Of course, verbal attacks in the press might not amount to much in themselves. But once André reassumed the office of the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, Lyon might not be able to withstand the pressure. The city’s officials and merchants only had to recall the bloody scenes he had created in Bordeaux and Reims for their legs to start shaking and a chill to run over their bodies. And this was before even considering that André had since been promoted to Brigadier General of the National Guard, in command of a formidable Champagne Composite Brigade.

  “Ahem.” Brissot cleared his throat twice, drawing everyone’s attention back to himself. He stepped forward to smooth things over. “André, you may have misunderstood. Monsieur Roland has come to Paris merely to discuss Lyon’s fiscal situation with the Assembly’s Economic Committee. He is not here to impeach Monsieur Charles Malo Fran?ois Lameth.”

  “Oh?” With someone now offering him a way down from the stage, André’s tone became noticeably less aggressive. He turned his head, smiled broadly and replied, “So it really is all a misunderstanding. That puts my mind at ease. May I then write to Monsieur Lameth the younger and inform him that Lyon will be ready within two weeks to remit two million livres in national taxes? And that Lyon must also guarantee the lawful commercial activities of out-of-town merchants? Is that correct, Monsieur Roland?”

  Prompted again and again by his wife’s discreet signals, Roland—seething with resentment—ground his teeth and said, “Yes, two million livres. Lyon has always welcomed free trade.” Even now, he had no idea why André had insisted on adding that seemingly trivial last sentence.

  “Thank you.” Having achieved his purpose, the uninvited nuisance turned on his heel and left. As he passed his old acquaintance Robespierre, he casually asked, “Maximilien, my carriage happens to be headed your way. Shall I give you a lift home?”

  In the carriage, Robespierre kept casting André searching glances, making the latter feel distinctly ill at ease, until he finally spoke. “I know what you want to ask. This is part of a political deal between myself and Barnave. Marquis de Bouillé has already left Paris and returned to Metz. At this moment, I need the Constitutionalists’ help in the Assembly to cut the food and pay allocations for the German mercenary regiments, and thereby ease the military pressure on the Champagne Composite Brigade.”

  As usual, Robespierre reached up to touch the wig on his head and then fell silent again. Only when he was about to get down did he tell André, “The Constitutionalists nobles are not our comrades—neither Barnave nor Lafayette. And remember, all economic activity must be subordinated to lofty political principles, my friend.”

  André answered dutifully, while meaning none of it. “Of course. Politics above all. But Lyon’s revolt against the Paris prosecutor is a revolt against Paris itself, against progress, against France.” Although his official post lay in the provinces, most Parisians already regarded the political career of the orphan of Reims as belonging to the capital.

  Back at the Roland residence, once the guests had departed, the usually mild-mannered Monsieur Roland actually vented his anger on the glassware and porcelain. The marble floor rang with the crash of shattering pieces. Madame Roland instructed the butler to stand guard at the door and sent the servants away. She herself sat down on the sofa and began to think in silence.

  The daughter of a disreputable small shopkeeper in Paris, she had suffered scorn from an early age and had always longed to be respected. From childhood she had loved to read, especially biographies of heroic figures from Greek mythology and the great orators of ancient Rome. In her youth, Rousseau’s Social Contract and Julie, or the New Heloise became her favourite works, and the idea of a republic gradually took shape in her mind. Alongside it, an ambition ill-suited to this “great age” quietly grew within her: an eagerness to remake French society from a Republican standpoint and to stand at the centre of attention.

  When the Revolution came, Madame Roland felt that the long-awaited moment had finally arrived: she would at last have a chance to realise her plans and to attain a position of eminence. She pushed Monsieur Roland by every possible means to use his post as royal inspector of manufactures to enter the Lyon Commune’s committee and become a City Hall official. On two subsequent trips back to Paris she worked tirelessly to build a political salon and forge alliances with the ultra-left groups in the capital. She was convinced that she had drawn Condorcet, Buzot, Pétion, Brissot and others into her own little circle. As for Robespierre and Danton, she considered the former spiteful and vindictive, the latter coarse and ill-bred, lacking all elegance; neither, in her eyes, was worth cultivating. As for André, he seemed to her a kind of monomaniac, blindly dismissing the central political importance of Paris and choosing instead to entrench himself in a provincial power base.

  When André announced in October of the previous year that he was resigning as prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court and returning to the Marne as deputy prosecutor, the Rolands both assumed that his influence on Parisian politics would slowly fade. They had misjudged his real strength. Barely half an hour earlier, a few seemingly off-hand remarks from him had been enough to turn weeks of careful planning in Lyon entirely to dust. On top of that, the Rolands and the Lyon City Hall now had to yield to André’s blackmail: they would pay two million livres in tax revenue to allow the disgraced Lameth the younger to escape with his political life.

  As part of the bargain, however, André had promised that he would not reassume the office of prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, nor would he go to Lyon to stir up trouble and bring Reims-style terror to the banks of the Rh?ne.

  Even so, what would André be in the future—friend or foe? Intelligent and perceptive as she was, Madame Roland could not yet say. But she had to find out why he had turned on them, and in particular what he had meant by his final remark, which had clearly been aimed at something specific. She therefore wrote, in her husband’s name, to the Lyon City Hall to ask for details.

  On the other side of the affair, André had not originally intended to fall out with the Rolands so early. According to the route he had mapped out, he meant to dance in turn on the prow of three ships: first the Constitutionalists nobles, then the future Girondins, and finally the Jacobins. The great vessel of the Constitutionalists had not yet begun to list and take on water, and yet André had already fired a premature broadside at the future leaders of the Gironde, in clear violation of his initial plan.

  In fact, when he agreed to Barnave’s request, he had meant to “win hearts with virtue”: to sit down with the stiff, earnest Monsieur Roland, lay out the facts, discuss terms, and patiently reach a compromise and a fair exchange. But a letter from Chalons-en-Champagne had made him furious. He threw aside his original plan, marched on the Roland residence in high indignation and forced the proud couple to accept a humiliating peace on his terms.

  The letter that changed everything had been sent by General Manager Say of the United Investment Company. He informed André that the Lyon Weavers’ Association, having learned that the company’s textile mills had dramatically increased efficiency, improved quality and lowered costs by adopting the new machinery, had concluded that the Northern United Investment Company posed a grave threat to the city’s own textile industry.

  The association had therefore incited the workshop owners, and—backed by the Lyon City Hall—had sent envoys to the United Investment Company demanding that the northerners immediately cease using the new machinery for spinning and weaving. Naturally, Say had refused such an unreasonable request. Two weeks later, however, two consignments of cotton yarn shipped by the United Investment Company to southern cities were seized at the wharves in Lyon…

  Before the previous year, André might not have cared much about the real value of one or two shiploads of cotton yarn. But after Say sent him projected profit figures for the spinning and weaving mills, his mood changed at once. Even using only the actual production capacity of May 1791 as a baseline, Say’s conservative estimate was that by the end of the 1791 fiscal year the spinning and weaving mills would bring the United Investment Company between six million and eight million livres in profit. If capacity continued to rise, annual earnings by 1793 would exceed thirty million livres—and might go higher still.

  Between 1790 and 1791, André, brandishing the “imperial sword” of the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court and the provincial deputy prosecutor, commanding a fully armed force, had systematically stripped the Catholic Church of its wealth. Even counting hard-to-liquidate properties such as plantations, estates, villas and shops, his total haul had amounted to no more than twenty to thirty million livres—and those were one-off gains, impossible to repeat.

  Now, however, with the spinning and weaving mills he had founded almost by accident, total profits alone could easily reach more than thirty million livres—and with far less risk and effort than open robbery in the name of justice. No wonder the British were ready to fight Napoleon’s empire to the bitter end to keep their cotton goods flowing into the European market.

  André was convinced that political activity normally existed to serve one’s own economic development.

  By the same logic, he was willing to shield the sale of his cotton yarn and cloth across France and the European Continent. For the sake of those thirty million livres in profit, he did not hesitate to fire on the Rolands, or even to “declare war” prematurely on the whole future Girondin faction. Besides, he was never fighting alone. Fully half of those profits belonged to the United Investment Company’s senior management and investors, to the officers of the Champagne Composite Brigade, the officials of Reims City Hall, the members of the Marne’s departmental council and such allies as Prieur, Thuriot and Danton.

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  Robespierre was the one true L’Incorruptible. He politely refused André’s offer and even declined to accept profit shares that required no investment. But he tacitly upheld their political alliance. In return, André had prepared a small gift for him when his term as deputy expired in September: a judgeship in the still-to-be-created criminal court at Versailles, a sinecure with an annual salary of six thousand five hundred livres and almost nothing to do.

  As for Lafayette, Barnave and the other Constitutionalists nobles, most were immensely wealthy men. With them, political quid pro quo mattered more than money. Their governing ideals were too abstract, too idealistic. They reduced the complexities of human nature to something far too simple. This meant that André’s cooperation with them could end at any time.

  Marat and his followers, for their part, were so extreme in their actions that in the history of the Revolution they could only serve, time and again, as pawns and cannon fodder in other people’s conspiracies.

  At dawn, as the first warm rays of sunlight fell on the Tuileries, a carriage drew up on the grass in front of the Bourbon palace. Inside, André pulled back the curtain and stared coldly at the scene before him.

  The plump, good-natured Louis XVI appeared on the second-floor balcony at his usual hour, waving with both hands as he received the cheers of his loyal subjects and the catcalls of the sans-culottes. Before long, both cheers and jeers were drowned out by the cries of the hawkers passing back and forth before the palace.

  Since the king’s return to Paris, a free market had sprung up outside the wrought-iron gates of the Tuileries, a place where Parisians could trade as they pleased. Passing vendors offered visitors all manner of snacks: Italian sandwiches, crêpes, grilled oysters, roasted sweet potatoes and a variety of fruits from the south.

  A few days earlier, a travelling circus from the provinces had tried to set up shop here, only to be driven away on Lafayette’s orders on grounds of security. In the panic of their departure, a mischievous little black bear had escaped from its cage and actually attempted to slip into the Tuileries through a small hole, only to be caught by the palace guards. Afterwards, Queen Marie Antoinette paid the ringmaster ten gold louis to purchase the animal, because her six-year-old son, the Dauphin, was very fond of the cuddly, greedy little bear.

  André had not stopped his carriage in front of the palace to watch the king’s clumsy performance. He had done so because, in passing, he had caught sight of a familiar figure. The familiarity seemed to span more than two centuries and came from a portrait painted by Jacques-Louis David—a painting whose subject’s era of glory had fascinated countless people, André included.

  Judging by the blue-and-white lapels of the uniform, the short figure in the crowd was still an artillery lieutenant, though his coat was a little worn. A mane of dark brown hair lent him youthful vigour; his features were set in a sombre, cold expression, and his shy yet ravenous eyes looked as if they wanted to devour the whole city.

  “Napoleon Bonaparte.” André was already certain that the short officer standing in the crowd not far away was the same man who, in another timeline, would become Emperor Napoleon. Yet at this moment Lieutenant Bonaparte was still a man whose French was clumsy and whose heart was set, as a Corsican nationalist, on the independence and freedom of his native island.

  On the other side, Lieutenant Bonaparte, with a professional soldier’s instinct, sensed that he was being watched. When he looked around warily, he saw someone seated in a carriage beckoning to him, inviting him to come over. The carriage itself was unremarkable, painted black. But the men around it were not: at least two uniformed constables and several plain-clothes guards armed with pistols and swords were keeping close watch on its surroundings.

  Napoleon hesitated a moment, then walked over. Before he climbed in, a dark-skinned lieutenant in uniform asked him to hand over his pistol and sword for safekeeping. By now, the Corsican had more or less guessed the name of the important man waiting inside. A friend in the artillery, Brion, had told him that among more than two hundred serving generals in France—including the National Guard—only one Brigadier General, André Franck, had appointed a mixed-race black officer as his aide-de-camp.

  “General Franck?” Napoleon instinctively tried to stand and salute his superior officer, but forgot that the carriage was cramped and low. The rocking of the vehicle nearly sent him sprawling.

  André waved a hand and gave him a slight smile. “No need to be so formal. Sit down, Lieutenant. I am not even in uniform right now. You may call me Monsieur Franck, or Monsieur Deputy Prosecutor.”

  Noticing the young officer’s puzzled expression, André offered an explanation. “I asked you over because I recognised your Corsican accent. Do not worry—I once travelled across most of France during my student days in Reims, and the only place I regret not visiting was Corsica. I missed a kind invitation from a friend there.”

  This piqued Napoleon’s interest. Half doubtful, he pressed, “Oh? Which friend? Corsica is not large. I may well know him.”

  André smiled and casually gave a name.

  Napoleon’s tightly closed lips suddenly parted, and he exclaimed in surprise, “Ha! So it was Casanova. He is my cousin. Yes, I remember now. Four years ago, Casanova did mention that he had invited a friend from Champagne to visit him in Ajaccio—but that you never came. Casanova is now a member of the Corsican communal committee and will be running in four months’ time for a seat in the Legislative Assembly.”

  Relief at the clarification brought a flush of excitement to the Corsican’s pale, hollow cheeks. Worldly as he was, André could easily read the implication: Napoleon wanted to ask his cousin’s friend for help. He could already guess the nature of the request.

  With this in mind, he asked, in an apparently casual tone, “What brings you to Paris, Lieutenant?”

  As he had expected, Napoleon did not hesitate to confide his purpose. “I came to Paris to see the King’s ministers about a compensation claim involving a piece of land that dates back twenty years,” he said.

  In 1782, Napoleon’s father, Charles Bonaparte, had obtained from the governor of Corsica the supervisory rights over a mulberry nursery and a vegetable garden on the island. Paris had agreed to advance him eight thousand five hundred livres, with the understanding that the proceeds after five years would belong entirely to him and his family. In practice, the elder Bonaparte had received only five thousand eight hundred livres, and in May 1786 the contract was terminated when the minister in Paris abandoned the plan—even though the Bonapartes had already planted extensive mulberry groves on the land.

  The artilleryman had made a careful calculation. He was certain that the Paris ministry owed the Bonaparte family three thousand and fifty livres. He had sworn at his father’s grave that he would recover this sum. So he had applied to his commanding officer in the La Fère artillery regiment for long “yellow leave,” and, after completing the necessary paperwork in Corsica, had travelled all the way to Paris to demand payment from the King’s ministers.

  In 1788 Napoleon had been lucky. At Versailles he had secured an audience with a kindly minister, who authorised an immediate payment of one thousand and fifty livres from the arrears. The remaining two thousand livres, he promised, would be remitted to the Bonaparte family within the next two years.

  Then the storm of Revolution had broken and power in Paris had changed hands. By March 1791, the promised two thousand livres had still not reached Corsica. A month earlier, Napoleon had therefore set out once more for Paris, this time to seek payment from a very different “King’s minister.”

  Now, however, he was running into closed doors everywhere. The National Constituent Assembly had sharply curtailed the powers of the King and his ministers, and the new minister in office had repeatedly refused to authorise payment, citing various pretexts. Awkward and inarticulate as a speaker, the artillery lieutenant was furious and helpless at the same time.

  When Napoleon had finished his account, André asked, “Which minister have you been dealing with?”

  “Comte de Montmorin,” Napoleon said, his eyes full of expectant light.

  Inwardly, André smiled. An old acquaintance, then. Last year he had impeached three ministers and left only Montmorin untouched. The Comte de Montmorin still served in the cabinet as Minister for Foreign Affairs and Finance, and was in effect its prime minister.

  André took a slip of notepaper from his briefcase. Napoleon obligingly turned and crouched down, offering his back as a makeshift writing desk. André swiftly scribbled a line in pencil and signed his name. Handing the note to Napoleon, he said, “Lieutenant Bonaparte, take this to Comte de Montmorin. I am confident he will see to the payment of the remaining arrears within twenty-four hours. Good luck.”

  In fact, when Napoleon reached the ministerial offices and found Comte de Montmorin, the prime minister barely skimmed the note with André’s signature before calling in his private secretary and ordering him to have the Treasury pay the Bonaparte family one hundred gold louis. (Officially, the ratio between a gold louis and the livre was 1:20, though in practice it had already moved to 1:25.)

  That afternoon, Lieutenant Bonaparte practically ran all the way to the villa on the ?le Saint-Louis to thank General André, so excited that, as a Corsican, he mangled half his French pronunciation into a comical stammer.

  “It was nothing more than lifting a finger,” André replied with a faint smile.

  He believed that help given in time of need was far more precious than adornments added in a moment of triumph. When he learned that Napoleon’s elder sister, Maria Anna Elisa Bonaparte (the future Grande-Duchesse de Toscane), was studying at an ordinary girls’ school in Paris, André offered to sponsor her transfer to a higher arts academy. Historically, Elisa’s plain looks and coarse manners had made Napoleon keep his distance from her. But blood is thicker than water, and he was genuinely pleased that his elder sister now had the chance to study at a better institution.

  At the same time, André sounded out the possibility of transferring Napoleon to the Champagne Composite Brigade, which was badly in need of experienced officers. Napoleon declined politely. He explained that he did not wish to go too far from home, as he needed to help his mother care for his younger brothers and sisters. In truth, proud and ambitious as he was, Napoleon Bonaparte had not abandoned his political dream of fighting for Corsican independence.

  André understood perfectly and took no offence. Early the next morning, Napoleon came to bid farewell at the villa. Before he left Paris, André presented Lieutenant Bonaparte with a warhorse and six hundred livres, asking him to convey his regards to Casanova and to look forward to meeting again at the Legislative Assembly in Paris in September.

  His encounter with Napoleon was a mere episode. The political, economic, and military resources now at André’s disposal far outstripped those of a young artillery lieutenant. As for any other plans or intentions regarding him, André had not yet made up his mind. At times, he worried that changing history too much might provoke the wrath of the mysterious “Time-Space Administration Bureau.”