“Colonel André? Oh? Isn’t he a republican, the sort who sides with the mob?” Berthier’s tone was openly dismissive—an aftertaste from André’s acting for Babeuf’s case.

  Hearing this, Senarmont sighed inwardly. If Berthier joined the Champagne Composite Regiment while clinging to hostility toward the colonel, then, given Colonel André’s unmistakable temperament, Berthier would be lucky to come away unscathed; more likely outcomes were death in battle—or some inexplicable “accident.”

  Perhaps it was shared noble birth, and the fact that Senarmont’s father had served with Berthier in the American War of Independence, that made their relationship cordial. On learning Berthier had been appointed chief of staff to the Champagne Composite Regiment, Captain Senarmont was the first to write a letter of congratulations.

  To most people, Berthier was short and stout, ordinary in looks and manner, heavily nasal in speech, with an oversized head and ungainly hands. Yet Senarmont was sure that the disproportionate head held a disproportionate mass of knowledge and information. Unmarried, Berthier read military works tirelessly. In the Versailles barracks, the lieutenant colonel’s office was essentially a chaotic library.

  After a brief pause, Senarmont picked up the thread. “A republican? Perhaps—perhaps not. As a lawyer he loathes anarchy and hot-headed, bloodthirsty crowds. If you say Colonel André is a republican—well—he has never denied that Louis XVI is a kindly, amicable king; but at the same time, Louis XVI is a timid and inept one. He lacks both the ability and the courage to discharge a king’s sacred duty and spare France’s 25,000,000 people from misfortune.”

  “Oh? Then he supports the Duc d’Orléans taking the throne?” Berthier still spoke with marked displeasure. In his view, the benevolent Louis XVI was the proper object of every upright Frenchman’s loyalty.

  Senarmont smiled and shook his head. “No, my friend. Colonel André gives his allegiance to no man—neither the Duc d’Orléans nor Louis XVI. He simply holds that Louis XVI, timid and inconstant, is unfit to continue as king; that is not the same as endorsing the Palais Royal intriguers to act as regents of France.”

  As king, compared with Louis XV and Louis XIV, Louis XVI was plain and decent, steady and mild. He opened the way to political reform and repeatedly yielded to the popular will, unwilling to harm anyone. As royal authority was steadily eroded, the court was denounced again and again as a national disgrace, and anyone who attacked the king could reap political gain.

  And that is why André opposed Louis XVI. He had told Senarmont plainly: the king’s repeated, unprincipled concessions only escalated collective violence. In October last year, in the Palace of Versailles, André saw with his own eyes the king and queen’s dignity trampled. At the same time, he resolved to use iron and blood to overawe political mobs in any form. But reared in a hothouse, Louis XVI—by nature—abandoned every chance of self-preservation and reversal.

  Of course, Senarmont did not repeat all of André’s words; he quoted only the key line: “When, that day in Versailles, the king refused to mount his horse, he forfeited André’s loyalty.” In other words, in disorder, officers will not entrust loyalty and life to a leader who is weak of character.

  In fact, when the Parisian crowd besieged Versailles, Berthier had already assembled the National Guard under his command; one order from the king would have let them coordinate with the Regiment of Flanders to suppress the riot by force. But the king’s hesitation cost the moment; vacillation in the palace and conflicting orders left soldiers at a loss. Soon men without conviction slipped into the crowd. After the Versailles affair, the normally mild Lieutenant Colonel Berthier locked himself in and drank himself insensible.

  From Captain Senarmont’s account, Berthier finally grasped André’s true position: neither republican nor royalist, but an ambitious Machiavellian. He still did not much like his future commander, but at least he no longer rejected him.

  Seeing Berthier’s attitude soften, Senarmont laid a prepared stack of papers on the lieutenant colonel’s cluttered desk. He explained: “This is a set of normative regulations the colonel instructed the officers to draft in early September—Outline of Regulations for the Champagne Composite Regiment, 1790. It has fifteen chapters and fourteen sections, covering soldiers’ duties, discipline and the military court, daily routines, battle preparation, assemblies and formations, combat essentials by arm, and management standards for weapons, horses, rations, sanitation, and encampment. At present, it lacks the section on the staff system. Colonel André hopes that you, as chief of staff, can complete the missing part before regimental headquarters reaches Versailles.”

  What Senarmont brought was nearly 10,000 words—but it was only a general outline. Detailed discussion and procedures for each point would need time. Even so, Lieutenant Colonel Berthier received three proposals from André for building a modern staff system:

  The staff should found a field military school to handle routine officer training and examinations.

  The staff should be responsible for organization, training, exercises, and drafting mobilization and marching plans—including kriegsspiel (sand-table war games) using scientific methods such as statistics, probability, and game theory.

  The staff should conduct precise surveys of local geography and terrain and handle numerous technical matters for the artillery, engineers, and other specialist arms.

  When Captain Senarmont slipped out, Berthier was still immersed in the Outline and the three staff proposals. Clearly, Colonel André’s military thought—more than twenty years ahead of its time—shook the proud Berthier. And rightly so: otherwise he would not merit the name of the Napoleonic era’s finest chief of staff. Whenever excitement swelled as he read, Berthier would gnaw his nails until his fingers bled, staining pages and desktop alike.

  Twenty minutes later, Senarmont returned to his rented lodgings outside the barracks. There, in plain clothes and sipping wine on the sofa, waited André’s confidential courier, Second Lieutenant Penduvas.

  At the sight of Senarmont, Penduvas put down his glass and rose. “Well? How is Lieutenant Colonel Berthier?”

  Senarmont first gave a faithful account of Berthier’s reaction, then added: “I’m confident the chief of staff’s professionalism will keep his private feelings out of the Champagne Composite Regiment.”

  “Good.” Penduvas exhaled. With a captain’s endorsement, one worry was laid to rest. For if Senarmont had affirmed that Berthier’s negativity made him unfit for the post, then as Colonel André’s emissary, Penduvas would have relayed word to Deputy Chief Javert to let Berthier remain ‘ill’ until he resigned.

  When business at Versailles was done, Penduvas declined Senarmont’s dinner invitation—there were other important tasks in Paris—so he had only one night to visit home.

  In 1790, Montmartre was still a secluded village of vineyards and windmills, its people living an orderly, quiet rural life.

  Penduvas reached the village under a bright moon. In the dim light, he led his horse in at the gate and handed old Father Duthon, on watch there, a bottle of Bordeaux.

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  Following the gravel lane between cottages, he soon saw the familiar grey timber house. A wide bed of marigolds bloomed outside—pity the poor moonlight hid their colour.

  The door creaked as he pushed it open, breaking the silence within.

  “Nicolas?” It was his father’s voice. A veteran cavalryman of the Seven Years’ War, he could tell footfalls at once.

  “Yes, Father.” Penduvas paused on the threshold.

  “Come in, child—we’ve been waiting for days!” Lamps flared one by one. Before he could set down his heavy case, Penduvas saw his neatly dressed parents and three younger siblings running in to greet him.

  After quick embraces with his parents, the younger ones—still in nightclothes—crowded round, tugging at their elder brother’s coat and clamouring, “Big brother, big brother—presents! Presents!”

  Prepared, Penduvas opened his case. For Louis, the younger brother who loved to draw: a watercolour set. For Philippe: a bronze model of a twelve-pounder gun, once a trophy of Second Lieutenant Penduvas. The youngest sister immediately adored a music box that played by itself—bought for ten livres from a Versailles looter.

  When the gifts were done, their mother—ever in her dark-blue bodice and plain skirt—shooed the delighted trio back to bed, lifted a lamp, and turned to the kitchen to prepare a hearty meal for her hungry eldest.

  Penduvas glanced around the parlour: little had changed—simple and worn. A long table and benches occupied the centre; opposite the hearth stood a row of cupboards with plates, cutlery, and a jar for coins. Around the window, one could spot blessed candles, holy water splashed along the interior, and palms from Palm Sunday—the Catholic custom said to ward off household fires and thunder in storms.

  Old Penduvas sat straight on the bench in coarse blue homespun, intent on his accomplished son—especially the small star on the blue shoulder strap, mark of an officer.

  “Second Lieutenant!” In the Seven Years’ War, after losing half a leg, the old man had left the army without even making corporal; he had not expected his eldest, in under a year, to hold a commission—even a temporary one. By rule, with merit or two years’ service, it could be made permanent.

  Before long, the table was laden: cheese, mashed potatoes, dry bread, and a great tureen of rich pork stew. The aromas set the famished Penduvas to with a will, while his parents sipped the Bordeaux he had brought.

  After the meal, Penduvas handed his mother a share certificate, asking her to keep it safe: a 10,000-livre holding in the French Tobacco Company. From 1791 onward, between October and December, they could take it to the Paris United Commercial Bank and draw the dividend.

  To build loyalty and cohesion among his officers, André had advanced 10,000 livres to those too poor to buy shares—Saint-Cyr, Penduvas, Finic, Villed, and others—so each might own 1%. Under the purchase agreement, they could repay over three years with 6% annual interest. The shares were not freely transferable or listed; they could only be redeemed by the company at market price.

  As for Moncey, Hoche, Senarmont, Masséna, and Augereau, they could borrow 30,000 livres from their commander and hold 3% apiece, while André himself held only 5%. Beyond the regiment, Ouvrard, Perrier, and the accountant Bernard could purchase up to 3% of total equity.

  At the outset, few believed that a named slip of paper—with anti-counterfeit filigree and serial numbers—would bring even a few sous of dividend each year; most invested out of blind trust in Commander André. A year later, scepticism turned to delight.

  To return to the present: Penduvas told his father that, if all went well, he would personally come—or send someone—in the first half of next year to fetch Louis, then fourteen. Only yesterday, Captain Senarmont had agreed to take Louis into the artillery company as an apprentice gunner and drummer.

  This would not only ease the family’s expenses; Louis would also learn sciences unknown in the village. As a technical arm, the artillery demanded fitness and regular study—especially mathematics and surveying. If Louis passed the tests, he could earn Captain Senarmont’s recommendation for further study at the Metz School of Artillery and become an artillery officer.

  They talked late into the night. At last, Penduvas dozed on the parlour bench. At dawn’s first light, the second lieutenant quietly packed his kit. Before leaving, he set 200 livres on the table to help his parents with the household.

  As a temporary second lieutenant of the Champagne Composite Regiment, he drew the full monthly pay of 105 livres (by regulation, a temporary rank could draw half pay), but no allowances. Only on campaign would an officer receive a field allowance of two to three livres per day. Allowances, as a benefit, were for majors and above—typically 35% of monthly pay. For example, Major Moncey’s monthly pay was 300 livres; his monthly allowance was 105 livres; total 405 livres. Once in the field, he would add two livres per day in field allowance.

  Around 10:00 a.m., now back in blue-and-white uniform, Second Lieutenant Penduvas met, on the northern end of today’s Boulevard Ornano near Saint-Denis, the carriage train of Judge Vinault and his wife, returning to Sedan.

  Weeks earlier, citing ill health, Judge Vinault had submitted his retirement to the Palais de Justice; it was promptly approved by the Council of Magistrates and the Tuileries, and the king, Louis XVI, ordered an 8,000-livre pension for his old age—though all knew the retired magistrate hardly needed the money.

  From André alone, bribes to the Vinaults exceeded 50,000 livres. Added to decades of savings, their wealth likely topped a million. Like many conservative nobles, the judge had sunk most of it into property deeds around Sedan. Perhaps for André’s sake, he put as much as 100,000 livres into the Joint Steam Engine Company.

  When Second Lieutenant Penduvas stated his business to the party, the judge’s wife—nearly six months pregnant and heavily showing—stepped down from the carriage alone.

  “Well then, Second Lieutenant—what does André want?” she asked, with a curl of disdain.

  Back in early July, she had written to André to say she was several months pregnant; beyond doubt, the child was André’s. The faithless man had made only one visit before hurrying south to Bordeaux. He kept writing from 600 km away, but in her view, André ought to have come to Paris in person—not sent a junior officer with a message.

  “Madam Vinault, Colonel André asked me to bring you this.” Second Lieutenant Penduvas presented a long wooden box, stepped closer, and murmured: “The colonel says he will make time to visit you and the child in Sedan. This is a gift for the baby.”

  She nodded with reserve; her heart eased a little—at least the man had some conscience and had sent a present from afar. Back in the carriage, she opened the box. Inside lay a certificate of deposit from the United Commercial Bank for 200,000 livres.

  “André?” The drowsing Judge Vinault opened his eyes. He reached to wipe the tears at his wife’s lashes and murmured, “When I stand before God someday, he will care for you and the child with all his strength. Of that I have no doubt.”

  …

  At noon in a café of the Palais Royal, Penduvas met Deputy Chief Javert, who had waited some time. Javert slipped him a note. Penduvas unfolded it: “Reims Cathedral—Charles de Marey, cleric.”

  “Once you reach Reims, go straight to this fifth-order cleric; he knows the ground. By the way, he grew up in the same orphanage as your colonel, Colonel André—he’s trustworthy.” Javert raised a hand to summon the waiter for lunch, but Penduvas stopped him.

  “Forgive me, sir—duty is pressing. I must get to Chalons-en-Champagne without delay.” Rising, the second lieutenant added, apologetically, a few details per Colonel André’s instructions: the Champagne Composite Regiment would reach the Versailles barracks in late October, pause there to refit, and arrive in Reims by 30 November, then begin clearing bandits in the Marne.

  With that, Penduvas hurried east toward Chalons (Chalons-en-Champagne), seat of the Marne. There, he would receive a cover identity from Thuriot, the newly elected Chief Provincial Prosecutor, and conduct reconnaissance around Reims to prepare for the regiment’s arrival.

  …

  Artois (Pas-de-Calais), the fortress of Arras.

  After six lightless weeks in a cellar, Louis Nicolas Davout, Second Lieutenant, was finally released. He stepped out of the fortress prison to return to the Champagne Cavalry Regiment’s post at étain. (Not under André; André controls the Champagne Composite Regiment)

  In August 1790, long-delayed pay sparked a modest mutiny among the garrison at étain; the Champagne cavalry regiment was implicated. Word reached the Paris cabinet quickly. Already reeling from the Nancy mutiny, the Minister of War, the Comte de Tour du Pin, ordered all those involved expelled from the army. Under his order, forty-nine men were to be turned out of the Champagne regiment, some with over twenty years’ service.

  On receiving the order, the young second lieutenant Davout was incensed. A nobleman by birth, he spoke out loudly for the men and opposed the decree. He even sent Paris a strongly worded protest. The result was a secret warrant: in early September, Davout was jailed at Arras.