When vexations came one after another, something worse would soon follow.

  Sure enough, the four-wheeled carriage conveying Princess élisabeth broke down at the southern end of Rue du Temple: the front wheel slipped into a pit, and the axle was jolted out of alignment, and it could not be repaired quickly.

  After inspecting it, the coachman told élisabeth helplessly that she could only wait patiently in the carriage while he returned to the Duc’s residence and brought back another carriage to fetch her.

  Not long after the coachman left, élisabeth ran into even greater trouble. In the deep of night, a richly decorated carriage stopped beside a silent street—and with a young, beautiful, high-born lady inside, it was strikingly conspicuous. In barely five minutes, two drunkards came up to harass her. They kept pounding on the door, shouting that they were searching for spies. Hidden inside, élisabeth trembled violently, scarcely daring to breathe.

  Fortunately, after making a ruckus for some time, the drunkards left one after another. But Princess élisabeth no longer dared remain in the carriage, which now felt like a cell. When she saw that the rain had stopped, she took out a black fur cloak with a hood, wrapped herself in it from head to toe, opened the door, jumped down, and, facing the boundless darkness, began walking toward Rue de la Tuilerie. Ever since returning to Paris in October 1789, she had walked this road many times. In daylight, it took less than fifteen minutes to reach the familiar great gardens of the royal palace.

  Yet the Bourbon woman forgot that this was not daytime, but the hour of curfew. Any pedestrian or carriage without a pass on their person or displayed on the vehicle would be subjected to strict inspection by the gendarmerie or by patrols. By the time Princess élisabeth saw the ferocious-looking mobs, she was already caught between advance and retreat.

  After making a bold decision in her mind, the brave woman continued to slip forward along the line of houses on one side of the street. Each time she was about to run into a patrol, élisabeth would hide in a doorway recess or beside a corner wall, standing motionless like a statue, holding her breath until the patrol passed. Then she would run forward again—quickly, anxiously—until the same danger returned and forced her into stillness once more.

  By the time she reached Rue de la Tuilerie, her caution had spared her any mishap. But at the intersection, the moment her figure emerged from the shadows, a small group of volunteer patrolmen appeared from nowhere. Seven or eight drunk fellows swaggered down the street, bawling patriotic songs, each carrying a half-full bottle of wine taken from a tavern.

  élisabeth thought, not good, and tried to slip back into the darkness—but it was too late.

  “Hey! There—there’s a young wench!” The patrol leader was tall and broad, with sharp eyes, and he shouted gleefully. “Hey—whe—where… you… little miss… where you goin’?”

  The fleeing woman did not answer a single word and ran on.

  “Move! Surround her!” The leader flung away his bottle, drew his sabre, and barked at the men beside him, “That wench is a spy tryin’ to escape—yes, a foreign spy! An Austrian!”

  These ragged brutes whooped and yelled in excitement, raising their weapons as they rushed to encircle her, and they soon closed the distance.

  When flight became hopeless, élisabeth stopped running. She had to face the danger before her.

  “I am only a passer-by who has lost her way—why are you chasing me?” élisabeth complained with her head lowered.

  By the dim light of the street lamp, the patrol leader looked her up and down: very young, very beautiful—and, most importantly, with an inborn air of nobility. Yes, that unreachable manner. Better by five times than the noble girl he had once raped and murdered during the Great Fear.

  “Poor little kitten,” the leader sighed. At the same time, he made an obscene gesture with his furry hand, prompting his companions to burst into laughter, while the frightened woman recoiled at once.

  “Answer properly. Pretty, high-born woman walking at night—where are you going? Do you have a pass?” he continued to bark.

  élisabeth replied, “I visited a friend and hurried home. As for the pass you mention, I am sorry—I carelessly left it in the carriage.”

  The leader stared at her like a lamb for slaughter and said with ill will, “Heh heh. Didn’t your family tell you that any woman walking alone at this hour isn’t a good woman? By the rules of the Paris Commune and City Hall, after ten at night, anyone without a citizen’s pass on the street will be inspected.”

  “I merely forgot it. It is in the carriage. I can go and fetch it—right now!”

  After deciding again and again, élisabeth still concealed her true identity. She lifted her chest and explained loudly on purpose. But no one in the patrol wished to listen to a weak woman’s defence. They were waiting for their leader’s signal, eager to take this pretty girl with a noble air to some place and enjoy themselves.

  Thus the crafty leader exchanged a look and said, “Then, Madame, please come with us to the nearest police station. You may explain yourself properly there. Men—begin!”

  As he spoke, two leering brutes stepped forward, each hooking one of élisabeth’s arms under his own. Ignoring her cries and tears, they dragged her toward a nearby abandoned convent.

  Unable to free herself, the woman could only scream in useless terror. Yet beneath the black, silent sky, no righteous passer-by came to help. Only when the patrol, hauling its captive, was nearing the iron railings by the convent did a tall young officer step out of the darkness, his whole body hidden beneath a greatcoat. Look closely, and one could see his dark skin. Not far behind him stood a black four-wheeled carriage. Two coachmen had also jumped down from the driver’s seat; each had two pistols at his waist, and they stood guard before and behind the carriage.

  By now, élisabeth had abandoned pride and was pleading for the patrol to release her, but the leader would not listen, urging his companions to drag her on more roughly. He seemed to take pleasure in the sounds she made as a prisoner—half fear, half pain.

  “You scoundrels—let this poor woman go!” The officer strode up and stopped the patrol’s brutality. Under the street lamp, the metal ornaments on his epaulettes shone against his uniform.

  “Damn you—who are you to question us like this?” one of the bad fellows cursed.

  But the others had already noticed what he was: a dark-skinned lieutenant. The patrol leader also froze, as if suddenly wary of the officer’s true background.

  Seizing the moment of their hesitation, élisabeth tore herself free from the two men holding her, ran a few steps to the Black officer, and said with boundless gratitude, “Thank you, Lieutenant! These men are shameless kidnappers—criminals!”

  Dumas nodded without replying. He merely pointed toward the carriage behind him and said softly, “Go into the carriage and stay there. I will deal with the bad fellows here.”

  élisabeth nodded obediently. Before leaving, by instinct of manners, she lifted her hood to reveal her face, gathered the edge of her skirts in both hands, and made a curtsey to the Black officer who had saved her.

  “Damn it—so it really is a Bourbon woman!” The patrol leader caught sight of the fleur-de-lis embroidered on élisabeth’s dress at once, and hatred surged in him toward the Black man—and toward the greater figure behind him.

  “Hey, girl, don’t run—spy without a pass!” one of the kidnappers shouted. He tried to move forward to block élisabeth’s path, but the great sabre in the Black officer’s hand forced him back.

  All eyes turned to the leader, waiting for his final word. Very quickly, he gritted his teeth, hardened his heart, and stopped fearing Lieutenant Dumas and André. He decided to do something breathtaking.

  “Surround the Black man! You two—go get that female spy back!” Simon, the patrol leader, gave the order.

  Dumas, standing 1.9 metres tall, frowned, lifted his lip in contempt, and stared at the five bad fellows closing in. With his left hand, he drew a pistol, while his right hand subtly lifted the sabre point into an attacking posture. The sight drove them backward again and again, until Simon shouted at them, and they finally halted—yet no one wished to be the first to rush in.

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  On the other side, the two patrolmen who had seized élisabeth ran toward the carriage. They had seen the “female spy” climb in, and an officer open the door for her.

  “Warning—do not take another step!” one coachman called as he warned them, while the other drew his sword; the two adjusted their stance for an impending fight.

  The two brutes, seemingly disdainful of aristocratic swords, ignored the warning. They raised their sabres and charged head-on—only to be felled in a single exchange. No: in half an exchange. The two ruffians, who looked powerfully built, collapsed to the ground in succession and began groaning in agony. The two coachmen, who were in fact swordmaster bodyguards, had driven their blades cleanly through the men’s thigh muscles with precise thrusts, instantly depriving them of combat strength.

  From inside the carriage, André watched everything through the glass window and felt contempt for their stupidity. The two guards outside were genuine Spanish masters of the blade. The taller was named González, and the other, slightly stout, was named Fernando. André had borrowed them from the Paris headquarters of the United Bank, from his partner there, the Spanish Comte de Cabarrus. After all, travelling each day with a troop of men in blue uniforms was far too conspicuous.

  Soon, André shifted his gaze to Princess élisabeth, now seated opposite him. The rescued woman’s youthful, dazzling beauty—uncommonly fine—stirred André’s heart.

  Damn, André warned himself inwardly. She was a Bourbon woman; he could not provoke such trouble. Princess élisabeth might not recognize André, but André knew her: a brave and steadfast woman.

  At present, André did not regret giving the order to rescue Princess élisabeth, but he did not wish matters to grow large. The best resolution was simple: the patrol should sensibly concede and withdraw; the lady should return to the Tuileries without a sound; André should never step out of the carriage; and in the end, all three parties should pretend that nothing had happened.

  The wish was fine. Reality, however, always contained a few fools who did not know how to live.

  Very quickly, André heard a voice outside—somewhat familiar—cursing him loudly: “Since when did the people’s revered lawyer, André Franck, degenerate into the protector of the Bourbon family—shameless butcher, traitor to the Revolution!”

  The shoemaker Simon’s abuse successfully ignited André’s fury. He smiled at Princess élisabeth and told her she could rest easy and remain in the carriage. Then he took a loaded pistol from the case beneath the seat, pushed open the door, and jumped down.

  Not far from the carriage, the two brutes still lay howling on the ground. André did not intend to grant them the chance to live. He made a throat-cutting gesture to the Spanish guards standing by. At once, González and Fernando swung their blades. In two clean strokes, the sharp edges cut the offenders’ throats.

  The Spanish guards flanked André closely, left and right, as they walked toward where Simon stood. The shoemaker leader grew uneasy. He could not understand why André had struck so ruthlessly, instead of bargaining first—offering terms, haggling, trading. Simon had forgotten one thing: he was not Marat. He had no right to bargain with André. Once he had succeeded in enraging the man, the price was life.

  “Don’t come any closer—I’ll shout for help. Yes—yes, the gendarmerie is nearby!” Simon threatened as he stumbled backward, step after step, unable to widen the distance from the devil before him.

  André advanced with a cold smile. When he was five or six paces from the shoemaker, he stopped. Before Simon could react, André raised the pistol, and the instant the barrel settled on his forehead, he pulled the trigger.

  With a crack, the ruffian—who might otherwise have lived a few more years—fell heavily to the ground, unmoving, his brains sprayed across the stones like burst popcorn.

  Once André struck first, Lieutenant Dumas and the two Spanish guards began slaughtering as well. They drew pistols from their belts, dropped the other five brutes neatly, one by one, and then finished each with a sword.

  When no one else remained nearby, André picked up a sabre from Simon’s corpse and handed it to the older González, saying in a commanding tone, “Stab my left arm—one cut.”

  Gunshots in a silent city could not be hidden from the “dutiful” gendarmerie. In under ten minutes, a lieutenant of gendarmes arrived in haste with more than thirty members of the city’s National Guard. When the officer saw a General, his arm wounded and being bound, standing with his entourage beside seven or eight bodies strewn in disorder, he knew the matter was serious.

  By the light of the street lamp, the gendarme lieutenant recognized General André at once and hurriedly ordered the soldiers to lower their weapons and tend to the wounded. He himself stepped forward to ask General André what had happened. This gendarme lieutenant happened to be Wade, whom André had met at the mounted police camp.

  “Yes, General. I believe I now understand the process of events very clearly. These spies, secretly bribed by foreign plotters, disguised themselves as a city patrol and attempted to ambush your carriage in the night, but your guards detected them in advance. After repeated warnings proved useless, all eight bandits were shot dead on the spot.” After listening to André’s brief account, Lieutenant Wade repeated his superior’s testimony in firm, affirmative terms.

  André nodded in satisfaction. He patted the officer’s arm lightly and asked with a smile, “Captain Wade, would you be willing to serve in the Champagne Composite Brigade? I return to Reims the day after tomorrow.”

  Lieutenant Wade’s eyes brightened. That was the sentence he had been waiting for—especially since he caught the change in the rank with which André addressed him. He nodded heavily and watched General André return to the carriage with the utmost respect, then disappear into the endless night.

  “Lieutenant—Lieutenant!” A gendarme called to Wade. Pointing at the eight corpses on the ground, he said, “I know these men. They were sans-culottes who volunteered for patrol duty. The leader was the shoemaker Simon. They were not foreign spies—they were members of the Cordeliers Club. What’s more, there are obvious finishing wounds on the bodies. I think—”

  “Damn you, Fide—you shut your mouth!” Lieutenant Wade barked at his subordinate. “If you and your family do not want trouble, I suggest you forget what you just observed—and what you think. Now go find a cart, and bring a few labourers with quiet mouths. You will personally deliver every corpse directly to Captain Javert of the Paris Police criminal investigation division. Remember: it must be Captain Javert.”

  As soon as he returned to the carriage, André rapped on the door panel and gave an order to the coachman in front: “To the Luxembourg Palace!” At present, the Luxembourg Palace was the Paris residence of the Comte de Provence.

  “André General, but I must return to the Tuileries! Besides, the palace is only five minutes from here, while crossing the bridge to the Luxembourg Palace takes thirty minutes.” Princess élisabeth wore an unnatural expression as she rubbed her hands together and protested softly.

  André did not respond to her meaning at all. He rested his head against the carriage wall and turned his gaze out through the window.

  The Tuileries was impossible. Its guards were tight, and its eyes were many. André did not want all of Paris to know, by the next morning, that he had escorted a Bourbon princess home in the middle of the night. A mere rumour would have been tolerable. The real concern was that his political enemies would exploit it, proclaiming that the Deputy Prosecutor who supported the republicans had betrayed the Revolution and thrown himself into the embrace of the Tuileries, and so on.

  For this reason, when he heard Simon’s unguarded madness, he resolved to strike hard, ordering his guards to kill the shoemaker and his men on the spot, leaving no one alive. The self-inflicted wound was only a small trick to cover appearances; an attempt to assassinate a General in the street was a serious charge. Whether anyone believed it did not matter.

  Of course, the safest method would have been to silence Princess élisabeth as well. Yet the thought flashed only for an instant and did not remain. After all, André still had a trace of decency; otherwise, he would not have reached out his hand to rescue a royal in distress. And, more to the point, she was undeniably beautiful.

  Seeing that the young General no longer replied, élisabeth fell into silence as well, sulking. The two sat without speaking, each looking out the window. Beyond the faint glow of the street-lamps, the steady clop of hooves, and the creak of wheels over paving-stones, everything around them was pitch-black, without scenery.

  After twenty minutes, once the carriage had crossed the old bridge over the Seine, élisabeth—who was accustomed to lively movement—could endure no longer. She turned her head and fixed her eyes hard upon the face of this determined opponent of the Bourbon family.

  “Why did you refuse the King’s invitations again and again? Everyone knows Louis XVI is a good man, kind at heart. That year at Versailles, he expressed gratitude to God for the miracle of your survival.” As she spoke, Princess élisabeth sighed. She did not have the courage to vent her displeasure directly, and in the end chose a gentler way.

  André turned his gaze back into the carriage. He smiled and shook his head, asking, “Do you want my honest answer—and will you swear not to repeat it?”

  élisabeth lifted her right hand, palm toward André, blinked her large eyes, and nodded firmly.

  “A kind man is unfit to be a king—and the title of ‘a good man’ is the greatest blasphemy against a sovereign.” As he spoke, André waved his hand, cutting off the woman’s attempted retort, and continued:

  “When faced with a mob rebellion, the King, as the first citizen of the nation, must step forward at once, mount a warhorse, draw his sword, and command his army in battle—not cry out in panic. That is the king worthy of reverence, the monarch who subdues the world. Alas, I have not seen those qualities in Louis XVI. That is enough. When you see your brother, the Comte de Provence, and the others, forget everything that happened tonight. It will benefit you, benefit me, and benefit everyone.”

  At this moment, the carriage came to a steady halt beside the fountain in the forecourt of the Luxembourg Palace. André did not behave like a gentleman and offer his hand to help the Bourbon princess down. He merely opened the carriage door and waited in silence for her to step out on her own.

  When Princess élisabeth’s beautiful figure vanished into the palace of the Comte de Provence, André signalled the coachman to turn the carriage and depart calmly. To André, what happened tonight was nothing more than a trivial aside, a small bonus scene that might be forgotten by morning; yet to élisabeth, this extraordinary night—so shocking, so perilous—would become a memory engraved into a young girl’s heart, impossible to forget.

  Standing on the second-floor balcony, élisabeth had already removed her black cloak. With a gaze full of charm, she smiled softly toward the direction André had long since gone. Golden curls hung beside her cheeks, tender yet shadowed with melancholy. Even when the Comte and his wife pressed her again and again—who had brought her to the Luxembourg Palace in the middle of the night—élisabeth kept her promise to André and only smiled without answering.

  “I believe we shall meet again,” she thought quietly, with anticipation.

  On the morning of May twentieth, as André left the villa on ?le Saint-Louis and prepared to depart for Reims, the steward hurried to hand him a letter. The handwriting was elegant and graceful; he did not recognize who had written it. He glanced at the wax seal: there was no coat of arms, only a single line on the envelope:

  “Thank you. I shall be forever grateful for your courage and kindness.”