Standing on the broad second-floor terrace, Prieur introduced the beauty of his estate to the guest who had come from afar. A leisurely rural life did, indeed, restore the deputy’s health quickly: the old haggardness in his face had been replaced by a healthy flush, and his voice carried strength when he spoke. Pointing toward the lawns and gardens in the direction of the Chateau de Fontainebleau, the host explained to André:

  “This was laid out in 1602, in the time of Henri IV. To keep the original marble statue from being eroded, the sculptor Prieur made a bronze copy of the goddess Diana and placed it outdoors, while the original marble is kept in the cellar. But recently, a commissioner of the Paris Commune proposed putting every valuable object in the Chateau de Fontainebleau up for auction, in order to raise funds for the state. Although the National Constituent Assembly, at my request, rejected that unreasonable proposal, I fear that next time, deputies who wish to curry favour with the sans-culottes will find it hard to refuse such demands.”

  Like Robespierre, although Prieur’s seat in the Assembly was on the Left, he remained wary of the Parisian mob. He shared the same political principles as many other lawyers: all conduct must adhere to legal procedure, and the greatest use of law was not to uphold some so-called justice, but to maintain public order in society.

  André likewise tasted the implied meaning in the deputy’s words, and replied at once in a firm tone, “It will not happen—at least, in the next Legislative Assembly, I will not allow such a thing.”

  With André’s present standing, reputation, and broad web of connections, whether he stood as a deputy for the Marne or was elected as a representative for Greater Paris, it would be easy as breathing. In truth, over the two years since 1789, André’s small goal—the one he had worked toward—was to enter the legislature as a deputy, and become one of France’s 745 dictators in black tailcoats, wearing the red, white, and blue tricolour sash across the chest.

  Earlier, because of a well-intentioned proposal from Robespierre, the constitutional principles of 1791 made it explicit that the older generation of deputies from the National Constituent Assembly could not stand in the new Legislative Assembly elections. This caused André—already a man of great popularity—to become the hope placed by a group of republican deputies, Prieur among them, in the expectation that this capable young man could carry forward “the spirit of liberty, equality, and fraternity opened by the Great Revolution.”

  After hearing André’s assurance, Prieur smiled slightly. In his heart, he naturally trusted his fellow countryman from Champagne; otherwise, he would not have agreed that, after leaving office this August, he would depart Paris and return to Reims to take up the post of Deputy Prosecutor of the Marne, while also serving as the head of the polytechnic institute. There was no doubt that the title of “Deputy Prosecutor of the Marne” under André would be a salaried sinecure. The deanship of the polytechnic institute would be Prieur’s real work. Put simply, André was using Prieur’s former status as a deputy to extend, in politics and law, André’s de facto rule in Reims.

  After two years of sincere cooperation, the relationship between Prieur and André no longer remained within the usual meaning of “allies.” They now shared broad political ideals and economic interests—and even “shared crimes.” If there had been a suitable daughter or niece in the deputy’s family, Prieur would certainly have tried to draw André in as a son-in-law (or nephew-in-law).

  Prieur suddenly recalled what certain people had once warned him about, and he asked André, “Three months from now, when you enter the Legislative Assembly, which committee do you most hope to join?”

  Hearing this, André hesitated a little, uncertain how to answer.

  Without question, André most wished to sit on the Military Committee, but that was not realistic. First, he had to avoid suspicion, for beneath André’s own person there still lay a Champagne Composite Brigade loyal to him alone. Second, the Military Committee at present held limited power, not much different from the Committee on Public Security.

  As for the Economic Committee, which seemed immensely powerful, he would not go near it: it was thankless labour, the work of a paperhanger. Since the Revolution, every variety of liberalism had run wild. The provinces had grown accustomed to autonomy and to serving their own interests; their relationship with Paris swung between warm and cold. Taxes, in particular, were delayed and withheld without shame. Unless one established a dictatorship whose word carried absolute weight, all that wrangling would be effort wasted. He could frighten Lyon, yes—but to punish the great cities across the whole country would ignite public fury.

  “I would choose the Foreign Affairs Committee,” André finally said.

  Military affairs and foreign affairs had always been bound together, and André plainly had no intention of relinquishing absolute control of the Champagne Composite Brigade.

  Prieur studied his guest for a long moment, then said, “That is a clever choice. The executive secretary of the Foreign Affairs Committee—the one who truly runs it—generally sits in on important meetings of the Military Committee and of the cabinet’s War Department. In the next three months, I will work with certain friends to push a new proposal: let the executive secretaries of the various committees have sufficient speaking rights when they attend such meetings.”

  “Thank you,” André said. He also believed that most deputies of the National Constituent Assembly would support Prieur’s proposal: to impose oversight upon the cabinet was an unquestionably correct political line within the Assembly.

  “I hear Legoff has decided to return to Charleville-Mézières and stand for election as Governor of the Ardennes—was that on your advice?” Prieur asked, as if casually. The ill-fated entanglement between the Director-General of Police’s sister and Deputy Prosecutor André had already become a widely circulated tale in Parisian high society. It was said that three months ago, the judge’s wife had given birth in Sedan to a daughter. There was no doubt whose child it was.

  André nodded without hesitation, then explained his reasoning. “For certain reasons, the Ardennes have been quite unfriendly to Reims—and to me. They have sheltered, and even indulged, Ardennes bandits in their raids across the Marne. That is why I advised Legoff, after resigning as Director-General of Police in Paris, to return to Charleville-Mézières and run for Governor of the province. Moreover, to ensure victory, I reached a cooperation agreement with Barnave’s side.”

  Prieur gave a soft chuckle. “And not only that. When I was staying in Brussels, I actually saw one of your people in a bookshop—so they say he was an intelligence officer disguised as a newspaper reporter.”

  André gave an awkward, forced laugh. As early as a week ago, Penduvas had already informed André that, during operations in the Austrian Netherlands, someone had carelessly exposed his identity. Facing an ally’s question, André appeared naturally unconcerned. In fact, this was one of the purposes of his visit: to clarify matters for Prieur.

  André explained, “Yes. Since earlier this year, I have ordered the intelligence bureau to collect information in full force across the Austrian Netherlands—political, economic, military, cultural, geographic, even climatic. Because every sign suggests that within the next twelve months, the Germans (Austria and Prussia) may unite again, and, under the agitation of the émigrés in Koblenz, launch an attack on Paris.”

  “So you are preparing for a future war?” Prieur frowned.

  When André answered with a firm yes, without the least hesitation, Prieur leapt up in agitation. “In fact, when I visited Rotterdam, republican friends in the United Provinces told me a secret: the Prussian envoy in Vienna accepted a large bribe from French émigré nobles and is urging Emperor Leopold II to attack France. Vienna, for some reason, refused the Prussian envoy’s proposal—but agreed to let the armies of Prussia and the Austrian Empire conduct several military exercises along the Rhine, near the French Netherlands. When I returned to Paris and reported this to the Military Committee, a pack of noble lords mocked me for a full thirty minutes!”

  As he spoke, Prieur was so indignant that he pounded his chest and stamped his feet, coughing again and again. Startled, André quickly had him lie back on a bench to rest, and signalled for a servant to bring warm water.

  After a long while, once he had caught his breath, Prieur lay on the bench and continued in a slow tone.

  “So when I heard of your deployments in the Netherlands, I was pleased—and relieved. André, you are younger than any of us, cleverer than any of us, and more skilled in politics. You are a born conspirator. Heh heh heh—do not knit your brows at me on purpose. ‘Conspirator’ is a compliment. At least, in the time of Louis XIII, the great Duc de Richelieu believed so. Thuriot and I both know that the Red Eminence has always been your hero, not those airy Roman orators whom Brissot and his kind boast about. Yes, I do not like Brissot or his allies. Like the nobles, they see things too simply.”

  Throughout it all, André maintained the appearance of a junior listening meekly to a senior’s earnest instruction, yet inwardly he was unconvinced. Richelieu had merely been an idol of André’s youth, for the Red Eminence’s favourite labour in life—indeed, one of his great achievements—was to spare no effort in suppressing the power of the Catholic Church within France, forcibly stripping the clergy’s secular authority out of French political life.

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  Now, one small goal after another in André’s eyes had already been achieved—or was on the verge of achievement—and the great goal in his heart had long ceased to be a road copied from any historical figure, but rather…

  André’s designs upon the Netherlands, first, followed the inertia of history. During the Revolution, Belgium and the Netherlands—rich in resources and advanced in commerce—were occupied in succession by the French revolutionary armies. It should be noted in particular that the several million inhabitants of the Low Countries were very gentle, or kind—put differently, they accepted French rule to a very high degree. Over more than twenty years as French territory, there were only one or two noble-led uprisings. Compared with the conquest of the harsh and wild Iberian Peninsula, the United Provinces were, quite simply, a paradise for French soldiers.

  Second, the resources were abundant. Whether in population density, the level of agriculture and animal husbandry, coal and iron reserves, or waterways and shipping, the region ranked among the best in Europe. In the Revolution and the later Napoleonic era, more than 300,000 soldiers were levied from this region; they fought loyally for the cause of the French Empire until 1815, with very few betrayals. Yet what André valued now was even more: population and natural resources, especially coal and iron.

  Alsace and Lorraine possessed rich coal and iron resources, yet much of their iron ore had an iron content of only 31.4%, with phosphorus as high as 2%—a poor, sedimentary hematite ore. Its only advantage was that the main ore belts lay close to the surface, making extraction easier. As for coal, the situation seemed far worse. There was almost no high-quality anthracite; what existed was mostly low-heat, inferior bituminous coal, with limited reserves, buried relatively deep.

  To André, these might not be the greatest problems. The key problem was that the mine owners in Alsace and Lorraine did not welcome—indeed, they disliked—the United Investment Company mining ore or smelting metals there. For the Company’s cotton-spinning industry, which overturned every tradition and swept away competitors, had already become a cautionary example to every traditional industrial proprietor. On this basis, the mining federations of the two regions quickly reached a consensus: they would do everything possible to suppress any extension of the United Investment Company’s industry into the upstream sectors.

  When this information was gathered and placed in André’s hands, he merely walked to the map in silence and extended his gaze north from Lorraine by fifty to one hundred kilometres—to what would later be the Duchy of Luxembourg and the Liège region of Belgium (in the eighteenth century, the Prince-Bishopric of Liège). This was a crucial base for iron ore and coal extraction. In particular, the city of Liège in eastern Belgium sat upon the Ruhr coal belt, the greatest reserve and finest quality in Central and Western Europe; more importantly, the coal seams here were not deep, meaning extraction and processing costs were not high—far more suited to the age of steam.

  Thus, when Say of the United Investment Company kept complaining that coal costs in Alsace were too high, that steel from Lorraine was of poor quality, and that supplies were restricted by the manufacturers, André had already begun planning to cast off the old upstream suppliers and build his own base for coal-and-iron mining and smelting.

  Of course, to accomplish this required two prerequisites:

  First: improve mineral extraction and metallurgical processes, and form an industrial pattern of large-scale production. This was an important research topic he had submitted to the Académie des Sciences.

  Second: use the future war to “liberate Europe” to drive the Austrians completely out of the Austrian Netherlands (that is, today’s Belgium and Luxembourg, including a portion of Germany’s western edge) within two or three years, and then bring the region into his own sphere of influence.

  While André’s thoughts wandered across the world, Prieur continued his topic. Suddenly, the deputy heard his wife calling him from the stairwell on the first floor. This ought to have been the steward’s task, but Madame Prieur, born to an ordinary family of planters and farmers, always preferred to call her husband herself. Luncheon was ready; they could sit at once. Prieur therefore invited André to go downstairs with him and enjoy the warmth of a family meal.

  Not until four o’clock in the afternoon did André rise to take his leave of the Prieurs, and he made a promise to the three boys—each between six and ten—that the next time he came to the estate, he would bring them another pair of lovely Labrador dogs.

  On the way back, André rested his head and half-dozed in the carriage, until he suddenly remembered something. He opened the window and signalled for Lieutenant Dumas, riding alongside on horseback, to come up into the carriage.

  André smiled at his aide. “When we return to Reims, you may apply to Lieutenant Colonel Chassé for wedding leave, including fifteen days of paid leave, and a gift of 2,000 livres.”

  André stopped Lieutenant Dumas from rising to salute, signalled for him to keep quiet, remain seated, and then asked, “Alexandre, is there anything else you need me to help with? Or shall I add another week of leave, so you have time to return to Normandy and inform the La Pailleterie family?”

  The Black lieutenant shook his head, and said that he had cut off all contact with the La Pailleterie family ten years ago after his father Antoine died. In truth, members of the La Pailleterie family—including Dumas’s biological father—had never once looked squarely at the son of a Black slave woman. By contrast, the family of his fiancée, élisabeth—Labret, had shown him familial affection.

  He therefore said to André, “If possible, after my wedding leave ends, I would like to go down to the regiment. Cavalry or infantry—either is fine.”

  “Oh? You do not wish to serve as my aide?” André asked, puzzled.

  Lieutenant Dumas hurried to explain, “No—no, it is not that. I simply hope…” Words failed him, and the Black lieutenant could not finish his sentence; ashamed, he lowered his head.

  Seeing this, André—who understood perfectly—laughed loudly.

  To buy the army’s loyalty, André had promised that senior commanders at the regimental level could obtain, at extremely favourable prices—virtually half-sale and half-gift—a vineyard estate that had once been church property in the region around Reims. Under this standard, Chief of Staff Colonel Berthier, Infantry Commander Lieutenant Colonel Moncey, Artillery Commander Lieutenant Colonel Senarmont, Cavalry Commander Lieutenant Colonel Hoche, Gendarmerie Commander Lieutenant Colonel Chassé, Quartermaster Major Petiet, and Medical Officer Major Percy, among others, were the first to receive estate villas near the Petite Montagne de Reims (northwest of Reims).

  When André boarded the carriage, he had already noticed the envy in Dumas’s face at the Prieur estate. A request to be sent down to a company at the lower level was nothing more than the desire to win promotion in rank and post more quickly. In the promotion standards André drafted for the Champagne Composite Brigade, he repeatedly emphasized that only officers who had once served as company commanders could be promoted to Colonel, and that to become a regimental commander was an indispensable qualification for becoming a Brigadier General (a General).

  For the posts of company commander and regimental commander were the two important steps before one became a senior commander (a General). In the early wars of the French Revolution, one major reason the battlefield situation seesawed again and again was that many rapidly promoted senior officers had never been hardened at the company level or trained within regimental headquarters, and did not understand how to command and coordinate troops. Only after French forces paid too great a price on the battlefield because of a series of low-level mistakes by commanders did Napoleon recognize the seriousness of this situation and introduce the above rule.

  “Very good—any soldier who does not wish to become a General is no good soldier!” André encouraged his aide loudly. “After the wedding, report directly to Lieutenant Colonel Hoche. He will give you a cavalry company. Remember—do not disappoint me!”

  After saying this, André impatiently waved his hand and drove the overly excited Black aide back out of the carriage. At this moment, André felt a trace of regret: he should not have taken a carriage to the Fontainebleau estate, but chosen the pleasure boat

  instead, and drifted down the Seine in comfort to the villa on ?le Saint-Louis—though the four-wheeled carriage needed only five or six hours for the round trip, while the boat would take longer.

  …

  After the attempt to take Louis XVI’s family on an outing to the Chateau de Saint-Cloud failed, rumours spread through the streets of Paris that the King was preparing to flee abroad as a first step. On this basis, at the call of many political groups led by the Cordeliers Club, Paris City Hall demanded that the city’s National Guard and the police strengthen night watches and patrols at the gates and on key streets, nominally to prevent foreign spies from slipping into the city.

  Thus, after nine o’clock each night, fully armed National Guardsmen began assisting the gendarmerie in checking pedestrians at every checkpoint and every city gate. But Paris was too vast, and too few soldiers and policemen were willing to take the night duty for such meagre stipends, and so many “warm-hearted” sans-culottes eagerly joined in.

  In exchange for a nightly food allowance of five pounds of black bread, those grim-faced urban mobs would usually patrol the streets and alleys with sabres in hand, searching for anyone who looked suspicious. In fact, the Paris Commune and the Jacobin Club privately required patrols to guard against another Bourbon escape abroad.

  Paris in May still suffered extreme, abnormal weather: by day, bright sunshine and a cloudless sky; yet at midnight, a fine, cold drizzle would fall, and the temperature would plunge from over 20°C to 8–9°C. The cold rain made the militiamen on patrol restless and irritable, quick to lose their tempers. Each time they encountered a stranger or a carriage of uncertain identity, they would wave their weapons, shouting threats and harsh commands.

  élisabeth felt that the day had been dreadful beyond endurance. At a noble friend’s invitation, she had gone with her in the afternoon to visit the Duc’s residence on Rue Montmorency. A lively ball and the lavish banquet that followed had been arranged with meticulous order by the shrewd Duchesse, and for a time the Bourbon princess’s mood had been excellent.

  Yet not long after the banquet began, élisabeth noticed, by chance, that a common woman wore a white dress of a similar cut to her own. True, the woman’s dress was embroidered with sunflowers rather than the splendid fleur-de-lis; but there was no doubt that such a clash of dress in a public setting was a grave discourtesy. Under ordinary circumstances, the inferior party should withdraw, change clothes, and offer an apology to Princess élisabeth, seeking the superior’s indulgence.

  However, within the Duc’s residence, that ordinary woman—called Madame Roland—remained unmoved even under the Bourbon princess’s furious glare. Feeling profoundly insulted, Princess élisabeth rose at once to take her leave of the host, and, ignoring the Duchesse’s repeated attempts to detain her, insisted on departing.

  Only after she went downstairs did élisabeth discover that her friend had taken the carriage and the coachman with her. According to the Duc’s servants, a handsome young man had also left in the friend’s company, and they would return to the Duc’s residence within one hour. Plainly, the friend had taken her new lover to some secluded place for a “friendly match.” Fortunately, the Duchesse had already arranged another carriage for Princess élisabeth, to send the honoured guest back to the Tuileries.