consisted of three private rooms and a salon that opened into a small dining chamber. To reach the latter, one had first to pass through the salon.

  Contrary to the nouveau-riche vulgarity that clung to the Marquis himself, the interior of their suite exuded an old-world grace. The furnishings were of polished ebony, intricately carved; crystal chandeliers cast a mellow golden light; a Gothic clock ticked softly beside a screen embroidered with oriental motifs. Even the modest dining room held a rosewood bookshelf, its corners inlaid with gilt Arabesques.

  As André had anticipated, the Marquise received him alone. She rose from her seat with measured elegance, her movements composed yet inviting, as though every gesture had been rehearsed beneath the gaze of mirrors.

  To her eyes, André appeared like a uniformed Apollo—his handsome features, his clear blue eyes, the calm authority in his bearing—all lent him an almost divine allure.

  When they exchanged the customary bise, André distinctly felt the quickening of her pulse. At the moment his lips brushed, however inadvertently, against the lobe of her ear, a flush swept across her cheeks. Her half-averted eyes and faint smile carried that helpless tenderness which could unman even the most disciplined of souls. Little wonder, André thought, that men such as Tallien, Barras, even Bonaparte himself, would one day fall captive beneath her charm.

  The thought of the future Tallien, with his wife cheating on him numerous times, cooled André’s desire at once. He moved to the table, poured two glasses of wine, and, taking the initiative, raised his own in salute.

  “To the lady’s beauty,” he said—and drained it in a single motion.

  The Marquise smiled faintly, but as she set her glass down, her hand brushed the bottle. It toppled, spilling its contents across the floor; crimson rivulets stained the carpet and splashed upon her gown, the red blotches vivid as wounds against white silk. With a murmur of apology, she excused herself and disappeared into the adjoining room to change.

  Left alone, André paced slowly up and down the cabin, weighing the consequences of what might follow. Through the glass porthole he saw Lieutenant Senarmont on the forward deck, engaging the Marquis de Fontenay in a most considerate conversation. The arrangement, André noted, would hold for some time.

  Meanwhile, in her chamber, the Marquise was undoing the constricting garments that hindered her movements—the whalebone corset most of all. She cast them aside, slipped into a silken dressing gown, and stood before the tall mirror. The silk clung to her like a whisper, brushing the curves of her breast and hip; her long, toned legs, revealed by the folds of the short robe, gleamed faintly in the candlelight.

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  With deliberate grace she approached the window, drew the heavy curtains closed, and unlatched the small door that connected her room to the dining cabin. Then she returned to the bed, seated herself upon its edge, and pressed her bare feet into the soft fleece of the carpet. Her legs moved restlessly, curling and uncurling, as though awaiting the tender advance of an unseen lover.

  A few minutes later, the door between the two rooms opened, then shut again. A man’s hand—firm, gentle, assured—touched the Marquise’s hair, her cheek. The silk robe slipped from her shoulders and fell soundlessly to the floor.

  …[passionate interlude omitted]…

  When the storm had passed and the lovers had dressed once more, they tidied the disordered room and returned to the table, where the tea, now cold, awaited them.

  André, his composure restored, became the perfect listener. He cradled his wineglass and listened as the Marquise spoke, her tone subdued yet trembling with urgency.

  “My only request,” she said, “is that Monsieur Franck, during his stay in Bordeaux, uncover the true cause of Prosecutor Randel’s death—and bring his murderer to justice.”

  Of course André knew of Prosecutor Randel—it was, after all, to succeed the late man’s unfinished work that he had been sent south. He did not yet know why the Marquise wished him to intervene in her predecessor’s death, but after what had transpired between them, refusal was impossible. To turn one’s back, trousers on, was hardly the habit of a gentleman—nor, for that matter, of a proper scoundrel.

  He chose his words carefully, speaking with deliberate calm.

  “Yes, I admit it—I am André Franck, Prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court. My mission is clear: to investigate the tax-farmers who have contracted the indirect levies on wine. As for the late Prosecutor Randel, I regret his misfortune deeply; yet it was reported as a carriage accident. Even if it could be proven deliberate, my office has no jurisdiction over such a case within Bordeaux.”

  The Marquise said nothing. Her handkerchief fluttered as she wiped the tears spilling from her eyes. The sight embarrassed André, who shifted uncomfortably. Then, after a pause, she spoke again—her voice low, tremulous, but resolute.

  “The Comte de Cabarrus is only my stepfather. Randel—the prosecutor—was my true father. I still keep the cloth doll he gave me on my tenth birthday. It was the only gift he ever had time to give. If you, Monsieur Franck, can find his murderer and see him hanged, I will give you everything I possess.”

  She drew from beneath the table a small jewel box, opened it, and set it before him. The contents glittered in the late sunlight: necklaces and ornaments of gold and silver, precious stones catching fire in the air—worth, André estimated, not less than 200,000 livres.

  Good Lord, he thought, what a wretched, melodramatic world this is. Yet outwardly he smiled with measured gentleness, closed the box, pushed it back toward her, and laid his hand softly upon hers.

  “You have already given me all I desire, Madame,” he said quietly. “Now, I only need what you know—everything concerning Prosecutor Randel’s case and the tax-farmers of Bordeaux.”

  “You’re mad! That’s 200,000 livres—one night worth a fortune, not merely gold but glory!” cried Hoche and Senarmont in chorus when they later learned of André’s encounter with the Marquise. Their exclamations filled the cabin with exaggerated disbelief.

  André, however, merely shrugged, his face impassive. To him it was nothing extraordinary—an evening’s intimacy, achieved through charm and wit rather than purchase. It was, as he saw it, a contest of character, of bearing, of looks. In France—past or present—such affairs were rarely moralised. The French, renowned for their romantic freedom, regarded such liaisons not as scandal but as affirmation of vitality. When André had first crossed into this century, France’s new president, he recalled wryly, had once been a teacher who had married his pupil.

  Indeed, André knew his adopted country too well to feign prudery. Among all the nations of Europe, the French were the most passionate and the most free-spirited—(the Italians, he conceded, outdid them only in carelessness). They were open, lively, unrestrained, eager for intrigue and gossip surrounding their leaders’ private lives. What other peoples saw as disgrace, the French took as proof of authenticity. A ruler with human weaknesses was, to them, more lovable, more credible.

  Thus, in the paradox of French sensibility, the austere and incorruptible Robespierre—“the Incorruptible” himself—never inspired the same affection among the people as the greedy, pleasure-loving Danton. Both were founders of the Republic, both titans of their age; yet history’s portraits would forever favour Danton’s radiant humanity over Robespierre’s cold virtue. The one would stride through the ages bathed in heroic light, while the other’s name would be chained to terror and blood.

  …

  200,000 livres—a staggering sum even for André—might have tempted another man. But at that moment, the prosecutor’s concern was not wealth. He needed allies, not paramours; partnership, not possession. The Marquise de Fontenay held influence in Bordeaux’s commercial circles, and through her, André saw a chance to weave the web of loyalty he required.

  “Enough of your jokes, gentlemen,” he said at last, silencing his companions. “Listen carefully. Maria—yes, the Marquise—believes that Savigny and Luchon were the true culprits behind Prosecutor Randel’s murder, and she has shown me evidence to support her claim…”

  Savigny was the most powerful of Bordeaux’s tax-farmers, holding the largest share of the company’s capital. He had attempted, on several occasions, to bribe Prosecutor Randel without success—and thus had every motive to wish him dead. Luchon, meanwhile, the current prosecutor of Bordeaux, had once served as Randel’s first assistant. The senior’s death had opened a convenient path for the subordinate’s advancement. Only months before, in March, the newly appointed Prosecutor Luchon had accepted from Savigny and his associates a most generous gift—a vineyard on the left bank of the Garonne, valued at a small fortune.

  “In truth,” André continued, “the Marquise’s accusations align closely with the assessment of Judge Duranthon.”

  Lieutenant Senarmont, of noble birth and once a student of law before he abandoned the profession, listened with a thoughtful frown. “Lieutenant Colonel,” he said at last, “all of this constitutes circumstantial evidence. Without direct proof or eyewitness testimony, there is no basis for a criminal conviction. At most, they could be reprimanded or fined—a token penalty, nothing more.”

  André’s smile grew faintly ironic. “A court trial? Who said anything about going to court?” His eyes glinted. “I have no intention of trudging through legal formalities. To prosecute a sitting officer of the law would take months of procedure, and the matter lies beyond my jurisdiction anyway. No—what concerns me is the corruption of a man who betrays his office, who murders his superior. Luchon must be dealt with—and I consider it both my duty and my right to see it done.”

  At that moment, André seemed to embody once again the spirit of the righteous advocate. Yet his audience were no credulous citizens easily roused by eloquence. Second Lieutenant Hoche met his superior’s gaze with a wry half-smile, offering a grunt of half-hearted assent. Lieutenant Senarmont merely raised an eyebrow, his expression one of amused detachment.

  Well enough, André thought. The sermon could end here.

  But as he turned back toward the map spread upon the table, the shadow of calculation returned to his eyes. To strike outward, one must first secure the rear. That was now his principle—and the heart of the plan he had quietly begun to shape.

  A week earlier, when André had set out on his journey south, Deputy Prieur had taken him aside with explicit instructions: the mission in Bordeaux must be swift and decisive. Once concluded, he was to return at once to Paris to undertake a new assignment.

  The situation in Reims, Prieur explained, was deteriorating. The bands of brigands roaming the forests of the Ardennes had grown bolder by the week. The troops of Marquis de Bouillé, dispatched by General Lafayette to suppress them, had proved ineffectual, allowing disorder to fester. Hundreds of masked horsemen now haunted the borders of the forest, ambushing the local militias of the Marne and Ardennes, kidnapping officials, plundering convoys, and terrorising the countryside.

  In private, Prieur had softened his demand: so long as André did not leave Bordeaux in ruins—its commerce destroyed, its people inflamed with resentment—the mission would be counted a success. If, moreover, he managed to recover a portion of the unpaid taxes to remit to the Treasury, the National Constituent Assembly would regard his work as exemplary. In that event, a share of the recovered funds would be returned to him to form the nucleus of a new corps—an independent force tasked with restoring order in Reims and the Ardennes.

  Yet André had no intention of following Prieur’s timetable. He preferred to remain in Bordeaux, however long it took, rather than rush back north into the morass of intrigue that awaited him there. That hesitation owed much to the counsel of his mentor, Thuriot, who had warned him that Reims—though his native city—was a nest of competing factions, too volatile, too perilous. “Tread there too soon,” the old man had said, “and you’ll step on a mine. One misstep, and there’ll be nothing left to bury.”

  Between his two compatriots from Reims, Prieur and Thuriot, André’s sympathies lay unmistakably with his teacher. Among the deputies of the Assembly, he had learned whom to trust and whom merely to endure. He could deal even with Comte de Mirabeau—duplicitous, self-serving, yet still the lesser evil—far more easily than with the doctrinaire zeal of Philippe or Robespierre. André’s instinct had always been to cloak himself in the plain garments of the Left, wear the polished waistcoat of the moderates beneath, and keep one hand lightly resting on the seductive hip of the Right.

  In addition, Prieur’s vehement hostility toward Catholicism had long unsettled André. Though he himself was hardly a devout believer—hardly even a regular churchgoer—he understood too well what happened to a society once it stripped itself of faith. Without a spiritual anchor, the people would grow restless and savage; morality would sink without bottom; the nation would know neither peace nor restraint.

  On matters of religion, therefore, André’s position was measured: he despised the corruption of the Roman Curia, but not the Church itself. He shared Abbé Sieyès’s conviction that the clergy should be brought within the framework of the State, their authority transformed into public service, their priests regarded as civil functionaries rather than agents of a foreign power.

  After supper that evening, André summoned his four most trusted men—Lieutenant Senarmont, Second Lieutenant Hoche, Sergeant Augereau, and Corporal Saint-Cyr. He bade them gather around the cabin table, bolted the door himself, and posted young Lussac outside with strict orders that no one be allowed near.

  When André turned back to them, his expression was grave, almost sombre.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “the operation I am about to describe may violate not only the king’s law but the spirit of it. If it fails, each of you risks standing before a military tribunal. If any among you doubts or fears, leave now. Wait for us on deck. But those who choose to stay must accept my command without hesitation, ask no questions, and never—under any circumstance—speak of what is decided here to a sixth man. Do you understand?”

  By the final words his voice had risen to a near-commanding pitch, his tone austere enough to still the room.

  Hoche, who had served André the longest, was first to declare his loyalty. Augereau followed at once—he had boarded the Lieutenant Colonel’s ship long ago, and saw no chance of disembarking unless it sank. Saint-Cyr nodded silently, perhaps uncertain but willing nonetheless, his eyes resting briefly on Hoche’s officer’s insignia as if for assurance.

  At last all three turned toward Lieutenant Senarmont. The young nobleman shrugged, smiling as he spoke: “Come now, gentlemen, don’t look at me that way. Of course I stand with the Lieutenant Colonel. Senarmont has always preferred the dangerous path.”

  Though André had been confident of their allegiance, hearing each pledge aloud filled him with an unexpected sense of release, almost elation. As the saying would go more than a century later—he could not have known it then—“What unites men are only two things: a common ideal, and a common crime.”