Each time André spoke a name, he leveled his fingers at that cabinet minister—as in court, when a prosecutor delivers charge after charge against a criminal. The deputies fell in with him; a crisp volley of applause at once flooded the hall.

  Perhaps he had thrown himself too deeply into the performance. After reeling off three ministers in a single breath, André almost added the Minister of Foreign Affairs and Controller-General, the Comte de Montmorin. He checked himself in time, let his raised arm sketch a graceful, irregular circle in midair, drew it back, then turned and bowed to the deputies who supported him.

  There was no doubt: of the 687 deputies present, more than two-thirds were on their feet cheering André’s speech—the entire Left, most of the Center, and a portion of the Right.

  Having once more pulled off his display, André strode out of the debate hall of the Constituent Assembly like a victorious Roman general. He had every right to do so, for he was the day’s victor: the sovereign National Assembly had become a stage for his personal talents, and the once-overbearing cabinet ministers could only quail before him.

  Throughout, André’s oratorical style swung between the minute and the solemn, the moving and the severe. His tone was at times well-layered, at times blurred; yet the force in his delivery was so abundant as to verge on overbearing (a prodigious set of lungs). Once on the floor, he poured his whole being into the speech. To many present, hearing the prosecutor speak was like watching swell after swell roll across the sea, roaring against a rugged shore, carrying silt and sand from the riverbed and flashing with golden light under the sun.

  Two days later, those whom André had named in public—the Minister of the Interior, the Comte de Saint-Priest; the Minister of War, the Comte de La Tour du Pin; and the Minister of Justice, the Vicomte de Champien—submitted their resignations to the Tuileries. Paris—and indeed all of France—was in an uproar.

  André had seized the rostrum not only to strike at the protectors of the tax-farmers, but also to display his own strength and pave the way to inherit Mirabeau’s political legacy. Next year would belong to the Legislative Assembly; because deputies to the Constituent Assembly could neither remain in office nor stand for the Legislative Assembly, those unwilling to lose power would have to find spokesmen for their interests in the new chamber. Today, the young and capable Prosecutor André Franck plainly made a promising ally.

  Back in the hall, on the Right benches, Condorcet and Lavoisier looked at each other in astonishment. If they had not seen it with their own eyes, they could not have believed that a single man could wield such incendiary force: he had moved not only the Center but even a number on the Right to cross the aisle and back André’s motion of no confidence against the three ministers.

  “Thank heaven this terrifying creature is going off to the Marne,” Lavoisier said with relief. It was firm news he had bought at a high price from the Comte de Mirabeau.

  The Marquis de Condorcet shook his head. “You are mistaken, my friend. Even if he ceases to be the prosecutor, he will still find a thousand ways to rouse Parisian opinion and launch an all-out war on the tax-farming companies. Not to mention: he has a real force at his back, and the Prefect of Police, Legoff, is his brother-in-law (because André’s relationship with Legoff’s sister, the wife of Judge Vinault). My advice is that you negotiate a plea-bargain—and it must be before André formally steps down as tax prosecutor.”

  Lavoisier still hesitated. He was thinking of the Bordeaux tax-farmers’ grim fate and doubting that André, with the wind so wholly in his sails, would abandon the chase.

  Condorcet smiled and pointed toward the guest seats, where the Comte de Montmorin—alone among the four ministers—was dabbing the cold sweat from his brow, spared by André’s indictment. Dropping his voice, he said: “It is said this chief minister once slipped the Comte de Mirabeau 150,000 livres in assignats; and Mirabeau is the prosecutor’s political mentor in the Assembly. So…”

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  “I accept,” said Lavoisier. He could only hope André’s bite would not sink too deep.

  “Good,” Condorcet replied. “I will ask Brissot, of the Paris Commune, to act as go-between.”

  …

  Leaving the debate hall, André at once noticed a richly dressed figure waiting for him: a man leaning on a cane against a corridor column, a humble smile on his face.

  “So, an old acquaintance—Talleyrand, Bishop of Autun,” André said to himself, remembering the joke invitation to a drink he had once made but never fulfilled; now the lame man had come to his door.

  A year ago, with a touch of political fastidiousness, André would have ignored the notorious, womanizing Bishop of Autun. Talleyrand had betrayed too many masters he had once served—among them the Pope, Louis XVI, Georges Danton, Barras, Napoleon, and Charles X (brother of Louis XVIII). In truth, he had never spared even his own kin.

  But now André, remade as a political creature, had no standing to censure others. He knew Talleyrand was lame, yet the cane’s tap was firm, and a voice not loud could stir all France—indeed all Europe. As for greed and baseness, André’s own gift for rapid accumulation was second to none; and in turning black into white and framing opponents, the lawyer had hardly been idle.

  After a brief, cordial exchange, André invited Talleyrand to rest at a café off the Place Vend?me, not far from the Manège Hall. The bishop-deputy, in plain formal dress, hair sleeked at the temples, his refined features wearing their habitual air of deference, readily accepted the prosecutor’s invitation.

  André meant to take a carriage to save his legs, but Talleyrand insisted on walking. André noticed that though the Bishop of Autun limped, his pace was startlingly brisk. After fifteen minutes, they were seated in the café’s main room, and André poured him a glass of Burgundy white.

  Talleyrand did not drink, but gazed at the pale gold liquid as it rolled in the glass. “In truth—by history and by quality—white wines from Burgundy stand a cut above Champagne. Yet today the world knows Champagne and forgets Burgundy.”

  André smiled and kept silent, waiting for the gilded cripple to finish.

  “You know, André, I have deep ties with Reims. I studied theology for three years at a monastic school there and served several months as a church cleric; my uncle is still the Archbishop of Reims. Next month, the Constituent Assembly will publish a Decree on the Clerical Oath, drafted by me, and I myself will urge all French clergy to swear to the Constitution. André—how many do you think will swear?” He tossed back his wine with a helpless, bitter look.

  André gave him a cool glance. “At most one-third will swear. Once blood is spilled, and with Rome’s interference as well, many more will refuse. In the end, those who swear will be under one-fifth nationwide—perhaps even fewer.” As he set out what was about to happen, André topped up the Bishop of Autun’s glass.

  “Your acuity astonishes me,” Talleyrand said, raising his glass to salute André. He dropped the aristocratic forms of address, hoping to speak freely as to a kindred spirit. André, however, never trusted the noble phrasing that came from the cripple’s mouth.

  “What do you think I should do?” Talleyrand asked, apparently in earnest.

  André was not na?ve enough to believe Talleyrand took him for a friend with whom nothing was withheld; nor would he trust a bishop so given to rebellion. To please the majority in the Assembly, Talleyrand had even put a gun to the heads of two bishops who refused to swear—earning excommunication from the Pope.

  Squinting with a smile, André asked, “What do you want to do?”

  Talleyrand shook his head at once, playing the expression to perfection.

  Then André spoke, enunciating each word: “Life is like rape: when you cannot resist, close your eyes and try to enjoy it. God will forgive you.”

  With this fresh bout of grandstanding concluded, André moved to settle the bill. Talleyrand quickly stopped him, cursing inwardly at “this Reims-bred rogue—too slick by half.” But aloud, he shifted to his genuine view of affairs. After a brief pause, his voice sounded again—deep and shrewd, every word ringing like metal.

  “I do not know whether we should pity Louis XVI or the common people—France or Europe. If the King continues to trust in the people’s love, he is finished. If the people fail to be on their guard against the King’s nature, disaster will come: corpses will carpet the ground; rivers of blood will run; a moment’s frenzy will mean years of slaughter. I foresee the innocent and the guilty perishing together. However events turn, either the cause of liberty (the Revolution) will be imperiled, or the peace of France destroyed. I am certain Louis XVI is no bloodthirsty tyrant; but he is indecisive, weak, and easily swayed by those around him—this may make him cruel; or else his weakness will leave him and his family without shelter, even in mortal danger. However, I imagine it, I tremble for what lies ahead.”

  At this, André had to marvel inwardly. But for André himself, the man before him was indeed—after Mirabeau—the keenest and most clear-sighted statesman. Nearly all of these “predictions” would prove true. Yet however accurate such analyses of the situation might be, they had little bearing on a man like André, who had a talent for gaming the system.