For Savigny and Luchon, they had already been André’s predetermined targets, and the hostility between them was entirely expected. But the interference of the Bordeaux customs director in this affair seemed far more puzzling. Could it be that Monsieur Montbas was eager to test the “iron fist of justice” of the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court?

  Perrier soon explained the reason. “It is said that Monsieur Montbas is the cousin of Morel…” The name made things clear. That same Morel had been a senior assistant judge at the Chatelet Criminal Court and had been utterly humiliated by André during the Babeuf trial, forced to resign and return home. It was said that he had since fallen into madness.

  Upon hearing this, André felt no surprise. He had been considering whether to find someone to mediate the tension between the two camps, not wishing to divide the firepower he had prepared for Savigny and Luchon. But now it seemed his first strike should be aimed at the customs director who did not know his place. Anyone foolish enough to bring personal or family grievances into a ruthless political struggle—André doubted such a man’s intelligence or emotional judgment.

  Having made up his mind, André turned to Perrier and asked, “Have you collected any material concerning the Bordeaux customs director?”

  As the head of customs, Montbas stood directly within the fire zone of the prosecutor’s authority. To make the customs director the first public target would be the perfect display of power.

  Perrier hurried to the desk drawer and retrieved another thick bundle of documents. André flipped through a few pages and casually praised Perrier’s excellent preparation. He had originally thought to fabricate some evidence if necessary, but now, with what he held in hand, he could remove the customs director from office at once and have him escorted to Paris—to the Palais de Justice prison—for judicial interrogation.

  André was pleased. Raising his coffee cup, he nodded his thanks to Perrier. At least in ability and experience, the Jewish merchant had proven fully competent to carry out his assignments. The only remaining concern was loyalty. Granted, that might be too high an expectation of a Jewish businessman—but as long as he was not a double-dealing scoundrel, André would consider keeping Perrier in Bordeaux as his private representative, even allowing him to participate in negotiations with the Spanish banker, Comte de Cabarrus, on the matter of smuggling sugar and coffee beans into France.

  “Within the Bordeaux customs,” André asked, “is there anyone whose position leans toward us?”

  “Yes, monsieur. The tax officer Monsieur Berni—he, too, is from the Champagne region, like you.” Perrier had done his homework well. Berni himself maintained regular contact with him.

  “Good. Tomorrow, personally invite this Monsieur Berni to the Lafite Villa for lunch. Also, inform the steward to decline all invitations concerning me for the next two days. Publicly, announce that Prosecutor André, after a long journey, is feeling slightly unwell and will be resting for a few days.”

  “Shall we inform Judge Duranthon in advance?” Perrier asked.

  André nodded in approval. “Yes. You’ll have to trouble yourself to visit Judge Duranthon’s residence tonight. Deliver the gift I brought from Paris to him personally.”

  Judge Duranthon was André’s staunchest ally in Bordeaux. It was thanks to his support that Ouvrard, acting as André’s representative, had been able to enter the lucrative division of Church assets in the Gironde. The two men naturally supported one another. Every action needed to be communicated in advance to avoid unnecessary misunderstanding.

  Then André signalled Perrier to go downstairs and summon Lieutenant Senarmont, who had not yet gone to rest.

  When the artillery lieutenant entered, André gave him his orders.

  “Senarmont, tomorrow morning you’ll go to the port customs office and contact that fellow half from Besan?on, Lieutenant Adrien Moncey of the Fifth Chasseurs Battalion. Oh—and take a few bottles of fine Lafite wine as a gift. In your own name, invite him to dine at Lafite Villa; I’ll be present as well. Also, find a private tutor here in Bordeaux for the young one… no, on second thought, let Perrier handle that.”

  The next day, two guests arrived at Lafite Villa. At noon came Monsieur Berni, chief tax officer of the Bordeaux customs; in the afternoon, the acting commandant of the Fifth Chasseurs Battalion stationed at the port—Lieutenant Moncey.

  Monsieur Berni came with heartfelt gratitude, happily taking leave of his compatriot from the Champagne region, Prosecutor André. The prosecutor had promised to recommend him for promotion to the position of customs director, instructing him to prepare quietly to take over all affairs of the Bordeaux customs the following day. In exchange, Berni offered only his allegiance—how long that loyalty would last, neither man could be sure.

  Lieutenant Moncey’s emotions, however, were mixed. Though he knew in advance that the invitation had come from the prosecutor, he had not expected that André, just as he was about to take his leave, would make a request that left him deeply troubled.

  “Tomorrow, at the port customs office,” André said, his tone leaving no room for dispute, “whatever happens, neither you nor your battalion are to intervene. You will maintain order at the port, nothing more.”

  But the prosecutor quickly followed with an irresistible offer.

  “If you wish, I can arrange for all or part of your battalion to be transferred into the soon-to-be-formed Champagne Composite Regiment, which will be stationed in the Marne district of the Greater Champagne region. That would bring you closer to your hometown of Besan?on—and your rank would be advanced by one grade. What do you say, Captain Moncey?”

  In fact, Moncey had submitted several petitions to Paris requesting a transfer to the north-central provinces, hoping to be nearer his home (for, by regulation, professional soldiers could not be stationed in their native province during peacetime). He wished for his wife to be able to care for his aged parents. But all his reports had vanished without reply. Now, the opportunity stood before him: with a single word of assent, he could both see his family more often and secure promotion—perhaps even command the entire Chasseurs Battalion, instead of remaining its acting major.

  “Don’t hesitate, my friend!” said Lieutenant Senarmont kindly as he escorted his half-countryman to the gate. “Trust me, Prosecutor André always keeps his word. Besides, the situation in the Marne and Ardennes is unstable—bandits roam the forests unchecked. The Composite Regiment’s mission is to suppress them. You’ll have the chance for quick distinction. I’m not aiming for a captain’s insignia, but for a field officer’s. If you lose such a chance for the sake of shielding some petty embezzler, your family will be bitterly disappointed.”

  “Shield an embezzler?” Moncey scoffed. Having served for years at the Bordeaux port, he knew the customs inside out. Corruption ran from top to bottom—from the director down to the lowest tax clerks, all guilty enough to be lined up and shot along the Garonne. In truth, the higher powers merely needed a righteous pretext for their political cleansing.

  Still, when it came to action, Moncey made his final decision as he mounted his horse. He asked Senarmont to convey a message to the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court:

  “Tomorrow, the Fifth Chasseurs Battalion will strictly obey every order issued by Monsieur Franck.”

  The history of customs and taxation in Europe could be traced back to the ancient Mediterranean civilizations of Greece and Rome. In early modern Europe, Britain had combined the inspection of smuggling with customs revenue collection as early as the sixteenth century, though it remained a semi-official operation run by private tax companies.

  After the War of Independence, the Americans made a true innovation: they nationalized customs for the first time, placing it directly under the authority of the state. Soon after, all European nations followed their example.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The Bordeaux Customs Office had been hastily established in September 1789. In fact, it was merely the successor of the old Bordeaux import-export tax company. That company’s greed had long provoked public outrage, and under pressure from the National Constituent Assembly, the Ministry of Finance in Paris stripped it of its customs authority, replacing it with the Bordeaux Customs. The tax company was allowed to retain only a few domestic trade taxes on sugar, coffee, and alcohol.

  Thus, Bordeaux Customs and the tax company remained deeply intertwined. Half of the staff in the two most important departments—the Tariff Bureau and the Anti-Smuggling Corps—were former employees of the tax company.

  It was therefore no surprise that when André struck at the Bordeaux tax company, the customs director Montbas leaned to one side, aligning himself with the tax-farmers to resist the prosecutor sent from Paris.

  On the third morning after André’s arrival, the sky was still dim, the dawn a delicate shade of blue. Rested and refreshed after two nights at the tranquil Lafite Villa, the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court appeared in excellent spirits. After breakfast, escorted by his cavalry squadron, André and Perrier boarded an open four-wheeled carriage and headed in grand procession toward the port of Bordeaux.

  Perhaps to show off—or to send a warning—André had the carriage halt at the city square. The forty cavalrymen fanned out, suddenly performing breathtaking feats of horsemanship reminiscent of northern nomads. The townspeople stopped in wonder, gasping in admiration at every flourish.

  At the sharp whistle of Second Lieutenant Hoche, the riders regrouped, charged a short distance in combat formation, and then halted before the gate of the tax company’s headquarters, where they performed a display of sabre strikes from horseback. The armed guards at the gate panicked, shouting in fear, and hurried to bolt the doors, terrified these “Germanic barbarians” might charge inside.

  André burst out laughing. In Paris, he could never have dared such theatrics—there, to strike at corrupt tax-farmers and fill the Treasury’s coffers required the nods of too many powerful men, and it often left him seething with frustration. But here in Bordeaux, he had no such restraint.

  The performance in the square was a deliberate show of force—an announcement to the city that the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court had arrived. Soon, at the customs house, it would be time to “kill the chicken to frighten the monkeys.”

  The cavalry’s provocative display drew a crowd, and speculation spread quickly among the onlookers.

  “The gentleman in the carriage is from Paris—he’s the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, Monsieur André Franck. He’s here with his cavalry to investigate illegal taxation by the company!” shouted a voice from the crowd. No one could see who had spoken.

  Immediately, another voice rang out, shouting a revolutionary slogan: “Welcome the National Assembly! Welcome the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court! Welcome André! Hang the damned tax-farmers from the street lamps!”

  In an instant, the spectators were transformed into a mob, shouting and raising their fists. “Welcome, the Paris prosecutor! Hang the tax-farmers!”

  Over the past year, to make up for the loss of customs revenue, the tax company—under the indulgent eye of the City Hall—had raised taxes on sugar, tobacco, and alcohol by fifty percent. The price of wine had risen beyond endurance; even the people of Bordeaux could no longer freely enjoy the divine gift of their own land.

  When the city’s militia arrived to restore order, they found the square full of singing and dancing citizens gathered at the company’s doors, chanting a rousing revolutionary song:

  “The passion of the French people can destroy every evil,

  even the Bastille was torn down by a single battle.

  The sun shines upon France, where all men are brothers,

  and upon a Republic more perfect than Plato’s dream.”

  It was The Street Lamp Speaks to the People of Paris, written by Camille Desmoulins

  The militia sheathed their bayonets, slung their rifles, and joined the festivities. The entire square became a sea of joy.

  Meanwhile, on the second floor of the Bordeaux High Court building overlooking the square, the local prosecutor Monsieur Luchon angrily drew the curtains of his office. Yet the song’s melody still pierced the glass and cloth, ringing in his ears.

  Suddenly, the door creaked open. Luchon turned, ready to scold his assistant—he had forbidden interruptions—but seeing that it was Monsieur Savigny, the tax-farmer, much of his anger vanished.

  “I couldn’t even reach the office! The cowards at City Hall sent their militia, but they’re with the mob! A few years ago, our private guards would have put them down easily!” Savigny complained as he entered, hanging his wide-brimmed hat on the rack and grabbing a bottle of red wine from the desk, drinking deeply.

  “You shouldn’t have come here so openly,” said the pale-faced Luchon, lowering his voice as he locked the door and repeated to his assistant outside that no one was to disturb them.

  Since the arrival of Prosecutor André, the situation in Bordeaux had become extremely delicate. Warned by their deputies in the National Assembly, both the City Hall and the Commune had declared strict neutrality, refusing to interfere in judicial or fiscal matters.

  “Heh, are you frightened?” Savigny sneered. “You weren’t so timid at the beginning of the year when you were fighting for your post.”

  “Yes, I am frightened,” admitted Luchon. “That André came with a cavalry squadron to show off his power. And his influence in the Palais de Justice and the National Assembly terrifies me.” He changed the subject, unwilling to revisit their earlier disputes. “You haven’t provoked him again, have you?”

  Leaning back on the sofa, Savigny smiled. “I firmly opposed granting Ouvrard’s company the vineyard quotas on the right bank of the Garonne at the Church Property Commission. Of course, it was only business posturing—merchants love to bargain. When Ouvrard left Bordeaux, he told his Jewish assistant to continue negotiations, but for some reason, they suddenly stopped.”

  Before Savigny had finished, Luchon jumped up in alarm. “Damn it! I told you not to provoke Ouvrard—or his backer! That André Franck is practically a royal commissioner, backed by the Palais de Justice, recognised by the Constituent Assembly, and even discussed by the Jacobin Club. Why wouldn’t you listen? These are extraordinary times—a few more concessions wouldn’t kill anyone. Wait—when you rejected Ouvrard, did you use my name?”

  Savigny nodded casually. “That was Monsieur Montbas’s suggestion. We had to make that Parisian bow to us first—it would soften the blow.”

  At the mention of the customs director’s name, Luchon froze. He suddenly recalled something dangerous. “Which way did André and his cavalry go?” he asked quickly.

  Savigny thought for a moment. “Toward the port.”

  That was the answer Luchon had least wanted to hear. He slumped onto the sofa, murmuring, “Montbas is finished.”

  Savigny was astonished. “Impossible! Arresting the customs director at once—won’t André risk crippling the entire customs system? Paris will be furious when the taxes stop coming in.”

  Luchon shook his head. “Before I came in today, my assistant told me that yesterday afternoon he saw the tax officer Berni leaving André’s villa in high spirits. Now I understand—Berni has defected to André, hoping to take Montbas’s post.”

  “What should we do? Should we warn Montbas?”

  “It’s too late,” Luchon said bitterly. “Once Berni chose Paris, Montbas’s fate was sealed. Forget him—we must think about saving ourselves.”

  Just as the local prosecutor predicted, Berni’s voluntary allegiance removed André’s last hesitation. He could now move openly against the customs office. As for its armed anti-smuggling corps, André hardly considered them a threat. And the Fifth Chasseurs Battalion under Moncey stood firmly on his side.

  Escorted by cavalry, André’s carriage rode unhindered into the heart of the commercial port, stopping before a two-storey grey building near Pier No. 1—the Bordeaux Customs Office.

  He did not alight. From his seat in the carriage, he watched as Second Lieutenant Hoche directed the cavalry to surround the building completely. All unrelated persons were driven back beyond the cordon. Mounted troopers brandished their sabres, forcing back clerks who tried to flee, the blades flashing coldly in the sun. Merchants arriving to declare goods stood frozen, whispering anxiously among themselves.

  “That’s the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court from Paris,” one seasoned trader said. “I’d say Monsieur Montbas is done for.”

  “Good riddance,” another tobacco merchant muttered. “Last time I imported eight thousand pounds of American leaf, he taxed me at Ottoman rates! Let them hang him—and tear down the customs building while they’re at it; we’d save a fortune.”

  While the merchants gloated, a tall, stern-looking man emerged from the building—Director Montbas himself. He shouted at the cavalry: “Who are you? Why do you attack a royal customs house?”

  Behind him followed a group of armed men with pistols and sabres—the anti-smuggling squad—keeping close yet cautious.

  Perrier, seated beside André, pointed discreetly. “The man in front is Director Montbas. Those armed men are his customs enforcers. The one on his left, with the dark red scar across his face, is Captain Barbena, commander of the anti-smuggling corps, a retired soldier and Montbas’s most trusted aide. For Berni to take control of the customs, Barbena is the second obstacle after Montbas.”

  André nodded slightly. He motioned to the “Prussian giant” standing nearby. After a few whispered words, Sergeant Augereau grinned wickedly, drew his pistol to check it, mounted his horse, and waited for the signal.

  Montbas soon noticed the open carriage behind the cavalry and recognised one of the two men inside—the Jewish assistant of Ouvrard. Seeing Perrier whispering to a young man in a lawyer’s coat, his heart sank. He knew exactly who had come.

  “Let me through! I must speak with Monsieur Franck!” Montbas shouted, pushing toward the carriage.

  “Let him through,” André ordered. The cavalryman turned his horse aside, opening a narrow path.

  Montbas jogged forward and, stopping before the carriage, demanded, “Monsieur prosecutor, why have you surrounded my customs office?”

  André seized upon the word and replied with a loud, mocking laugh. “Yours? This customs house, and everything within it, belongs to great France. And you, corrupt as you are, are nothing.”