André set his glass down on the coffee table, shook his head, and said, “Neither. The two sovereigns in the Tuileries are nothing but hostages of the Assembly; even the Constitutionalists who still profess respect for the Bourbon dynasty treat them as puppets. Every move within the palace is under close surveillance. Besides, I have never considered the Constitutionalists my enemies. They are a group of people who act in an almost endearing way—and who do not understand human nature. As for Roland and his circle, they are idealists as well. The conflict between us is merely economic competition between cities; it is nothing like a fight to the death.”

  As he spoke, André rose from the sofa and walked to the window, staring for a long time at the night sky where clouds had blotted out the moonlight. Only after a while did he turn back, and in a low voice set out what he truly meant.

  “Very often, the most dangerous enemy is close at hand—those allies one once believed trustworthy.” André glanced at Thuriot and went on. “Don’t overread me. What I mean is simply this: the enemy is in Paris; in the Legislative Assembly; among those men who share no common interest with us, yet are always shouting ‘Long live André!’ in streets and alleyways. As for their names—teacher, that is what I need you to help me draw out.”

  “Sans-culottes?” Thuriot laughed. He understood his student well: a man who deliberately pursued legal justice, and who most of all despised anyone who trampled legal order—because he himself was a beneficiary of law.

  “The precise term is the lumpenproletariat, and their political spokesmen,” André said, once again “creating” a brand-new political term (one coined by Marx in the nineteenth century).

  When Thuriot pressed him again and again for the spokesmen’s names, André only smiled and said nothing. In truth, even André himself could not list a real roster.

  Duc d’Orléans? Perhaps—but the man lacked both intellect and tact, and he had a habit of turning good cards into bad ones.

  Marat? Possibly. André maintained sufficient vigilance toward him and his followers.

  Danton? To be honest, André was closest to him, yet he had never truly trusted this compatriot from Champagne; their rivalry was too strong, and neither could command the other.

  Robespierre? Quite possibly in the future. Back in May, André had already noticed an immense shift in his thinking—a dangerous change.

  …

  On the outskirts of Paris, the gendarmes escorting André’s party wheeled their horses around and returned to Reims, while two Spanish swordsmen—Fernando and González—took on the double role of guards and coachmen. At that moment, aside from the eight representatives of the Marne, only Lieutenant Lozère remained at André’s side—an intelligence officer who had taken off his uniform and changed into civilian clothes; his public identity was now the private secretary of Deputy André. As for the young assistant, Meldar, perhaps to avoid his severe stepfather, he chose to stay at the Reims artillery school and formally begin his military career.

  September 29, 1791, was the day the National Constituent Assembly finally closed. As the star deputy of the next Legislative Assembly, André was pulled by Prieur, Pétion, and others to the Manège Hall (the meeting place of the Assembly) to take part in this great day—though André was reluctant, and so drowsy he only wanted to sleep.

  When André entered the chamber, it was, as usual, packed to capacity, crowded with faces. Large numbers of citizens were also allowed to enter free of charge (on ordinary days, admission required payment). They stood on the upper galleries in the public seating, watching this political moment with keen attention. Because he was present only as a guest observer, André sat properly in the guests’ section; beyond greeting several deputies he knew and exchanging a few idle remarks, he made no further move. André’s restraint, at least, finally put the Constituent Assembly’s last rotating president, Thouret, somewhat at ease.

  At about ten o’clock in the morning, King Louis XVI entered through the eastern gate on the Tuileries side. A week earlier, Louis XVI had signed the French Constitution of 1791 and had come in person to the Assembly to accept the constitution; this won him a warm welcome from the deputies and the crowd alike. The cry of “Long live the King!” rose once more.

  Under the constitution, in a constitutional monarchy, whenever the king appeared in the chamber, the representatives were required to rise together and remove their hats, and to follow the king’s movements with deference—sitting, putting on their hats, or rising in step with him. Unwilling as he was, André still had to go along with the current: he stood, applauding the return to the throne of the man he had once taken captive.

  As a royal prerogative, Louis XVI did not go to the rostrum opposite, but walked instead to the presiding platform reserved for the president. A special armchair in the style of a throne had been set there, raised by 30 centimeters above the president’s seat, inlaid with gold and jewels. Whenever sunlight fell upon it, the reflected glitter made André’s eyes ache. More than once, André even found himself thinking of taking a small knife and prying every bit of gold and every gem from the royal chair.

  “In the Assembly hall, the king ought to be given an ordinary armchair exactly like the president’s,” André muttered, arms folded across his chest.

  “You are quite right, Deputy André!”

  A strange voice rose from the back rows of the guests’ section—slightly hoarse, but not old. André turned at the sound. It was a stern-looking middle-aged man with a high nose and a wig.

  He had already extended a dry, bony right hand and at once introduced himself. “I am Couthon, from Clermont, a representative of Auvergne.”

  “Hello, Deputy Couthon.” André smiled, clasped the man’s hand firmly, and let a comradely warmth show in his eyes. At the same time, André quickly understood something of Couthon’s place in the special history to come.

  With the same contempt André felt for Louis XVI, Couthon continued:

  “I believe the 25,000,000 people of France will respect the representative president’s plain chair far more than the French king’s golden seat. Moreover, I personally think the future Legislative Assembly has no need to retain forms of address such as ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Sire.’ I find it strange: ‘Your Majesty’ is a feudal term, born of a feudal system—and that system no longer exists. As for ‘Sire,’ it should be used only when speaking of God and of the people. So ‘the King of the French’ is far more fitting.”

  “You are quite right, Deputy Couthon,” André said with sincere approval. Great figures in history always have something that justifies their pride. With these words, Couthon had already set the tone between the Legislative Assembly and the royal court: cooperation within struggle.

  A legislative deputy named Robert Lindet

  also joined the discussion between André and Couthon, stating his view with unmistakable clarity. “Representatives rising and doffing their hats for the king is not fitting for an Assembly that is the highest organ of power. We are the people’s representatives; we have no need to bow and scrape before the state’s first citizen—even if he is a king.”

  Plainly, Robert Lindet

  Out of courtesy, André merely smiled and did not answer further, for the king’s address had begun.

  Upon the presiding platform, the splendidly dressed Louis XVI rose from the throne-chair, took an address text handed up by a court attendant, put on a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, and began to read—stammering as he recited it word for word.

  He said: “Gentlemen, in this long and arduous task you have shown an untiring zeal. When you return to your localities, you will still have one task to complete: to explain to your fellow citizens the true meaning of the laws you have made for them; to remind those who disregard the law that you must, by your own example of keeping order and respecting the law, clarify and unify the various opinions.”

  “Yes, yes!” the deputies shouted in unison. André, Couthon, and Grangeneuve exchanged a glance and smiled, their eyes full of disdain for the speaker.

  The king went on: “I trust you will convey my sentiments to your fellow citizens.”

  “Yes, yes!” Once again, the king’s speech was interrupted by the enthusiastic crowd and the deputies.

  At last, Louis XVI raised his voice in an appeal: “…Tell them that the king will always be their first and most faithful friend. He needs their affection. Only by relying upon them, and together with them, can he be happy. To increase their happiness—this is my hope. It will fortify my courage, and the joy of success in this regard will be my best reward. May God bless us; may God bless France!”

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  As cheers filled the hall, André turned his neck, lowered his voice, and said to Couthon and Lindet, “Heh. Look at this—an address in the style of Henri IV. Only Louis XVI lacks his ancestor’s talent and courage. Especially courage.”

  The two allies heard this and smiled without speaking. Every French patriot knew that it was this very General André who had led troops to stop Louis XVI’s family by the Aisne, and who had stripped them of freedom for good.

  Then, amid the cheers, Louis XVI strode out of the chamber with his head held high, like a hero.

  When the noon session ended, André invited Lindet and Couthon—whose legs were inconvenient—to dine at the Mediterranean restaurant near the Assembly. Toward evening, the three of them went together to a meeting at the Jacobin Club. From September 25 onward, a total of 136 deputies-elect of the new Legislative Assembly had gathered within this radical-left club.

  Among them were men André knew well: Guadet, Ducos, Gensonné, Grangeneuve, Vergniaud, and Barbaroux of Marseille. They were close to Brissot; in a certain sense, the thirty-seven-year-old Brissot was their political mentor. Yet most of these deputies from the Gironde also had numerous economic ties to the Bordeaux wine consortium founded by André.

  At the club’s welcome gathering for newcomers, André also noticed a deputy from the Pas-de-Calais. His name was Hippolyte Carnot

  At this moment, Carnot, like Couthon and Lindet, was still a nobody in the coming Legislative Assembly. Yet André believed that their talents—and their historical missions—would emerge two years later, within the Committee of Public Safety; Carnot in particular would be regarded by posterity as the “Organizer of Victory.” As for the anarchistic trio of Fran?ois Chabot, Basile, and Mélin, they were already spreading propaganda throughout the Jacobin Club; but like the radical Marat and his circle, they still held little real influence within the organs of power.

  Meanwhile, one street away, the Feuillants club had 264 deputies supporting the existing constitutional monarchy, including Mathieu Dumas, Raymond, Vaublanc, and Bernier. Moreover, the National Guard, the frontier armies, the Paris department administration, and all ordinary organs of authority supported the monarchist Constitutionalists. Through Barnave, Duport, and Alexandre Lameth, they made contact with the court. Yet Louis XVI rarely accepted the Constitutionalists’ positions or advice. In truth, the king and queen placed greater faith in those incompetent court nobles and muddle-headed cabinet men, and they regarded the Constitutionalists who wished to preserve the monarchy as an ill omen.

  As for the centrist Independents, they numbered 345, including the conciliatory Bishop Lamourette. They formed the majority within the Legislative Assembly and styled themselves as active supporters of the Revolution: they would accept no exploitation by left or right, and they did not trust the royal court. In reality, however, these deputies—whom the people called “the Marsh”—were soon “taken hostage” by the Left, and, between willingness and unwillingness, moved as a body into war against the Constitutionalists.

  In late September, the British envoy, in an official dispatch to 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister’s residence, described matters as follows:

  “Because of legal restrictions that prevented the previous deputies from standing again in the election for the Legislative Assembly, most of the 745 representatives of this new legislature are unknowns under 30 years of age. They are vigorous and enthusiastic, but impulsive and impatient; most of them have no practical experience in public administration…

  “However, there are three exceptions. One is Brissot, who once served as a councillor of the Paris Commune and as a core official of the Paris municipal administration, and who now serves as a representative in the National Assembly. Brissot advocates comprehensive reform; his views, and the radical ideas he has expressed in the Patriote Fran?ais and from the tribune of the Jacobin Club, have won him great prestige.

  “Another is Condorcet, whose prestige is of a different kind: a far-sighted scientist, a social activist with democratic ideas, and a renowned figure of the Enlightenment still living in the world today.

  “As for the third, it is André Franck, a General of the National Guard, the former prosecutor of Paris, the former chief provincial prosecutor of the Marne and the supreme commander of the composite brigade—a great French figure already well known to many Fleet Street papers. According to reliable information, André’s position within the new Legislative Assembly is largely settled; he is very likely to be responsible for the affairs of the Foreign Affairs Committee. Given André’s consistently hard and high-profile style, I am greatly concerned for the authority of the Marquis de Lésart, France’s Minister of Foreign Affairs. I sincerely recommend that we immediately activate a mechanism of mutual visits between British and French deputies, and invite André to lead a delegation of deputies to visit the Palace of Westminster…”

  At 5:15 p.m. on September 30, when the Constituent Assembly’s final regular session came to an end, the last rotating president, the lawyer Thouret, stood up and delivered an unforgettable final declaration in a forceful voice: “The National Constituent Assembly announces that it has completed its mission. All meetings are concluded.”

  Amid deafening cheers, the incorruptible Robespierre, the clever and kind Pétion, and other deputies beloved by the people were carried home on citizens’ shoulders like moving sacred statues. That night, Paris glittered: streets and lanes were lit with flowing colors; the Champs-élysées blazed with decorations; above the Seine, beautiful fireworks scattered sparks; and everywhere, there were unbroken waves of cheering crowds.

  Thus, the Estates-General that had opened in May 1789, and that had walked forward step by step into the National Constituent Assembly, finally reached its end—after 2 years and 5 months. By the time the Constituent Assembly closed, only 635 deputies remained, out of the original 1,200 national representatives, to witness this day with their own eyes.

  Over these twenty-nine months, the deputies used their intelligence and ability to overturn the old order. With the support of the people, they carried out a series of revolutionary actions—the Tennis Court Oath, the storming of the Bastille, and the march to Versailles—forcing the king to surrender the scepter that symbolized the state’s highest authority, and to remain, forever, in the place where the people’s representatives gathered. From that day onward, it would be an elected Assembly that made the constitution, issued decrees, and governed the country.

  In that time, these deputies drafted, passed, and promulgated more than 2,500 decrees, an average of three decrees a day. Among them were the most famous Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen and the French Constitution of 1791—two laws that would guide the revolutionary struggle of Europe’s peoples oppressed by feudal despotism.

  …

  At an evening street café, Pétion, Danton, and André sat beneath the shop window, tasting fine coffee. Pétion stared out the window with listless eyes; the sense of loss after laying down his deputy’s mandate left his face heavy with melancholy. Danton, usually boisterous, was equally grim: in the supplementary election for the Paris district of the Legislative Assembly the previous week, he had been defeated again—something long considered certain—yet it had fallen through because of a scheme by the Constitutionalists. The party had originally also included Robespierre and Prieur. Yet the former, after receiving a letter, had cancelled at the last moment and hurried, in great agitation, back to his hometown of Arras with his brother Augustin (Robespierre the Younger). As for Prieur, after completing his mission in the Constituent Assembly, he publicly announced his departure from Paris and returned with his family to his hometown of Reims. There he would take up the post of deputy prosecutor of the Marne, and serve as the official head of the Reims Polytechnic Institute.

  André, however, was in high spirits. He had not come to indulge his allies’ gloom, but to rekindle their confidence. The coffee cups were soon cleared away, replaced by a superb Champagne vintage from 1777.

  As the wealthy deputy of the Marne, André was the first to raise his glass and toast Pétion. “Allow me to salute first the next Mayor of Paris!” Then André aimed his glass toward Danton. “And you as well, Georges—our esteemed next prosecutor of Paris!” He then drank it down in one go.

  “Is that supposed to be amusing?” Pétion’s face tightened at once, his anger barely restrained. That cursed Bailly still sat in the mayoral chair of Paris, and as of now, the astronomer showed no sign of resigning.

  Danton’s eyes, on the other hand, lit up. He urged eagerly, “Go on—tell us what you mean, André!”

  André set down his Champagne flute and raised one index finger.

  “First, I can say with certainty that Bailly will resign. Since 1789, Paris’s overly aggressive grain procurement policy has caused famine in Caen, Saint-Quentin, Rouen, and in more than half the northern cities around Paris. Expensive and scarce bread has driven citizens into a mob. Many deputies are already coordinating with one another, preparing to denounce Bailly’s grain policy publicly in the Legislative Assembly—his policy of caring only for Paris and not for the nation. In fact, the moment I arrived in Paris yesterday, I received a joint letter signed by deputies from six departments—Seine, Oise, Eure, Orne, Loiret, and Aisne—demanding that we launch an impeachment case against the Mayor of Paris in the Legislative Assembly.”

  “And how will you handle it?” Pétion’s interest was immediately stirred, and he pressed him at once.

  André laughed. “I showed that joint letter straight to Bailly. After he read it, he was deeply disappointed, and said he would formally resign as Mayor of Paris in early November. In return, I am responsible for soothing the deputies of those six northern departments, and delaying the impeachment vote by five weeks. Under the law, once the Mayor of Paris resigns, the post of prosecutor of Paris will also be vacant. So the two of you—your chance is coming.”

  André made it sound easy, but the actual process was far from simple. In truth, all of it had been carried out at André’s direction: the Military Intelligence Office had, in secret, deliberately stirred up grain prices in several surrounding departments, pushing the public’s resentment toward the powerful Constitutionalists. The innocent Mayor Bailly had simply had the misfortune to become the first target to be struck.

  Back to the present: Pétion shook his head. After weighing it all, his expression darkened.

  “Even if Paris City Hall collapses, the chances that Georges and I win are still extremely slim. You, I, and Georges all know this: under the current electoral system, out of 600,000 Parisians, fewer than 70,000 adult men qualify as secondary electors (they must first meet a tax threshold of 51 livres), and only about one-third of those actually vote—that is, about 24,000 in total.

  “Among them, the Constitutionalists and the royalists make up the majority, so there aren’t many secondary electors who support the democratic forces. In other words, the future Paris City Hall will still belong to the Constitutionalists. Even if Bailly resigns, Marquis de Lafayette or Barnave can step in at any time to take their old Feuillant friend’s place and become the supremely honored Mayor of Paris.”

  Danton said nothing, only watching for André’s next explanation. Compared with Pétion, this compatriot from Champagne trusted André’s extraordinary instinctive ability, and did not believe he would speak idly.

  So André raised his second finger and explained, “Ordinarily, Pétion, you would be right—but I have a second, decisive reason: the Constitutionalists are propping up a pig of a monarch!”

  All three men at the table were staunch republican figures, and they naturally felt no goodwill toward Louis XVI hiding in the Tuileries. So when André insulted the Bourbon dynasty, they showed little reaction, taking it as only to be expected.