When André returned to the study on the second floor, he found Corporal Saint-Cyr, who was supposed to be with Allemand, sitting on the sofa beside Lieutenant Senarmont. Both men looked dejected, heads bowed, saying nothing.

  “What happened?” André demanded as soon as he entered. When the two hesitated, muttering without giving an answer, he lost patience.

  “Speak up. The sky isn’t falling.”

  After exchanging a glance with Saint-Cyr, Lieutenant Senarmont replied, “During last night’s surveillance of Prosecutor Luchon, something went wrong. At least three men attempted to assassinate the local prosecutor outside his apartment. Allemand and Saint-Cyr tried to stop them but were caught on the spot by a patrol of the National Guard. However, Luchon ordered the guards to release them immediately, claiming it was all a misunderstanding. Before they left, he asked that a meeting be arranged with you—the time and place left for us to decide.”

  André glanced at the lieutenant and the corporal. “Were any of the assassins caught? Do you know who they were?”

  Saint-Cyr shook his head. “One of them was wounded by Allemand, but all escaped before the patrol arrived. I suspect they were Spaniards—their swordsmanship was remarkable.”

  “Then why didn’t you report this first thing in the morning?” André clasped his hands behind his back and paced across the room.

  In truth, he was not particularly concerned about his agents’ exposure. By now, André possessed enough leverage to crush any rival who dared to challenge him.

  “Allemand was stabbed in the right shoulder during the fight,” Saint-Cyr explained quickly. “He bled heavily, so I took him to a surgeon. Once I confirmed it wasn’t serious, I came straight here.”

  André noticed the bloodshot eyes of the corporal; clearly the night’s failure had shaken him deeply. After a pause, his tone softened.

  “Very well. Now tell me everything that happened last night, from start to finish—every detail. Don’t omit a thing.”

  In early August, when Allemand and Saint-Cyr had first reported the results of their investigation on Prosecutor Luchon, the situation had become rather awkward. André’s original intent had been merely to keep a promise to his lover while eliminating a potential political rival. But as it turned out, he had been misled—Luchon was not the enemy, but a man he could work with.

  Strictly speaking, Luchon was one of those rare officials of his age—disciplined, incorruptible, and devoted to duty. Born into an immigrant family on the French colony of Martinique, he had grown up in poverty, completing his legal studies in France only thanks to a benefactor’s aid. As Assistant Prosecutor, nearly all the criminals he pursued were genuinely vicious. His sole known misdeed was accepting, in secret, a vineyard as a gift from a tax-farm company to provide a dowry for his only daughter—and, in return, revealing to the tax-farmer Savigny the whereabouts of Randel, who was later killed.

  Randel, the prosecutor who died in that “accident,” had in fact been a corrupt official despised by the people of Bordeaux. Until his falling-out with Savigny, he had been the tax-farmers’ most reliable protector. He was killed because he demanded that the Bordeaux tax-farm company pay him an annual pension of 1 million livres—more than double the previous amount—and threatened to take them before the Palais de Justice’s Indirect Tax Court if they refused.

  Upon learning all this, André rescinded the assassination order and instructed Allemand and Saint-Cyr merely to shadow Luchon. But after more than two weeks of surveillance, the mission ended not in murder but in a rescue. Two questions now stood before him:

  First, how had Luchon discovered that he was being followed?

  Second, who had tried to kill him?

  On the first point, André suspected that Allemand and Saint-Cyr had slipped up somehow, alerting the ever-cautious prosecutor to the surveillance—and that Luchon had correctly guessed who was behind it.

  The second question was more intriguing. Clearly, there was no shortage of people who wanted Luchon dead. Besides André himself and Judge Duranthon, the most suspicious was the recently returned Marquise de Fontenay—her father was Spanish, and she had just come back from La Coru?a.

  If not for the fact that the Marquise and her Spanish father formed an essential link in André’s future smuggling network, he would already have severed ties with her for keeping so many truths hidden.

  Having now sorted out the sequence of events, André gave his orders.

  “Saint-Cyr,” he said, “take my carriage back, bring two men, and escort Allemand to the Lafite Villa to recuperate. Inform Prosecutor Luchon that I’ll meet him at dusk on the Garonne River.

  As for you, Lieutenant Senarmont—tell Renault the steward that the Marquise must leave the villa today.”

  That woman was truly venomous. Only last night she had lain with André in tenderness; now she had sent assassins to kill Luchon. If they had succeeded, the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court would hardly escape suspicion. He did not much care about the political consequences—but he refused to be made a fool of, least of all by a woman. Expelling her from Lafite was a minor punishment, yet André hoped she would take the hint.

  The Garonne, one of France’s five great rivers, rose in the Pyrenees, flowing north from the Catalan region of Spain into France, passing through Toulouse and Agen. North of Bordeaux, it joined the Dordogne to form the Gironde estuary, which emptied into the Bay of Biscay.

  When André stood upon its bank, the sun was setting. The golden light spilled over hills and water; a warm river breeze brushed his face. Gazing upon the vast vineyards ripening for harvest, he felt an almost perfect calm.

  Behind him came the sound of footsteps. André did not turn at once. The area was guarded by cavalry from Second Lieutenant Hoche’s detachment; the only one allowed through was today’s special guest—Prosecutor Checo Luchon.

  “Thank you,” Luchon said as he approached, expressing gratitude for the previous night.

  André did not return the courtesy. “In fact,” he said bluntly, “I originally ordered my men to kill you. There were… complications.”

  Luchon glanced at his younger counterpart, and replied calmly, “I know. Because of the Marquise—and because of my dealings with Savigny’s tax-farmers. Judge Duranthon dislikes my candidacy for the Bordeaux Criminal Court as well. But that is how ambition works, is it not? The jealous and the mediocre always stand in the way. You, the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, rose by climbing over bones yourself.”

  “I’m not here to trade philosophies of ambition,” André cut in coldly. “Let’s talk business.”

  Luchon smiled awkwardly, rubbing his large nose.

  “If I can end the Marquise’s hostility, sever my ties with Savigny, and withdraw from the judicial election—could we become friends? Or rather, political partners.”

  André frowned, restraining the instinct to ask why should I? Instead he said, “What do you want?”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  For reasons he could not explain, he began to trust this swarthy, unremarkable man. Perhaps it was the shared memory of poverty—the sense of climbing by one’s own effort.

  After a pause, Luchon stated his goal plainly.

  “I wish to be appointed judge of the Circuit Court for the West Indian Colonies. The post has been vacant nearly a year. My qualifications are ideal, and with your influence in the Constituent Assembly, and the support of the eleven-member judicial council at the Palais de Justice, no one will oppose Chief Justice Vinault’s final recommendation before retirement.”

  France had suffered repeated defeats against Britain during the Seven Years’ War, losing most of her American colonies. Yet through mediation during the American War of Independence, she regained several in the West Indies—especially Saint-Domingue (Haiti). Under French rule, that colony reached the height of its prosperity: by 1780, 40% of Europe’s sugar and 60% of its coffee came from Haiti—more than the entire rest of the Caribbean combined. By 1791 it was the world’s largest sugar producer—the jewel of France’s colonial empire.

  André did not answer at once, but asked coolly, “And what do I gain?”

  Luchon produced a folded deed and handed it over. “A vineyard near Chateau Lafite—fifteen bonniers, worth 300,000 livres. I acquired it for only 20,000 assignats. I also have 100,000 livres deposited in a Paris bank. Moreover, I know the true nature of your dealings with the Marquise. If I obtain the colonial judgeship, I can guarantee sugar and coffee bean supplies to your fleet—through legal channels. And in addition…”

  He did not need to finish. Compared to André, Luchon—after nearly twenty years as a lawyer and assistant prosecutor—was a true local force in Bordeaux, aware of every whisper and rumor. He had easily deduced the essence of André’s arrangement with the Marquise: access to sugar and coffee. A second supply route was a gift André could hardly refuse. With the added fifteen bonniers of vineyards, he would now hold 40 to 45 hectares directly under his name.

  The position itself—a colonial circuit-court judge—was viewed by most Parisian lawyers as a poisoned chalice. Few sane men would volunteer to serve 1,500 leagues away in a tropical land rife with disease. Over half of all French officials who sailed for the West Indies in the eighteenth century died within a year, most from yellow fever. Ironically, in freezing Quebec, French settlers thrived. As Luchon predicted, once Vinault lent his name, the appointment would be effortless.

  André remained silent, weighing gains and risks.

  He knew what awaited the Caribbean colonies after 1793—Dominica, Grenada, Saint-Domingue, Martinique, Saint-Barthélemy, Trinidad, Tobago—one by one lost to revolt, partition, or invasion by Britain and Spain.

  Three months ago, he would have cared little for such losses. But his rising power forced him to think farther ahead. Without sugar and indigo, France could still survive by cultivating German beet and advancing chemical industry—but coffee and cocoa were irreplaceable. They were the lifeblood of the bourgeoisie, the core of every city’s National Guard.

  In March and April, the Constituent Assembly had debated granting civil rights to free people of color. The colonial deputy Moreau de Saint-Méry, representing Martinique, had warned:

  “If the Assembly enacts a decree granting rights to mixed-race citizens, all will be lost. The colonists will feel betrayed; the mulattoes, spurred by their friends in France, will rise up; and the slaves, encouraged by the same, will follow. The colonies will become vast slaughterhouses.”

  The speech had drawn hisses and outrage. Parisian papers denounced him as a reactionary liar. Yet within a year, his grim prophecy began to unfold in Saint-Domingue.

  In May 1790, the colonial government there officially refused to implement the Assembly’s decree allowing free men of color to vote. Although a compromise was reached before the Festival of the Federation to preserve unity, the damage was done. The mulattoes, feeling deceived, took up arms to claim their rights. The whites and mixed-race groups fought bitterly, and no one noticed the storm building among the half-million enslaved blacks—until rebellion engulfed the island, destroying France’s Caribbean crown.

  As André listened to Luchon, his gaze lingered on the man’s complexion.

  Had it not been for his European features, he might have mistaken him for a black.

  Then Luchon revealed quietly, “I am a third-generation mulatto. My grandmother was a slave from Senegal. Among eight siblings, I was the only one pale enough to pass for white—and that earned me a sponsor to study law in France. But no effort can erase prejudice. Now that both my daughters are married, I have nothing to hold me here. I wish to return—as a man of rank.”

  André nodded slowly. “Within a week, I’ll send a letter to Chief Justice Vinault recommending you to the Palais de Justice. But I have two conditions.”

  “Name them.”

  “First, you will assist me in removing Savigny.”

  “Of course. I have copies of all the company’s ledgers.”

  “Second,” André paused, then asked, “what is your view on the political demands in Saint-Domingue?”

  By convention, Saint-Domingue was the main seat of the colonial circuit court. In 1790, the colony’s population comprised 36,000 whites, 60,000 mulattoes, over 500,000 slaves, and 30,000 free blacks. In the independence war of the following year, the whites would be massacred or flee to nearby colonies, and France would lose Saint-Domingue forever.

  The new Haitian government would prove even more tyrannical and chaotic than its colonial predecessor. Two centuries later, the country would remain among the world’s poorest and least literate.

  If Luchon sought to empower mulattoes or free slaves in the name of liberty and equality, André would end their partnership at once.

  Fortunately, his answer was pragmatic.

  “Before a new order can exist,” said Luchon, “the old must be maintained. Whites and mulattoes should be treated as one race, sharing power, provided the colony remains stable. Any act that provokes unrest must be prohibited.”

  That stance excluded political rights for the 500,000 slaves and recognized only the 100,000 whites and mulattoes as citizens—a practical if uneasy compromise. Implementation would be difficult: class, race, and faction already tore the island apart.

  Satisfied, André now felt obliged to warn him.

  “Do you know of Voodoo?” he asked.

  Seeing Luchon’s confusion, he explained, “A secret religion among 200,000 slaves—its purpose is revolt. Its center lies in the northern plains of Saint-Domingue. If I were you, I’d turn this coming uprising into an opportunity—to unite every force worth uniting.”

  The revelation stunned Luchon. He realized André had no reason to invent such a tale. Clearly, the prosecutor’s reach extended far beyond France. Remaining his ally—both politically and economically—would be invaluable.

  As night fell, their talk ended. They agreed to meet again once Luchon received his commission from Paris, bearing the joint seals of the Assembly and the Palais de Justice.

  On the carriage ride back, André opened his notebook, jotting a line that linked “Checo Luchon” with “Saint-Domingue (Haiti).” He also scribbled a brief note on yellow-fever prevention: kill the mosquitoes. As for a vaccine—that would belong to another century.

  When he returned to the Lafite Villa, Renault informed him that the Marquise had left before dusk, her expression grim. Before boarding her carriage, she had sworn never to return.

  André merely smiled. It had been a fleeting affair, destined to end here. Her task as intermediary with Comte de Cabarrus was already complete; the Spanish banker’s letter promised that he would visit Bordeaux in mid-September to see the prosecutor personally.

  The creation of the Bordeaux Wine Chamber had stirred excitement not only in Bordeaux but across all Gironde. Combined with the miraculous success of the Bordeaux Mixture against mildew, it earned Prosecutor André immense prestige. The resentment once provoked by his harsh tax collection faded into admiration.

  But Monsieur Savigny, the tax-farmer, and the Comte de Ducasse of Chateau Cheval Blanc were exceptions. Savigny knew perfectly well that the prosecutor’s next target was his company. Even when colleagues urged him to compromise, he refused.

  “Even if every partner bows to that Parisian,” he declared publicly, “I will fight to the end.”

  To guard against a sudden raid, on the very day André reformed the customs office, Savigny buried the company’s ledgers and sent all accountants and witnesses involved in indirect taxation into hiding in the countryside. He even doubled the strength of the company’s anti-smuggling patrols to one hundred men. Yet two weeks passed, and the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court made no move.

  The longer the silence, the more restless Monsieur Savigny became.

  Reminder:

  Again, assignats are the state-backed paper notes secured by nationalized land. It was originally conceived as a bond—secured by nationalized lands—through which citizens could purchase property and, in doing so, sustain the revolutionary government.

  The first issues bore interest and enjoyed public confidence. Yet as the government printed more and more to meet its expenses, the assignat gradually lost its nature as a debt certificate and became a circulating currency.