The Commander-in-Chief held André’s sharp eye for the Parisian political scene in the highest regard, as well as his uncanny knack for seizing the right moment. In a little over two years, an obscure orphan from Reims had climbed step by step to his current level of influence by untangling one intricate political crisis after another. On top of that, Lafayette was frankly impressed by André’s formidable talent for making money.

  Yet André felt not the slightest temptation toward the post of Deputy Commander of the National Guard. Unless Lafayette could scrape together tens of millions of livres every year in Paris alone to fund the troops, André would not be able to move a single battalion—and that included the Paris National Guard. Plainly, Lafayette did not have that capacity, and André himself could not guarantee it either. Sensitive, volatile Paris was not the same as sluggish Reims or wealthy Bordeaux; a single misstep there could destroy a man’s career overnight.

  On that basis, André declined the offer, politely but without hesitation. With an apologetic expression, he explained,

  “Forgive me, General. I have already registered in the Marne and intend to stand, in two months’ time, as the Marne’s representative in the Legislative Assembly of 1791. I cannot in good faith accept a further military command.”

  Since October 1789, deputies to the National Assembly—whether the current Constituent Assembly or its successor, the Legislative Assembly—had been forbidden to hold any additional public office. André would therefore have to give up his present role as Deputy Chief Prosecutor of the Marne. He could retain his brevet rank as General in the National Guard, but he would no longer be permitted to command the Champagne Composite Brigade.

  It was true that André intended to stand for the Legislative Assembly; what had not yet been decided was where. Because Robespierre and Prieur were barred from seeking another term in the Assembly, they had pressed André hard to resign from his post in the Marne before August and return to Paris, register his domicile in one of the city’s districts, and stand as a Paris deputy instead.

  But André had already planted deep roots in Reims and had no wish to abandon his home base. Running as a Paris deputy, however, would give him a voice in several districts of the capital and a much larger share of power in the future Legislative Assembly. For weeks, he had hovered on the fence.

  Today, Lafayette’s sudden offer forced his hand. André would remain in the Marne and run there for a seat in the Legislative Assembly. The decision left his guest, who had arrived in high spirits, departing in disappointment. André stood in the courtyard, watching the white horse carry Lafayette away between flanking guards, and shook his head.

  In later generations, people would say that the French Revolution was a massive collision of tectonic plates—something that no single man, Lafayette included, could possibly mend. To the radicals, he was the man who damped down the people’s revolutionary fervour; to the Bourbons, he raised up enemies at their gates and “kept bandits alive” in order to bargain with them for political advantage. Both sides suspected him of harbouring the ambitions of a Caesar or a Cromwell.

  Yet in truth, Lafayette possessed none of the essential qualities of a would-be dictator. He could not be ruthless. He would not speak with a forked tongue. He would not betray his word, would not weave endless lies, and would not wallow in luxury. He would not…

  In a few months’ time, decades of glory and prestige would come crashing down in a single accident, and Lafayette would never recover his standing. André had promised Mirabeau he would not be the one to pull the white-horse General down—but he had never agreed to jump into the flames with him, still less to snatch chestnuts from the fire on his behalf.

  …

  In early April, the weather turned clear and mild.

  Within the British Embassy in Paris, a light open carriage rolled to a smooth halt in the courtyard. The British envoy, Earl Gower, was already waiting in the company of his staff. Under a forest of attentive eyes, the portly figure of Charles James Fox descended from the carriage with heavy, shuffling steps.

  Fox—fond of riding, walking, tennis, and cricket—was forty-two years old, in the prime of a professional politician’s life. His complexion was dark, his hair thick and unruly, his body stout, his face round. In his youth, he had lived a life of almost uninterrupted debauchery and became notorious across Westminster for his shamelessness and scandalous reputation.

  Beyond a life of womanising and unrestrained drinking, Fox was also hopelessly addicted to gambling. His debts to Jewish moneylenders alone were enormous; on his deathbed in 1774, old Mr Fox had been forced to clear for his son the staggering sum of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds—some 2.6 million livres.

  Yet it was this very wastrel who had managed to purchase himself a seat in the House of Commons and had twice served as Foreign Secretary (with a third term still to come).

  Besides his father’s support, the chief reason lay in Fox’s success in clinging to the broad thigh of the Prince of Wales—the future Regent and, in time, George IV. Fox and the Prince were kindred spirits in dissolute living; their friendship was so close that they even shared a mistress.

  King George III, however, detested him. Fox not only championed the cause of the American rebels, he also “corrupted” the Prince of Wales and attacked the King himself for meddling too much in government—“his head is not sound,” Fox had said, in effect accusing him of trying to restore absolute monarchy. Most outrageous of all, during one of the King’s bouts of mental illness, Fox had schemed to have his dear friend the Prince named Regent—an attempt that failed only because of the implacable opposition of Prime Minister Pitt the Younger.

  When the French Revolution broke out, Fox was the first English statesman to raise his voice in praise of the ancient enemy across the Channel. On the storming of the Bastille, he famously declared: “How much is this the greatest event that ever happened in the world, and how much the best!”

  Only a few weeks before, he had risen in the House of Commons to proclaim his admiration for France’s new constitution, calling it “the most glorious and splendid edifice of liberty ever erected by human wisdom”. For this reason, when Edmund Burke condemned the Revolution as a violent rebellion against tradition and lawful authority, Fox did not hesitate to break definitively with a colleague and comrade of more than twenty years.

  Fox’s “private visit” to Paris was, in truth, less a gesture of goodwill from the Commons to the Constituent Assembly than it was a personal escape from the storm. George III had flatly rejected the Prince of Wales’s proposal to include Fox in the ministry; Fox’s name was not to appear on any cabinet list.

  Earl Gower wanted to have his guest shown to a room to wash and refresh himself, but Fox, impatient, first demanded to know how preparations for the next day’s banquet were progressing, and which important guests would be present.

  The envoy stopped at once and answered with due respect.

  “In accordance with your instructions, I have sent invitations to the Duc d’Orléans, Deputy Barnave, Mayor Bailly, and General Lafayette. They have all agreed to attend. In addition, I took the liberty of adding one more guest: André Franck, former Prosecutor of Paris, now Deputy Chief Prosecutor of the Marne and a principal backer of the Joint Steam Engine Company.”

  As one of Britain’s most important ambassadors, Earl Gower did not normally need to defer to a mere member of the Commons. But Fox was no ordinary MP: he was leader of the Whigs—standard-bearer of the liberal aristocracy—and, during his time at the Foreign Office, he had been the one to recommend Earl Gower for the prestigious post of Ambassador to France.

  During his forced sojourn in England, the Duc d’Orléans had made Fox’s acquaintance; two kindred wastrels had swiftly found each other’s company congenial. The main reason was simple: the Bourbon prince was fabulously rich. When Fox was with “the Frenchman”, he could ride in the most luxurious coaches in Europe, drink the most expensive Scotch on the British Isles, and amuse himself with the most exquisite courtesans in London—all at his friend’s expense.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  After Mirabeau’s death, the thirty-year-old Barnave, together with Duport and the Lameth brothers, had become a leading figure among the Constitutionnels in the Constituent Assembly. Their alliance was now strong enough to rival the Monarchistes pairing of Lafayette and Bailly.

  Fox had originally wanted to invite the left-wing deputies Robespierre and Prieur as well, but at Earl Gower’s urgent urging he gave up the idea. Having narrowly escaped one bloodless palace coup in London, the reckless Fox did not dare further provoke George III, who already hated him to the marrow of his bones.

  Nor were the conservative right—Cazalès and Father Maury—on his initial guest list. The proud Whig leader had no fondness for conservatives of any stripe, whether British or French.

  “André? André Franck, Deputy Chief Prosecutor of the Marne?” Fox turned the name over on his tongue; it sounded familiar. Only when the envoy elaborated did he recall.

  “Oh, Mr Watt’s son is somewhere in the Marne, is he not?” Years earlier, Fox had invested in Watt’s company and made a handsome profit; he was well acquainted with Watt père.

  “Yes, sir, in Chalons-en-Champagne, on business for the Joint Steam Engine Company,” Earl Gower replied.

  “I am very fond of that young man,” Fox said. “He is as capable as his father. Have him come up to Paris; I should like to see him.” With that, he turned and disappeared into the room the servants had opened for him.

  Earl Gower felt like spitting blood. He hurried to explain,

  “Chalons-en-Champagne is 110 miles from Paris. Two days will certainly not be enough.”

  “That’s easily solved,” Fox answered carelessly. “Postpone the banquet by two days. And remember, six hours from now I must be at the Palais-Royal for the masked ball the Duc d’Orléans is hosting.”

  To postpone a diplomatic banquet at a whim would make him a laughingstock among his colleagues in Paris. The envoy instinctively wanted to refuse this outrageous request—but when he opened his mouth, no words came out.

  A few days earlier, when inviting André to the banquet, Earl Gower had casually extended the invitation to young Watt as well. André had declined on the grounds that Reims lay too far from Paris and the journey would be inconvenient.

  In reality, the envoy—who kept a close eye on his countrymen abroad—had a fair idea of the true situation. Of the three engines delivered by Watt’s company to the Joint Steam Engine Company, two had suffered serious defects and lay silent on the shop floor. Ten days earlier, the embassy had lodged an urgent diplomatic protest with the French cabinet and customs authorities at young Watt’s request, seeking permission to ship essential replacement parts from Manchester and Birmingham directly to Chalons-en-Champagne. At such a moment, the deputy chief engineer was hardly likely to abandon Watt’s hard-won reputation just to come to Paris for a dinner.

  Even so, Earl Gower had no choice but to send word to André, conveying Fox’s wish. Fortunately, news soon arrived from Chalons-en-Champagne: once the replacement parts were installed, both engines were operating normally again. André promptly wrote to General Manager Say, proposing that the overworked young engineer be allowed to come to Paris, take a brief holiday, and then travel back to England in Fox’s company.

  It was as though Fox had been born under an unlucky star. In politics, economics, and public life he never ceased to take the unorthodox path. He had enraged George III, squandered his father’s political legacy, and turned the great and honourable Whig Party into a “Fox Party” that could not form a government on its own for thirty years. Now, on his very first day in France, he would, quite unintentionally, help trigger a major upheaval in Paris.

  That afternoon, a certain piece of inside gossip began to circulate among the sans-culottes along the Seine quays. Within a few hours, the rumour had washed over most of the city.

  “What? King George III has commissioned Fox to invite Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette to visit Britain?”

  When André heard it, he was stunned. His first reaction was that it had to be a lie. The notion that George III would entrust anything to Fox was absurd. Were it not for Magna Carta and the constitutional constraints born of the Glorious Revolution, the King would gladly have swallowed that member of the House of Commons whole. Moreover, under France’s own constitution, the King—head of state and monarch—could not travel abroad without the approval of two-thirds of the deputies.

  Neither of these conditions would ever be met. André was certain that someone was fanning the flames in the dark. Who? With what purpose? He did not yet know, but he was sure of one thing: whoever it was meant Louis XVI no good.

  With that in mind, André dictated a coded letter—numbers and letters interwoven—and had a trusted courier carry it through the night to the Gendarmerie Command at Reims, where it was to be placed in Captain Chassé’s hands. The cipher ordered the gendarmes to tighten checks at every roadblock and guardhouse from that day forward, detaining all persons whose identity could not be confirmed. Where necessary, they were authorised to request assistance from the Reims National Guard.

  At the same time, André instructed Javert and his followers in the Paris police precincts to keep a lower profile for the time being and to avoid intervening in the quarrels of the sans-culottes on their own initiative. As for the evolution of the situation in Paris, André himself took little interest.

  That evening, Danton’s carriage came rattling onto the ?le Saint-Louis. He had come to ask André to visit the ailing Deputy Robespierre with him. Overwork at the Constituent Assembly and the Jacobin Club had once again laid Robespierre low. Fortunately, the fever had not lasted long, and after three days the violent coughing began to subside; but he remained weak, his voice faint, and it was clear that he would have to convalesce in bed for some time.

  Robespierre’s new flat was as sparsely furnished as ever. André noticed that the deputy’s previous private secretary had been dismissed and replaced by a shy-faced young man. At his side, Danton whispered,

  “That’s Maximilien’s younger brother—Robespierre the Younger.”

  …

  Near the old quarter around Paris City Hall lay a cramped, shadowy lane called Rue Saint-Jean. Starting at the small public garden behind City Hall, it twisted and wound its way to its junction with the better-known Rue de la Verrerie.

  Late at night, the Marquis de Bouillé’s carriage rolled into the narrow street and stopped before a shabby two-storey house whose exterior mouldings had long since been eaten away by time.

  Bouillé knocked; a man dressed in black opened the door and led him up the stairs by candlelight. On the first floor, in a small room, the Marquis found a stocky middle-aged man crouched beside the hearth, feeding wood into the fire.

  This was Colonel Campan, once a devoted officer in the King’s household guard. The word “once” was required because, in October 1789, Lafayette had orchestrated a major purge of the royal guard. Many loyal officers had refused to accept the subordination of kingship to the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the August Decrees; they had been compelled to resign, leave the household troops, and in many cases flee France altogether.

  “Well?” Campan leapt to his feet as soon as he recognised the Marquis. “Are Their Majesties ready?”

  Bouillé could only shake his head in frustration.

  “His Majesty still fears that the moment he leaves Paris, that scoundrel the Duc d’Orléans will seize the chance to make trouble, and, with the backing of the traitors in the Assembly, claim the Regency for himself.”

  The former Colonel stamped in fury. To prepare for this long-planned escape, the émigré nobility had paid an enormous price—millions in coin and the lives of more loyal men than they could count.

  Campan had returned from Coblenz to Paris for one purpose only: to work with the Marquis de Bouillé to spirit Louis XVI and his family out of their prison in the Tuileries and bring them safely to a frontier province still loyal to the Bourbons, where they could call upon Austrian and Prussian arms and march back on Paris to crush the rebels and restore royal power.

  Originally, the Bishop of Arras had travelled with Campan, but he had insisted on remaining in Reims and had pushed Comte de Saizia to assassinate Deputy Chief Prosecutor André in order to clear the most dangerous obstacle on the royal road to flight. The plot had leaked; Comte de Saizia and his kin had been wiped out. The Bishop of Arras, captured, had been sent back to Paris under guard by the Reims constables. He was now in a cell in the Chatelet, awaiting trial before the itinerant High Criminal Court for treason.

  While Mirabeau still lived, the King had agreed in principle to the plans of Bouillé and his companions, but he had never really tried to carry them out. Timid and hesitant, he seemed content to leave everything to fate. Even now, his relatives and loyal servants were urging him to emulate Louis XIV, the Sun King: to strangle the rebels as his predecessor had crushed the Fronde, to summon loyal troops from the provinces and troops from Austria and Prussia, then return in triumph to Paris and restore absolutism.

  From November 1789 to April 1791, over a year and a half, the royalists had drafted one escape plan after another. Each, once drawn up, had been laid aside by the King, gathering dust until it had to be scrapped. They vanished like illusions shattered in a storm.

  This time, Colonel Campan had bribed a colonel of the National Guard and two officers of the watch; relays of fresh coaches and horses had been arranged at inns all along the road from Paris to the frontier. Hundreds of noblemen loyal to the Bourbons had also taken up arms in secret and were lying in wait at key junctions, ready to ambush any pursuers the “rebels of Paris” might send and to cover the royal family’s retreat.

  And now the answer Bouillé brought back was yet another refusal from King and Queen. In their na?ve minds, the majority of Paris’s 600,000 souls still loved their monarchs; the “rebels” merely sought power and would not dare harm royal persons. Had not the King’s aunts just travelled freely to Rome to visit their kin?

  The former guard officer all but exploded.

  “We have sacrificed so much, taken such risks—and this is what we get in return? I am disappointed—utterly, utterly disappointed…”

  By the end, this iron-willed soldier broke down completely, weeping like a child whose last hope had been crushed.

  “My friend,” Bouillé said, stepping forward to embrace him tightly, lowering his voice to comfort him, “the situation is not as bad as you think. Tomorrow—yes, after tomorrow—the King and Queen will understand that fleeing to the provinces is the only path left to them. I have a plan—bold and offensive, I admit—and I must have your help to carry it out.”

  …