At dawn, at the border between Chalons and Reims, in the village of Lavaux.

  Savary Lecques, white-haired and stocky, stepped down from his carriage. As usual, he waved toward the front of the vehicle and instructed the coachman to return the next morning at ten o’clock to take him back into the city.

  But once the carriage departed, the Prosecutor did not head for his sister’s house at the far end of the village. He remained instead at the three-way fork outside the village, climbed a nearby rise, and looked out toward Chalons-en-Champagne, as though waiting for someone.

  More than two hours passed. The sun had climbed high, yet the person he expected still had not appeared. The ground at Lecques’s feet was scattered with cigarette ends. Just as he was about to open his third packet, a black carriage came into view on the stone road leading from Chalons-en-Champagne to Reims, escorted by seven or eight mounted guards.

  When Lecques stepped into the road, a gendarmerie sergeant responsible for André’s security immediately signalled the escort to raise their guard, ordered the coachman to slow, and rode forward to assess the situation. After a brief exchange with the Prosecutor, he returned and reported to Second Lieutenant Lozère.

  “Prosecutor Lecques wants to see me? And he is alone?” André frowned slightly when Lozère confirmed it. He could more or less guess why the Prosecutor of Chalons had chosen this place to stop his carriage, yet before agreeing, André still paused for a moment, as if weighing the matter.

  Soon, after a personal search by Lozère, Lecques was allowed to board the Deputy Prosecutor’s carriage. The well-behaved Meldar had already jumped down on his own and waited nearby with the guards.

  The moment Lecques sat down, André caught the heavy smell of tobacco on him and instinctively touched the bridge of his nose, as if to spare himself the sting.

  “My apologies—I smoked too much while I waited,” Lecques said, an apologetic look on his plain, slightly fleshy face. His appearance did not match his manner: he sat with a steady, hard composure, and his eyes were rational and alert.

  André lowered his arm and gave a friendly smile, waiting for him to begin.

  Lecques spoke slowly. “In fact, my sister and I both came out of the Reims orphanage. We have always been filled with gratitude and respect for Reverend Mother Sophia. And I still miss the brothers and sisters there.”

  André nodded. This was not surprising. The Military Intelligence Office had already investigated the opposition in Chalons-en-Champagne earlier this year, one by one, and the local Prosecutor was naturally among the priority targets. His place of origin, background, and career had been recorded in great detail, with almost nothing omitted.

  For an orphan—or a farmer’s son—to stand out, before the Revolution, from within a rigid and conservative church education, enter the law faculty at the University of Reims, and then become a respected lawyer: that was a rare sort of story in France. In Champagne, Danton was such a case; Lecques was another. As for André, he was something else entirely—an exception, one of the God-Favoured.

  Having begun with sentiment, the Prosecutor of Chalons continued. “So, between us, there is no real contradiction and no conflict of interest. I admit I envy Thuriot’s good fortune. When I served as an assistant prosecutor in the courts, Thuriot was still teaching at the law faculty; now I am a local Prosecutor, and he has become my immediate superior. I dislike Thuriot—this is hardly a secret within the Marne judiciary. He has done many things in that post that amount to corruption and abuse of law, yet no one is willing to impeach him, because they fear your power, André.”

  A local Prosecutor denouncing their common superior to the Deputy Prosecutor’s face was, on its surface, almost comical. André nevertheless believed most of it was true. But factional struggle had its logic: André and Thuriot were allies, and André had no intention of pursuing his teacher’s faults—if anything, he would cover them.

  By contrast, the man in front of him—measured against Thuriot—could be called relatively upright and incorruptible. At thirty-eight, Lecques had an excellent reputation within the judicial administration. If André had not bought support on a large scale with money, and if Deputy Prieur’s influence had not swayed most members of the provincial commune’s committee, Lecques might well have won last year’s election for Chief Provincial Prosecutor.

  But that was the past. Even if Lecques’s feud with Thuriot had coloured his view of André, he had now decided to change course and repair his relationship with André in time.

  Lecques explained, “The reason I have come to this decision… is Father Marey’s persuasion.”

  To avoid misunderstanding, André had an agreement with Father Marey: if André intended to move against any leading figure in the Marne, he would ensure the priest learned of it beforehand. Marey’s motive for persuading Lecques was simple enough: the priest had fallen for Lecques’s niece—his elder sister’s daughter—and had sworn he would marry her.

  André touched the bridge of his nose and asked directly, “So what do you need from me? And what price are you prepared to pay?”

  By now, André was a politician who no longer allowed himself to be distracted—or softened—by private feelings. The ties between the Lecques siblings and the Reverend Mother, and the tangled connections with Father Marey, were at most additional points. The true foundation lay in an exchange of interests and in the question of loyalty.

  As if making a difficult decision, Lecques pulled his last packet of cigarettes from his pocket. His fingers trembled as he tried to open it, and he accidentally spilled the cigarettes onto the carriage floor. At that point, he gave up on smoking entirely and began speaking in a low, insistent stream.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Since last November, Mayor Simon Chabert has been trying—openly and in secret—to draw me in, hoping I would speak from the King’s position. Although I have been refusing the Royalists in private, the cheque he offered rose from five thousand livres at the beginning to fifty thousand livres a week ago. He even said plainly that the money came from the Tuileries. For certain reasons, I agreed to the Mayor’s request—but only as a show. I have been stringing him along.”

  André nodded with approval, signalling him to continue.

  “…With the Mayor’s tacit consent, one cavalry squadron belonging to Marquis de Bouillé has been stationed, since the beginning of this month, in the woods west of Chalons, under the pretext of field rest. And as far as I know, on the road from Paris to Metz or Montmédy, there are six such cavalry squadrons deployed in the same manner. So I suspect…”

  Here Lecques seemed to lose his nerve, hesitating, torn between fear and calculation. André found it almost amusing and supplied the words for him.

  “You suspect—or you judge—that some great figure in Paris—let us speak plainly, Louis XVI and his family—intend to pass through Chalons and flee to the frontier, to Metz or Montmédy.”

  The sentence struck like a thunderclap. Lecques shuddered. Unfortunately for him, the greatest bargaining chip he had brought was something André had already anticipated; fortunately for him, if he did not declare himself now, he might never have another chance. André’s treatment of defiance had made that plain enough.

  Sensing the change in his mood, André immediately soothed him. “I am glad to hear everything you have said. And I would like even more to know the timetable and the specific arrangements of the Royalists under Chabert.”

  As he spoke, André opened the carriage window and had Meldar fetch a cheque for fifty thousand livres from the document case. He signed it and offered it across to Lecques.

  “Consider this a supplement for your act of justice. Do not refuse,” André said, leaving no room for argument.

  Yet Lecques did not take the cheque. Instead, he made a request. “My apologies, Monsieur le Deputy Prosecutor. If possible, I would like that sum to be invested in the expansion project of the United Investment Company’s cotton-spinning mill.” With political alignment, economic interest, and a touch of private connection, Lecques wanted a favourable position within the “political ecosystem” André was building.

  André withdrew the cheque and smiled. “Very well. In due course, the company’s chief accountant will contact you. And—one more thing—you should address me as André. My friends do.”

  …

  In mid- to late May 1791, in the second month after Mirabeau’s death, the master and mistress of the Tuileries, after wavering again and again, finally made their decision: they would flee—to the frontier, or out of the kingdom.

  At first, the King’s confidants clung to a na?ve and romantic notion. They wanted Louis XVI, when leaving Paris, to preserve the majesty a European sovereign ought to enjoy: to depart openly, meet Marquis de Bouillé’s cavalry in the outskirts, cross the frontier under escort, and then, in Metz or Montmédy, raise an army truly loyal to the Crown—after which the King would march back on Paris and deal with the Constituent Assembly as Louis XIV had dealt with the Fronde: exile, or the gallows.

  A return in blood and iron—this was the method of a hard man. It did not suit Louis XVI, whose strongest wish was merely to preserve the lives of himself and his family. Moreover, Marquis de Bouillé and Colonel Campan firmly opposed such a reckless plan, because André’s Champagne Composite Brigade had already severed the land route between Paris and Metz or Montmédy. The party would have to disguise itself and detour through Chalons-en-Champagne to avoid André’s sphere. There, several cavalry squadrons—under the cover provided by Mayor Simon Chabert—would be responsible for the King’s safety along the northern road.

  As for the preparations within Paris, André’s interference—carried out in coordination with Danton—had made it impossible for Marquis de Bouillé and his circle to manage matters directly. The Tuileries would have to escape to the vicinity of Chalons-en-Champagne first, on their own. Under these circumstances, the entire burden fell upon Queen Antoinette. For her, it was better to die on the road than to remain in Paris as a hostage, living in humiliation.

  The Queen took charge of the preparations herself. In truth, there seemed to be only one man she could trust with the details: her secret lover, Comte de Fersen, the Swedish diplomat. Both understood what this meant—a road of thorns with no safe return, with death waiting at any moment.

  In the Tuileries, most servants and maids had become Republican eyes and ears, if not outright spies. To evade their watch, to slip past the dense crowds outside the palace, and to pass through the busy streets of Paris was already a formidable problem. Fortunately, Captain Lefebvre was willing to shoulder that task. He promised he would draw the attention of the National Guard and the mob away from the palace for a time, to give the royal party enough time to get clear.

  There was another awkward difficulty: the Tuileries had no money left. Years of buying deputies and of subsidising the King’s confidants had reduced Louis XVI and the Queen almost to pennilessness. Selling the Queen’s jewels was equally impossible; that would inevitably alert the Republican eyes planted in the palace.

  So Comte de Fersen, as lover, offered everything he owned. After selling his property, he raised six hundred thousand livres. Whatever else might be said, his devotion to the Queen was complete, and it gave him inexhaustible drive. From May onward, the Swede worked day and night. He slipped into the palace to plan every detail with the Queen, maintained the correspondence with Marquis de Bouillé on behalf of the royal household, forged passports, and arranged the construction of a large coach that could carry eight people…

  When everything was ready, an unexpected complication arose. Comte de Provence suddenly accepted his wife’s advice and decided not to flee with his elder brother to Metz or Montmédy, but to take the northern route toward Brussels. He also demanded that their sister, Princess élisabeth, travel with him to the Low Countries to lighten the burden on the King and Queen’s party.

  With the support of Comte de Fersen and the others, Louis XVI and Queen Antoinette agreed with little hesitation. They sent the not particularly willing Princess élisabeth to Comte de Provence and told everyone that, one day in the future, they would all be reunited in Paris.

  History, here, shifted slightly.

  …

  In the gendarmerie headquarters, André sat quietly at his desk, reading a special intelligence report submitted by Second Lieutenant Lozère from the Military Intelligence Office. It was a complete description of Louis XVI’s escape plan: who would take part, what sort of four-wheeled coach they would use, at which relay stations they would change horses or rest, and where Marquis de Bouillé’s covering forces would appear…

  It differed little from the familiar course of history. The King and Queen and their intimates had no experience of flight. Their preparations were so pointless and so ceremonial that it looked less like an escape than a royal progress. The large coach hurriedly built for them had to be comfortable and splendid, finished to perfection. It would require twelve fine horses of matching coat colour to draw it. The interior had to be spacious and luxurious; every ornament had to be first-rate by European standards. Inside, they would place silver tableware, a lavish wardrobe, cupboards crowded with food, and a wine cabinet… It lacked only one final touch: carving the Bourbon fleur-de-lis in some conspicuous place upon the door.