At night, André was still in his study. Seated before his desk was a middle-aged man with the appearance of an accountant, giving his report to the prosecutor.

  “…After my team and I recalculated all the ledgers, there were no major discrepancies. All incidental losses and irregular expenditures remain within reasonable limits—this I can guarantee. However, I am quite certain that Monsieur Ouvrard, during his stay in Bordeaux, privately invested in several other projects. These projects do not appear in any of the ledgers. If you wish, I can conduct a further investigation.”

  This accountant, named Bernard, came from the Marne Department. He had been recommended by André’s teacher, Thuriot; his family still lived in the provincial capital, Chalons. One month earlier, Bernard, his accounting team, and a contract lawyer—four people in all—had already arrived in Bordeaux ahead of time to assist in Ouvrard’s financial operations.

  André tapped his fingers lightly on the thick stack of ledgers before him, pondered for a while, then shook his head.

  “Let it rest. We’ll end it here. No need to dig deeper.”

  He understood perfectly the old saying that “water too clear has no fish.” André did not object to Ouvrard conducting his family business in private, but both publicly and privately, he should have explained such matters in advance to his partners. After all, Ouvrard served as André’s agent in Bordeaux; every move he made represented André himself. This displeased André, though not enough to break with him. A small warning, however, would be appropriate.

  André asked Bernard, “What do you think of Perrier?”

  “Much like Ouvrard—smooth in manner, more inclined to speculation than to responsibility. Yet his judgment is sharp, his experience deeper. On two occasions when Ouvrard made serious errors, it was Perrier who resolved them.”

  Like most accountants, the taciturn Bernard had little liking for speculative brokers. But his assessment was fair—particularly regarding Perrier. Perhaps because he was older, the Jewish merchant was more polished and tactful in dealing with others, whereas the younger Ouvrard tended to be proud and impulsive.

  André was not surprised. After dismissing the accountant, he opened his personal notebook and wrote down Perrier’s name, drawing an equal sign between it and that of the Spanish banker, Comte de Cabarrus.

  To the south of Bordeaux, in a charming country villa, the leading members of the Jacobin Club’s Bordeaux branch gathered for afternoon tea. Unlike most branches that met in abandoned monasteries, the Bordeaux branch assembled in a private residence belonging to the Vergniaud family.

  Among those present were Guadet, dark, thin, and melancholy in appearance; Ducos, passionate and eloquent, a precocious literary prodigy adorned with countless honors; Grangeneuve, a journalist and editor who had founded the Bordeaux News the previous year, bold and impetuous, driven by fearless energy; and Vergniaud, Bordeaux’s star lawyer and a brilliant orator. Before the Revolution, he had already denounced the feudal hierarchy and welcomed the revolutionary movement from Paris. If not for a sudden illness, he might well have marched to Versailles with the crowds in October 1789.

  Calm in temperament and comprehensive in thought, yet capable of stirring emotion through fiery rhetoric, Vergniaud possessed the grand, Roman style of eloquence that captivated his audience. It was natural, then, that he became the de facto leader of the Jacobins in Bordeaux.

  As Saint-Just had chosen to align himself with Robespierre, so every Jacobin branch had its own hero. Vergniaud admired the Parisian journalist Brissot, to whose Patriote Fran?ais he often contributed and with whom he maintained correspondence.

  To Vergniaud, this puritan who had once been imprisoned in the Bastille was “the Franklin of France,” a reformer advocating the abolition of slavery, a great thinker, and the living soul of the revolutionary movement.

  Guadet, Ducos, Grangeneuve, and Vergniaud—along with their mentor Brissot—shared the same traits: opposition to feudalism, to the Church, and even to God, while holding deep admiration for the pagan gods of ancient Greece and Rome. They revered Rousseau’s revolutionary doctrines and equally honoured the rational spirit of Montesquieu, himself a native of Bordeaux.

  Though the meeting was merely an afternoon gathering, the Bordeaux Jacobins still set a topic for discussion: the now-notorious Bordeaux Customs affair.

  “What do you think, Guadet?” asked Vergniaud pointedly.

  “One could say that Prosecutor Franck—no, he prefers to be called Prosecutor André—acted strictly according to law. Procedurally flawless,” said Guadet. Like Vergniaud, he was a practising lawyer who valued procedural justice more than outcomes.

  While sipping his English tea, Ducos shook his head. The young man, full of romantic idealism, put down his cup and said, “Killing cannot solve problems. In Bordeaux, the factions opposing André will seize the moment to unite. We should send André a friendly reminder—even if he refuses to attend our gatherings.” The final remark carried a note of complaint. Indeed, André had deliberately avoided contact with the Bordeaux branch, following Judge Duranthon’s discreet advice.

  At this, the well-informed Grangeneuve laughed. “The Paris prosecutor has no time for leisurely tea. He spent two days at the Customs House and today returned to the Lafite Villa to write reports. In the four or five days since his arrival, he hasn’t attended a single social function. Don’t look at me like that—it was Judge Duranthon who said so.” Grangeneuve had a cousin working in the Bordeaux High Court and thus knew these matters firsthand.

  “Wait—why isn’t Guadet here today?” asked Ducos, noticing the absence.

  Grangeneuve explained, “Our dear lawyer Guadet has been getting close to Judge Duranthon. If I’m not mistaken, he hopes to secure the nomination for Chief Criminal Judge before Prosecutor Luchon does.”

  Ducos frowned. “If I recall correctly, Guadet is about our age—thirty-two. The requirement for a judgeship is forty.”

  Grangeneuve smiled patiently. “My friend, your news is outdated. Spend less time worrying about the abolition of slavery. The Constituent Assembly and the Palais de Justice have amended the judicial qualifications: five or more consecutive years in legal practice and a minimum age of thirty now suffice.”

  Vergniaud grew impatient. He had not raised the topic to discuss judicial careers. Irritated, he asked, “Gentlemen, friends—has no one among your families or acquaintances received a notice of customs back-taxes?”

  Everyone burst into laughter and answered in unison, “Of course we have—but we wholeheartedly support the righteous actions of the Paris prosecutor.”

  Guadet, Grangeneuve, and Ducos came from comfortable middle-class families, whose duties were trivial compared with the wealthy Vergniaud household. For them, the tax levies involved only a few livres—hardly worth mention.

  “Vergniaud, your family’s arrears must be around 100,000 livres,” said Guadet, trying to keep his tone friendly.

  “200,000,” replied Vergniaud irritably.

  Though he had long proclaimed that paying taxes was an honourable duty to the nation, when the bill reached his own doorstep—and for such a sum—the sentiment turned bitter. No one doubted André’s determination and resolve: the former customs chief now en route to Paris and the slain anti-smuggling captain were proof enough.

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  “Don’t worry, comrades,” said Grangeneuve suddenly. “The Jacobin brothers will receive special consideration.” He stopped there, but under his friends’ insistence, he revealed more.

  “Let me be clear,” he began. “Once we leave this room, I will deny every word I’ve said.” When the others nodded solemnly, he continued:

  “Prosecutor André gave Judge Duranthon a list of names entitled to tariff reductions. In plain terms, they will pay only half their taxes, and all prior records will be erased from the state ledgers. Fortunately, every member of our Bordeaux branch is on that list. So, Vergniaud, your family just saved 100,000 livres. As for those tied to the tax-farmers or too slow to choose sides—they will pay in full and face heavy late penalties.

  “Furthermore, reliable sources say that, at the prosecutor’s request, Judge Duranthon has already signed an asset-seizure order two days ago. All property of tax evaders is to be frozen, and their passports confiscated. Three days from now, on August 7, my newspaper will publish the full story—with the joint authorization of the Paris prosecutor and Judge Duranthon.”

  “What about City Hall? Surely some people there have lost far more than I have,” asked Vergniaud, his mood improving with the remission of 100,000 livres.

  “Of course there was dissent,” said Grangeneuve, “but once word spread that General Bolland, commander of the Garonne Infantry Brigade, had been recalled to Paris by order of the Constituent Assembly and Marshal Lafayette, all opposition vanished. The brigade now maintains friendly neutrality, while its Fifth Chasseurs Battalion has pledged itself to André. They say it will form the nucleus of a Champagne Composite Regiment. The tax-farm companies’ armed squads could not withstand even a single cavalry charge from the prosecutor’s detachment.

  “As for the National Guard—” He smiled and looked around. “Gentlemen, as officers of the city’s Guard yourselves, would you rather serve the corrupt City Hall and tax-dodging scoundrels, or support Prosecutor André in his patriotic mission to recover state revenue?”

  “Of course, the latter,” answered Vergniaud and the others, whose politics leaned to the left. Grangeneuve, Guadet, and Ducos all held captaincies in the Bordeaux National Guard.

  Most guardsmen received no pay or allowances and even supplied their own uniforms and weapons. Thus, City Hall’s control over them was weak. Many officers, being radicals, welcomed the arrival of the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, hoping he would abolish the tax-farm companies altogether.

  Bordeaux’s lawful armed forces comprised the National Guard, the frontier garrison (mainly the Garonne Brigade), a small contingent of police, and two armed customs squads. The first two remained neutral or covertly aligned with André; the municipal police numbered fewer than 200—too small to matter. Even without deploying the still-forming mixed regiment, André’s cavalry alone could sweep the field. The customs squads were already under his control; the tax-farmers’ private troops were insignificant.

  “Partium studia!” exclaimed Ducos—the famous cry from the Roman Republic, meaning “party faction and strife.” Everyone present believed that within a few days Bordeaux would be plunged into turmoil—though, fortunately, they themselves would remain safe, perhaps even sharing in the spoils.

  Just as Ducos and the others predicted, on André’s tenth day in Bordeaux—the seventh since he issued the customs-tax decree, the final deadline—the anti-smuggling squad under Sergeant Augereau began its operations. First, they seized the bulk goods of twelve importers and exporters at the port, citing unpaid duties. Then six merchant ships at the docks, with all their cargo, were impounded as well.

  The next day, the campaign escalated. Second Lieutenant Hoche, leading six cavalrymen, burst directly into Bordeaux City Hall. Before the eyes of all, he presented a summons signed by the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, ordering three municipal officials in charge of commerce and industry to appear at the Lafite Villa to explain discrepancies in their tax payments.

  The officials refused to comply, shouting to their colleagues that the Paris prosecutor was committing unlawful detention and oppressing the people of Bordeaux. This angered Hoche; with a cold gesture, he signalled his men, who rushed forward, handcuffed the officials like criminals, and dragged them out by force. Too late did they beg for mercy, squealing like pigs before slaughter—but to no avail.

  Inside City Hall, the bystanders turned pale with terror. Outraged yet helpless, they could only watch as their colleagues were dragged away. When the cries faded, some finally acted—either notifying the families of the detained to pay their dues, or jointly petitioning the mayor to denounce the prosecutor’s unlawful arrests.

  “Gentlemen, what would you have me do?” the aged mayor lamented. “A token protest? A rebuke against the Constituent Assembly and the Ministry of Finance that sent the prosecutor here? Or shall I order the National Guard to storm the Lafite Villa and rescue them? You tell me.”

  No one answered. After a long silence, the crowd dispersed. That night, once the families paid their taxes at Customs, the three detained officials were released from the villa—shaken but unharmed.

  In 1790, Bordeaux was a small city with barely 70,000 inhabitants. Any disturbance quickly became the talk of the town. When goods were seized and officials arrested, the merchants who had resisted payment finally panicked. Clutching their tax notices, they rushed to the Customs House through the night, forming long lines to settle their dues.

  To accommodate them, André humanely ordered a twelve-hour extension and permitted payment in cash, bank drafts, promissory notes, bonds, or mortgageable property such as houses, ships, and cargo. All non-cash payments, however, required reevaluation by accountants, along with interest and service fees to compensate the state.

  By the morning of August 12, Acting Chief Berni arrived in excitement to report that total collections had reached 8.5 million livres, 500,000 more than projected.

  It was indeed encouraging news. Under his agreement with the Constituent Assembly, André was entitled to retain up to twenty percent of the recovered sum. This fund, aside from rewarding André and his subordinates, would largely finance the creation of an independent mixed regiment—comprising cavalry, infantry, and artillery—to march north at any time to suppress the insurgents in the Marne.

  Thus André instructed Customs Chief Berni:

  “Go back immediately and liquidate all non-cash assets. Then, with the Ministry’s accountant, prepare a funding requisition for my signature. Once approved, execute it at once.

  “First, set aside 7 million livres for transport to the Paris Treasury. I will assign a chasseur company to escort the convoy.

  “Second, 500,000 livres shall fulfil my promise to the customs staff—20,000 livres each for you and Perrier, 10,000 for every senior officer and cavalry lieutenant, and proportionally less for others. Don’t forget the chasseurs and Lieutenant Senarmont.

  “Third, deposit the remaining 1 million livres in a special account as the foundation fund for the Marne (Champagne) Mixed Regiment.”

  After Berni left, Perrier—who had been silent—did not dwell on his personal reward of 20,000 livres. Instead, he raised a concern: that the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court’s aggressive tax campaign in the port city had damaged André’s reputation among the Bordeaux elite and merchant class.

  According to the original plan, André was to begin by abolishing the tax-farm companies’ illegal wine duties, winning popular favour, and only afterward reform the customs so that citizens would willingly pay. But circumstances had changed: since the Bordeaux Customs had challenged André’s authority first, they had to be crushed first. To rally his subordinates and please Paris, the forced tax collection had followed naturally.

  Now that the campaign was over, the perceptive Perrier urged the prosecutor to adopt some conciliatory gestures to ease tensions with Bordeaux society. Excessive pressure, he warned, might hinder future confrontation with the tax-farmers.

  André nodded approvingly. From a drawer he drew a prepared list.

  “Deliver invitations, in my personal name, to everyone on this list,” he said. “Invite them to a cold luncheon at the Lafite Villa the day after tomorrow.”

  Perrier glanced at the list—nearly 200 names. Bankers, lawyers, journalists, professors, scholars, officers, municipal officials, judges, plantation owners, winemakers, shipbuilders, traders, factory owners, surgeons—everyone of influence in Bordeaux society except the tax-farmers.

  According to custom, each invitee would bring up to four guests. The meal would thus require catering for 800 or 900 people—yet less than two days remained, far too little for such a grand affair.

  Sensing his hesitation, André said casually, “In this heat of Thermidor, Bordeaux is perfect for a cold luncheon. We’ll hold it on the lawn near the vineyard.”

  But when he looked up, he saw Perrier staring at him blankly, unsure what André meant. Realizing the misunderstanding, André added with a faint smile, “Have you ever been to Scandinavia—Norway or Sweden?”

  The Jew nodded. Indeed, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty he had travelled across Europe, spending time in Russia, Turkey, and Egypt. Were it not for certain misfortunes, he might have remained in Istanbul as the Sultan’s accountant.

  André knew he had found the right man. “What I mean by a cold luncheon,” he explained, “is what the Swedes serve before dinner—a self-service meal without aristocratic ceremony. Guests eat and drink as they please and may leave whenever they wish, without any breach of decorum.”