“Good evening, ladies.”

  A voice at once familiar and estranged sounded around the row of benches. The women turned and saw the deputy chief prosecutor’s stiff, false smile. Then they heard his next sentence.

  “If you do not mind, I should like a few words with the Marquise in private. Please.” As he spoke, André extended his arm in a deliberately elegant gesture, which in fact was a wordless order for the three elderly ladies beside the Marquise to take the hint and leave.

  Madame la Marquise de Demo? felt flustered and confused. She intended to rise and leave with her companions, but André rather brusquely pressed her back onto the bench. Two male guests nearby seemed to sense that something was wrong and started toward them to see what was happening, but Second Lieutenant Dumas, standing guard beside the deputy chief prosecutor, stepped forward to block their path.

  “The deputy chief prosecutor is handling a case. Keep out of the way!” The 1.9-meter-tall Black giant gripped the hilt of his sword and gave the two would-be Samaritans a murderous glare. They abandoned their heroic impulse at once and slunk off in defeat.

  André sat down casually on the sofa opposite the Marquise and began, in that particular voice of his—rich, magnetic, and faintly hoarse with weariness:

  “Just before Christmas last year, I went up to Marguerite’s (Not the Judge’s wife) grave in the valley. The place was very tidy. All around, someone had planted the flowers she loved most when she was alive—daisies and lilies. I imagine that in two or three months, that slope will become a sea of blossoms. At first, I wanted to have her grave moved and re-interred near the church, but in my dreams, Marguerite told me the solemnity of a churchyard only oppressed her. She still prefers that carefree valley, where she can hear birdsong and smell the flowers. So… thank you for everything you have done for her.”

  Here, André’s tone suddenly changed, turning openly threatening as he went on:

  “In three days’ time I will come to the estate to visit the children Marguerite, and I brought into this world. I expect neither the ailing Marquis de Demo? nor you yourself to stand in my way.”

  A few days earlier, the Marquis de Demo? had caught a chill and had been confined to his house to recuperate.

  “They are my children and Joseph’s! You are not fit to be their father!” The Marquise did not dare to raise her voice, but her clenched fists made her resolve plain.

  Whenever the children were mentioned, the delicate, seemingly fragile Marquise would at once become strong, like an enraged lioness staring down the demonic man before her, warning herself that she must not retreat. The twins were not her own flesh and blood, but for three years she and her husband had treated them as if born of their own bodies, showering them with affection. If anyone tried to take them away, she would resist with everything she had—no matter who that person was.

  “All right. I only wish to see them—from a distance. I will not disturb their lives. That much I can promise.” Guilt gnawing at him, André did not dare meet the children’s mother’s eyes and was forced in the end to compromise. Even so, his final sentence still carried the tone of a command:

  “This is my final decision. It is not open to discussion.”

  Back when André was still assisting Professor Thuriot at the University of Reims, he had taken a summer position as tutor at the Demo? estate, teaching Latin and French history to the Marquis’ younger sister, Marguerite. It was during that time that the handsome, witty tutor managed to win the pure heart of the naive young girl. The two began to taste forbidden fruit, and the inevitable happened: she conceived, and human life became entangled in scandal.

  In 1787, Marguerite, concealing the truth, secretly gave birth to twins. Stricken by severe postpartum depression, she was sent by her brother, the Marquis de Demo?, to a convent to rest. Two years later, as her condition worsened, Marguerite chose to end her own life. Because she had taken her own life and had borne children out of wedlock, every church in Reims refused to receive her into consecrated ground. The Marquis de Demo? had no choice but to bury his sister in the valley by Reims she had loved most in life, and make that place her final resting place.

  Soon after, seized by furious grief and bent on avenging his dead sister, the Marquis de Demo? loudly declared that he would hire someone to kill André. In the end, it was only thanks to the joint efforts of Professor Thuriot and Professor Barreau that he abandoned this mad idea. He did, however, lay down two conditions: André was to leave Reims forever within twenty-four hours, and Marguerite’s twins would remain in the care of the childless household of the Marquis and his wife.

  At the beginning of 1789, bearing his wounds in silence, André had no choice but to accept the Marquis’ ultimatum. He left Reims and went alone to Paris, a strange city, to make a living. By a chain of unlikely coincidences he managed to turn his fortunes around, rising from a penniless young lawyer to become Deputy Chief Prosecutor of the Marne, and even forming a Champagne Composite Regiment that swore loyalty to him. Then he returned to Reims at the head of troops and became, in effect, the uncrowned king of that great city.

  His talk of “taking the children away” was not some bargaining chip to secure a visit; that was never André’s intent. A man who had lived two lives knew full well that it would be far better for the children to grow up in a stable, affectionate home, under the care of two parents who truly loved them, than to follow him into a life of upheaval and wandering.

  Precisely for that reason, André had done everything in his power to shield the Marquis de Demo? from certain facts. That included obeying orders from the Tuileries, secretly cooperating with Marquis de Bouillé to open smuggling routes, and quietly raising funds to return in arms against Paris. Otherwise, he would rather have seized Reims by force than willingly forgo such enormous interests and use Cazalès’ influence to reach a political compromise with the city’s three great notables.

  Yet the Marquis de Demo? seemed ungrateful and unimpressed by any of André’s efforts. Twice André had sent men to the Demo? estate asking to see his own flesh and blood, and twice the Marquis had ordered the doors closed in his face. There would not be a third time. André had made it plain to the Marquise today that in three days he would “visit” the Demo? estate with his guards. If he were turned away again, the deputy chief prosecutor would not rule out forcing his way in under arms.

  While André and the Marquise were having their confrontation, Penduvas received an urgent intelligence report. After reading it he hurried off to find his superior, then bent down to whisper a few words in André’s ear.

  André frowned. “You are certain it is the Bishop of Arras?”

  The intelligence officer glanced discreetly at the Marquise, who lay as if stunned on the bench, and then replied:

  “This came from one of our moles planted inside the estate of Comte de Saizia. I am quite certain.”

  The Bishop of Arras was a rebel now in exile at Koblenz, one of the first clergymen to flee abroad in the train of the Comte d’Artois. Because of the series of inflammatory speeches he had given overseas, the National Constituent Assembly had already ordered his arrest back in July or August last year. And now he had dared to slip back into France and hide in the Comte’s estate—clearly planning some conspiracy aimed at André himself.

  “So,” André asked, “where are the gendarmes?”

  Second Lieutenant Penduvas replied, “The gendarmes have already deployed 120 men. They have been secretly stationed at the two entrances to the Comte’s estate. Captain Chassé is leading the operation in person. We are just waiting for your order.”

  “Begin at once. Search and arrest the Bishop of Arras, the Comte de Saizia who has sheltered this rebel, and the Comte’s family. Any resistance is to be crushed on the spot!” André issued his orders with cold, murderous resolve.

  Perhaps it was a visceral fear of the revolutionary tempest to come, perhaps a constant sense that some malicious wretch was always plotting against him; in any case, André had developed a kind of persecution mania. At the first sign of rebellion, he issued uncompromising orders to stamp it out. Until now, the gendarmerie and the intelligence service had always worked in secret to avoid creating a scandal. But nearly two months had passed, and every aspect of Reims now lay completely subdued at his feet. There was no longer any need for discretion.

  One minute later, Penduvas went alone up to the second-floor balcony. He drew a long scarf from his breast, touched it with a fire-brand to set it alight, then flung it into the air, where it burned for a moment like a bright ball of fire. Before it had gone out, two red signal flares arced up over the perimeter of the Comte’s estate, tracing two blazing tracks across the black night sky.

  In an instant, the gendarmes lying in ambush had seized the estate’s two gates. The iron grilles at the front and rear were heaved open. Within five minutes, more than one hundred mounted gendarmes, sabres raised, had galloped through the ground-floor hall and encircled the main building of the estate.

  When Captain Chassé stormed into the second-floor hall with dozens of gendarmes at his back, the ladies and gentlemen still performing their dainty court steps scattered like frightened birds and beasts. Faces drained of colour, they cringed in the corners, trying to avoid the terrifying soldiers who were ransacking every room with drawn sabres and pistols in hand.

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  “Deputy chief prosecutor, w-what is the meaning of this?” Mayor Basile came forward, trembling, to confront André, who now stood in the centre of the hall.

  André smiled and, as if he were the master of the estate, offered an apology to the assembled guests.

  “My sincerest apologies. I am forced to disturb your enjoyment. The gendarmerie must pursue, inside this building, a criminal who threatens the security of the French nation. So tonight’s ball will have to end early. I must ask everyone present to form two lines, submit to inspection by the sergeants, then go down to the ground floor and take your carriages home.”

  He then turned to face the furious master of the estate and his son, and gave a direct order:

  “As for you, Comte de Saizia, and you, Conot, you will both sit quietly on that sofa, where my men can see your every movement at all times, so that no unfortunate misunderstandings occur.”

  He had intended to force father and son to reveal the fugitive’s hiding place, but the gendarmes soon found the Bishop of Arras cornered in the Comte’s study. Amid cheers, the bishop—dressed in an ordinary black robe, his head hanging in dejection—was brought out by the gendarmes. The intelligence officer and his mole quickly confirmed the prisoner’s true identity.

  “Take them all back and continue the interrogations!” André waved his hand.

  He was just turning to leave when he saw the Marquise walking straight toward him. A gendarme reached for his sword-hilt to block her, but the intelligence officer stopped him.

  “Is this meant to intimidate us?” the courageous woman demanded, standing before the dictator.

  “If you insist on putting it that way, I see no need to deny it.” André could not be bothered to explain.

  As they spoke, Comte de Saizia—about to be escorted downstairs—happened to pass within two meters to André’s right. Perhaps the exposure of his conspiracy drove this seemingly compliant Comte to make one desperate bid for his life. Seizing the moment, he tore himself from his guards, snatched a dagger from his breast, and hurled himself at André.

  The gendarmes rushed forward to shield their commander, but Second Lieutenant Dumas, standing at André’s side, had never relaxed his vigilance. He moved first, whipping out a pocket pistol and squeezing the trigger.

  With a crack of gunfire, Comte de Saizia crashed heavily to the floor, blood pouring at once from the wound in his chest. The Comte’s younger son rushed to him, trying to see whether his father yet lived, but furious soldiers clubbed the boy unconscious with a rifle butt and dragged him downstairs.

  Dumas twirled the little pistol in his hand and even blew theatrically on the smoking muzzle before stepping forward to examine the fallen Comte.

  “No breathing,” the Black second lieutenant announced, raising his head. At a range of ten meters, Dumas trusted his marksmanship. That shot had struck the man’s heart squarely. There was no point in attempting resuscitation.

  Face like iron, André turned from the horrified Marquise. He gave his Black bodyguard an approving look, then issued a rapid order to Captain Chassé, who had hurried over:

  “Take the Comte de Saizia’s body and all incriminating evidence back to gendarmerie headquarters. In addition, on the charges of conspiring to assassinate the deputy chief prosecutor of the Marne and supporting the rebels, seize the entire Saizia estate and arrest everyone connected with the case.”

  There was no doubt that for a pampered city Comte, accustomed to comfort and privilege, to risk everything by attempting to stab a high-ranking deputy chief prosecutor in public, there had to be a deeper secret behind it. André’s suspicions were swiftly confirmed. Documents recovered from the Comte’s study showed that Comte de Saizia had joined forces with the Bishop of Arras, Marquis de Bouillé’s special envoy. Together they had been secretly rallying opponents of André within Reims, preparing to assassinate the deputy chief prosecutor. In support of that action, armed rebels hidden in the Ardennes forests had already begun infiltrating the Marne.

  The evidence seized from the Comte’s study further revealed that between 30 and 50 local officials and nobles from Reims had taken part in the plot against the deputy chief prosecutor André, not counting the many clergymen who had long harboured resentment against him.

  A sweeping purge of the city’s nobility, officials, and clergy was now inevitable.

  That same night, while the deputy chief prosecutor was surviving an assassination attempt at the Comte’s estate, the garrison at Bacourt camp, fifteen kilometers away, received an urgent order signed by André. Captain Hoche was instructed to bring his cavalry battalion and an artillery company with six four-pounders into Reims at once as reinforcements. The order was addressed directly to Major Moncey, Captain Hoche, and Major Senarmont, deliberately bypassing Chief of Staff Berthier.

  At the same time, in gendarmerie headquarters, Captain Chassé was bent over a broad desk, goose-quill in hand, dipping it in ink as he filled in one name after another on a thick stack of arrest warrants already signed by the deputy chief prosecutor of the Marne. Each time he signed one, a clerk would whisk it away. Within thirty minutes armed gendarmes, warrant in hand, would be pounding on the suspect’s door. Any resistance was to be met with lethal force.

  All that night, Reims rang with curses, shouts, and the crack and boom of gunfire. There were the last groans of the dying and the wails of grieving families. Only toward dawn did the sporadic shots begin to die away. When the smoke cleared, tens of thousands of Reims citizens woke in terror to discover that half the city’s nobles, a third of its municipal officials, and their families had vanished. Most had been locked up in temporary prisons near gendarmerie headquarters, or shot on the spot for resisting. Only a handful had managed to abandon their possessions and make good their escape.

  …

  The headquarters of the Reims gendarmerie occupied part of the City Hall complex, which until recently had been used to store archives and miscellaneous items. An oval lawn and flowerbed separated it from the main City Hall building to the south. Once André took control of Reims, the northern section was converted into the city’s gendarmerie headquarters. Whenever he returned to Reims, he set up his official lodgings inside this heavily guarded building.

  That night, worn out by a mountain of business, André had slept barely two hours when a loud knocking on the door jolted him awake. Even with his head buried under the blanket, he could still hear the damned noise. He hurled a boot at the door in hopes of silencing the intruder, but in return got a shout.

  “André! Open the damned door, hurry up!” In the whole of the gendarmerie headquarters, there were not many who dared bellow like that at the supreme commander. Unfortunately, Father Marey was one of them.

  André pulled on a coat and padded barefoot to open the door, then immediately turned back toward the warmth of his bed. Father Marey, seething, strode in after him, while the Black second lieutenant at the door quietly pulled it closed.

  “What do you want?” André asked through a yawn.

  The priest began by reproaching him. “André, have you lost your mind? You sent your men rampaging through the city last night arresting suspects. In not even ten hours they have already crammed more than 500 prisoners into the Mirella Convent you are using as a makeshift prison. There are old people, women, and children among them.”

  André answered with a different set of facts, his face expressionless. “That is not entirely my fault. Many of them chose to follow arrested family members to the convent so they could stay with them. In fact, all women, children under fourteen whose age can be proved, and anyone over sixty can leave the convent whenever they wish without restriction.”

  Father Marey cut him off, raging, “Your brutal soldiers blasted doors and walls open with artillery, leaving women, old people, and children homeless!”

  “That is enough, Father. Be quiet.” André snapped. “You have no right to accuse my brave soldiers. From the cellars of the very noble conspirators you just mentioned they retrieved more than a thousand illegal weapons—sabres, bayonets, muskets, barrels of powder—and even two old 3-pounders. What do you suppose these rebels were planning? To celebrate next month’s Easter? Or to slaughter ‘that devil Satan’ called André?”

  With that, André leapt from the bed in fury. Outside, Second Lieutenant Dumas, listening to the shouting, quietly opened the door a crack—only to have André’s other boot come flying at him.

  After several minutes of silence, Father Marey turned and left. He paused by the flowerbeds at the entrance to headquarters, stood there thinking for a long moment, then walked off into the city. There, in all Champagne, stood the largest orphanage in the region and the convent that cared for its children.

  From a second-floor window, André watched his friend’s retreating back in silence.

  Before long, Penduvas came in to report on the situation in the prison. In all, 191 suspects were being held, plus 346 family members who had voluntarily followed them into custody. After an all-night review by the intelligence service, there was “conclusive evidence” against twenty-five of them for involvement in the plot to murder the deputy chief prosecutor. A further 60-odd appeared to have some connection, but the proof was clearly inadequate. As for the remaining hundred-plus, they presented no danger and could be cleared of suspicion.

  André took the report from the second lieutenant, gave it a quick scan, and drew a bold red cross beside the first twenty-five names. Then he issued a direct order:

  “Hanging. Within one hour.”

  He knew exactly where Father Marey was heading: the convent, the only place in the city where someone might still change his mind. André had to act before the Reverend Mother arrived, executing all the condemned before she could plead for them. Whether or not they had been properly tried before being sent to the gallows no longer mattered.

  As deputy chief prosecutor of the Marne, he had been the target of an assassination attempt; André had ample grounds to defend himself before the Provincial Council. The conspirators had only themselves to blame. As for the National Constituent Assembly, the leaders of the left had already written to André urging him to use an iron hand against non-juring clergy and nobles who had thrown in their lot with foreign powers. On the right, thanks to the efforts of Cazalès and Father Maury, half the deputies would temporarily swallow their anger and refrain from moving against him. The centrists, for their part, would not stir up trouble: André had never touched their core interests.

  After Second Lieutenant Penduvas left, some time passed before Second Lieutenant Dumas knocked to report that an assistant prosecutor by the name of Berthe Desmont had arrived on orders to present himself to his superior.

  “Have him wait for me in the drawing room next door.” André had already put on his colonel’s uniform and tucked into his portfolio both the list of twenty-five men he had ordered executed fifty minutes before and a letter of appointment.

  …

  In the drawing room, Berthe Desmont was pacing back and forth across the floor, unable to sit still, his face clouded with worry. Last night’s citywide raids had left him badly shaken. The crackle of gunfire and the ghostly howls of the arrested had kept the young assistant prosecutor awake all night.

  Early that morning, a gendarme in a white helmet had politely knocked at the door of Berthe Desmont’s house, throwing the whole household into a panic as if disaster had struck. The misunderstanding was cleared up quickly enough: André wanted him at gendarmerie headquarters within thirty minutes to report to the deputy chief prosecutor.

  Desmont had no idea what this was about, but his professional instincts told him it must be connected to the previous night’s events. His guess was soon confirmed.

  André entered without so much as a greeting. He took a letter of appointment from his portfolio and handed it to the twenty-seven-year-old prosecutor.

  “Congratulations, Berthe. From this moment on, you are First Assistant Prosecutor of Reims.” Under the rules, the first assistant could exercise the prosecutor’s powers when the district prosecutor was absent.

  The happiness came so quickly that Berthe Desmont felt his head spin, unsure how to react. André gave the new first assistant his first task. He lifted the execution list and handed it over, then checked his pocket-watch, noting the exact time.

  “This, one hour ago, was the list of criminals you submitted to the temporary military tribunal in your capacity as a lieutenant in the Reims National Guard. As presiding judge of that tribunal, I have likewise affirmed the guilt of these individuals. In twenty minutes, those twenty-five men will be hanged in the courtyard of the Deminé Convent.”