At 5:00 p.m., when André submitted the list of twelve members of the Foreign Affairs Committee to Condorcet, the latter set it aside without even looking. The presiding president, whose term was rotating, awkwardly drew André aside and, by the same motion, turned the conversation toward a sensitive matter.

  After glancing around, Condorcet hesitated and said, “In an hour, under the rules, as the first president I am to lead you—the twelve practical heads of the working committees—to an audience with His Majesty, in the name of the Legislative Assembly’s representatives, and report that the new National Assembly has been constituted. But just ten minutes ago, the palace sent an attendant; he reminded us that this meeting may present certain… rather thorny difficulties. For instance…”

  André smiled. He did not care about the looks being cast his way; he spoke plainly on the president’s behalf. “I understand perfectly well that the King and his family do not wish to see André within the Tuileries. That is not a problem. Thuriot will go in my place as the Foreign Affairs Committee’s representative.”

  Those words made Condorcet—and the other deputies present—exhale in relief. A political incident, neither great nor trivial, was thus averted. Given André’s prestige among the Parisian crowd, the strength he had concealed in the departments of the Marne and the Ardennes, and his power of mobilization within the National Legislative Assembly, it would not have been difficult for him to make the Tuileries lose face.

  In truth, André seldom indulged in disputes of temperament, and he had no wish to sulk like a child against Louis XVI. This was not a contest of interest or authority—only a matter of face. Under the “capital strategy” he had agreed upon the previous night with Pétion and Danton, André would, for a time, maintain a considerable degree of restraint in Paris. He would not, of his own initiative and in open fashion, provoke the pride of the Tuileries and the conservative nobility, so as to support the coming elections for the Paris municipal offices. Yet restraint was not the same as weakness.

  Back in the committee office, André handed the Tuileries visit over to Thuriot, and stepped out of the Manège Hall. Accompanied by the Spanish swordsmen González and Fernando, the deputy of the Legislative Assembly crossed the whole of the great Tuileries Garden along paths bordered by clipped flowerbeds, fountains surging with clear water, statues, and greenery, and came to the Louvre gallery connected to the Tuileries.

  On the north side of the gallery stood a small, refined café. There, in a secluded corner, Father Maury—who had voluntarily relinquished his status as a deputy—sat waiting for André to arrive.

  But when André placed a cup of coffee before the priest, Maury merely said, “Thank you for all you have done for the cause of God. I asked to see you today because, in two hours, I shall embark and leave Paris—perhaps leave France permanently.”

  The priest’s thanks had two reasons. First, André had properly settled more than two hundred nuns who had suffered in Paris, and he had protected important sacred objects belonging to the Paris convent of Notre-Dame. Second, the collective amnesty André had secured for both Left and Right had also saved Maury’s old friend, the Right’s leader Cazalès, who had been accused by the Paris prosecutor of involvement in Louis XVI’s attempted flight. In September, after Cazalès was released, and with André’s tacit consent, he was able to take ship from Charleville-Mézières in the Ardennes, sail down the Meuse, and leave France.

  As for the present—although André had already learned of this through other channels—he could not help asking, “Oh? Where do you intend to go?”

  Father Maury looked at the young man and explained, “To Rome. The Holy See requires me to go to Rome and state the case concerning Avignon, a papal territory that French forces have seized by force.”

  In mid-August of this year, a revolution erupted in Avignon. A clerk named Lescuyer was killed in an abandoned church by nobles of the Royalist Party, after he had publicly called, at a Jacobin sectional meeting, for an insurrection and for the papal territory to be annexed to France. When news of this reached the surrounding towns, local militia units acted of their own accord; with active cooperation from the inhabitants, they opened the gates and surged into Avignon.

  At that moment, every restraint of circumstance and reason ceased to hold. A righteous resistance became a great riot, and then a massacre of nobles and clerics. Nearly two hundred clerics, nobles, and royalists met violent deaths; the Papal Palace was thoroughly plundered; even the chaste statue of the Virgin was smashed by a mob gone mad, its fragments flung about at random (if this scene is unfamiliar to you, please refer to Chapter 40 of this book)…

  In early September, the National Constituent Assembly, despite the resolute opposition of Father Maury and others, forced through a proposal submitted by Jacobin deputies, formally annexing Avignon and Vaucluse—two territories previously belonging to the Pope of Rome—into the Kingdom of France, as a protest against the Holy See and the Pope’s condemnations and slanders of the French National Assembly.

  Perhaps with apology and unease mingled in his heart, André offered the apostle of God an unusually sincere sentence. “It will not be a farewell forever. Rest assured: in ten years at most, Paris—and all of France—will return once more to the Lord’s embrace.”

  The devout priest began to probe him. He asked carefully, “And you, André?”

  André maintained his position. “I have always believed in God’s existence, but I do not like Rome’s interpretation of Catholic doctrine, nor its slanders against the French Revolution. However…”

  Here André paused, looked around to his left and right, and continued: “If you can don the red robe”—that is, become a cardinal; Father Maury was already a bishop and could wear purple—“and enter the Curia, then I may consider accepting public baptism in the Catholic Church. By then, you will not be far from the seat of the Pope. After all, Rome is not so far from Paris.”

  What André implied was that he meant to imitate Henry IV and place his own agent upon the papal throne. Under normal procedures, Father Maury would have no hope, for there was an unwritten rule within the Curia: French bishops were not to become Pope. But if one brought troops to Rome, one could compel the Church to change its course. The Romans had done it; the Germans had done it; the French had done it as well.

  It must be said: to become the seventeenth French Pope was an inexhaustible temptation to Father Maury, who outwardly seemed free of desire. The priest of upright conduct had to pause the conversation with the devil; he murmured prayers several times in his heart, seeking God’s forgiveness for his greed.

  “André, you truly are a devil who knows how to stir the greedy impulses of human nature,” Father Maury sighed. By doctrine, even if he knew he could not persuade this scoundrel, he ought to rise and rebuke such insolence and such offense against the holy God.

  But what use would that be?

  It would gain him only another humiliation—and would also cost him a rare opportunity. The chance of success might be tiny, but perhaps—just perhaps—there was a sliver of possibility.

  After the struggle within, Father Maury yielded to reality. “Very well, Brother André. You must keep your promise—protect, as far as you can, the brothers and sisters who remain in France; care for them, and do not let them be shamed.”

  “I swear it,” André said, pressing his right hand to his heart and making a solemn pledge in a secular fashion.

  The trampling of the Catholic Church and the persecution of the clergy were hardly uncommon in French history. Yet each time, the stubborn priests were like cockroaches that could not be crushed: they would return, holding aloft the image of Jesus, and bring lost lambs back to the Lord’s pasture. André did not possess the towering power to overturn heaven and earth; but he could follow the currents, and make preparations before the rain. As for Father Maury, he was no more than a piece on a great chessboard. Even if he failed, it would not affect the overall game; at worst, one could imitate Napoleon and arrest Pius VI.

  …

  After seeing off Father Maury on his journey to Rome, André turned his attention back to Paris. He had originally planned to visit the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Marquis de Lésart, to coordinate the external line between the Legislative Assembly’s Foreign Affairs Committee and the cabinet’s foreign ministry—only to be met with a closed door. The Marquis de Lésart claimed that official business was too burdensome, and rudely refused to meet André’s delegation. This time, André was angered.

  It must be explained that, on October 1, 1791, the person refused was not André alone.

  From the outset, the relationship between the Legislative Assembly that succeeded the Constituent Assembly and the Tuileries was not one of cooperation and trust. In most respects, there was no unity of action or interest between the two.

  The court hoped, during the period of the Legislative Assembly, to recover the advantageous position it had lost under the Constituent Assembly, so that it might, as far as possible, manipulate this organization which was still unstable, easily swayed, and at the time still regarded as the highest authority of the state. Conversely, the deputies wanted Louis XVI to stay quietly in the palace, continue as a puppet, and—so long as he performed once a day upon the great terrace of the Tuileries—be free to move about his rooms.

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  That afternoon, the Legislative Assembly sent a delegation of twelve, led by the rotating president Condorcet, to the Tuileries to report that the Legislative Assembly had been constituted. However, because the Assembly had not accepted his suggestions, Louis XVI did not receive the deputies in person. He merely sent the Minister of Justice, Duport-Dutertre, to tell them that the King of France would not receive the representatives of the people until noon the next day. Such an ill-considered deferral gravely damaged the delegation’s dignity.

  Thus, when the delegation met Louis XVI the next day, President Condorcet, as its head, said only briefly: “Sire, the National Legislative Assembly has been constituted, and we are sent to report it to you.”

  Louis XVI’s reply was colder still: “I cannot come to you until Friday.” This attitude toward the Assembly was not wise; it was wholly inappropriate for reconciling the people’s feelings toward the King.

  On October 3, the Legislative Assembly’s emotions rose to the utmost pitch. Soon a Left deputy put forward a radical motion, demanding that the King’s throne on the right side of the president’s chair be replaced by an ordinary armchair, and that the King be addressed no longer as “Sire” or “Your Majesty,” but as “the French monarch,” so as to manifest the inviolable majesty of the Legislative Assembly as the highest authority of the state.

  Fortunately, President Condorcet did not lose his head. Within his authority he froze the motion for twenty-four hours, and sent word of what had occurred to his friends in the cabinet. After joint persuasion by the Minister of the Interior, Monteil, and the Minister of Finance, Comte de Lacoste, Louis XVI came to the Legislative Assembly on October 4.

  When the sound of the King’s footsteps rang through the hall, the deputies set aside their differences, rose as one, removed their hats, and once more filled the chamber with applause and cheers. In this manner, Louis XVI was still treated with great respect—and the warmest welcome—within the Legislative Assembly.

  And it was as though, in that instant, the estrangement between the new Assembly and the palace had been wholly erased. Yet most of those present—even Louis XVI himself, who seemed guileless, with a soft and almost childlike exterior—knew that the struggle between the Legislative Assembly and the Tuileries had only just begun.

  The Legislative Assembly had navigated its awkwardness with the palace. André, for his part, began his counterattack against the cabinet’s foreign ministry, as punishment for Marquis de Lésart’s contempt toward himself and the Foreign Affairs Committee.

  …

  Marquis de Chauvelin, counsellor at the Kingdom of France’s embassy in London, had returned to Paris to report in person; on the second day after his return, he encountered a most vexing affair, and his good mood ceased at once.

  At 5:00 p.m., as Marquis de Chauvelin stepped out—intending to spend the night at his mistress’s house—he saw a man in a black tailcoat waiting at his door. Before Chauvelin could ask anything, the man walked straight up to him.

  “Monsieur Chauvelin?” the man in the tailcoat asked.

  The young Marquis gave a restrained nod, and received a letter in return. The document was sealed with wax like a court summons, stamped with the Legislative Assembly’s bright red mark.

  The messenger informed him, with solemn formality: “Monsieur Chauvelin, counsellor of the French embassy in London: this is a notice from the executive secretary of the National Legislative Assembly’s Foreign Affairs Committee, Citizen André Franck, inviting you to attend tomorrow morning’s hearing on foreign affairs. Out of the highest respect for twenty-five million French people, Monsieur Chauvelin must, at the time and place specified, appear as required, and prepare his replies for the hearing.”

  Having said this, the messenger turned and left with unhurried composure, leaving Marquis de Chauvelin standing there, stunned. He swore to himself that, had he not heard André Franck’s name from the messenger’s mouth, he would have torn the letter into scraps before the man’s eyes—though the letter spoke in the name of the Legislative Assembly.

  At Talleyrand’s townhouse, the former Bishop of Autun read the “summons” Chauvelin had brought, and said with a grin, “Marquis, I think I must offer my congratulations—for you have made a very rational decision.”

  He raised the small slip of paper and continued: “Just days before you returned to Paris, more than twenty diplomats—home from Madrid, Lisbon, Rotterdam, Zurich, Berlin, Florence, and elsewhere—received the same summons from the Legislative Assembly’s foreign-affairs working committee. Without exception, the signatory was Citizen André Franck.

  “Out of arrogance—or out of contempt for keeping watch over the King—two fellows publicly tore the Legislative Assembly’s summons to pieces. The next day, officers of the Palais de Justice arrested them, because André brought suit against them for insulting the National Assembly that represents twenty-five million French people. Even now, the unlucky men remain in the Palais de Justice’s temporary detention. The cabinet’s foreign ministry has negotiated repeatedly without result. Duranthon, the Minister of Justice, has publicly declared that publicly tearing the Assembly’s summons is an egregious act, and the offense must be punished by detention for ten to fifteen days.”

  Chauvelin did not much mind the mockery in Talleyrand’s words toward the foreign ministry and Marquis de Lésart. He was only privately relieved. He had arrived in Paris only the night before, and had not noticed the recent major events between court, cabinet, and Assembly. Fortunately, under Talleyrand’s earlier, well-meaning warning, Chauvelin had been alert to André’s name, and had thus avoided an act he would regret. As for the two unfortunate men who had torn the summons, when they regained their freedom they would have to resign their diplomatic posts of their own accord; otherwise, given André’s unrelenting temperament, they would be humiliated again.

  Moreover, Talleyrand did indeed bear Marquis de Lésart ill will, because the latter had refused to appoint this dissolute former bishop—who had shamelessly betrayed both court and Church—as a senior diplomat to Europe’s great powers. Thus, when Talleyrand learned of André and his committee’s sharp counterattack against the cabinet’s foreign ministry, he applauded it; he even wrote the young deputy of the Marne a hymn of praise, as an expression of allegiance.

  “You mean I must submit to this hearing tomorrow?” Chauvelin asked. Though phrased as a question, he had already decided; he merely wanted some help from Talleyrand.

  Talleyrand nodded. “Certainly. Only the day before yesterday, Comte de Portman, the ambassador in Berlin, refused to attend the Foreign Affairs Committee’s hearing. The Legislative Assembly successfully impeached him, and yesterday afternoon he submitted his resignation to both the cabinet’s foreign ministry and the Tuileries. Marquis de Lésart tried again and again to keep him, to no avail.”

  “Why?” Chauvelin found it strange. The Constituent Assembly had also had a foreign-affairs working committee and had likewise had inevitable jurisdictional friction with the cabinet’s foreign ministry, yet few had resigned over it.

  “It is simple,” Talleyrand said, slowly, as he toyed with his cane. “You have forgotten that André is a lawyer—a very famous prosecutor. He has joined with deputies from several committees and declared that he will conduct a detailed audit of every expense Comte de Portman incurred during his mission to Berlin.”

  As a senior diplomat, Chauvelin knew that many expenditures in diplomacy were made in secret and could not be openly explained. Moreover, Comte de Portman was greedy by nature; to keep mistresses and maintain a luxurious life, he habitually lined his pockets and abused public funds for private ends. Given André’s shrewdness, it would not take long for him to obtain hard evidence. In the end, resignation was the only way for André to let Comte de Portman go. Within these five short days, Marquis de Lésart had lost seven capable aides in succession.

  The young counsellor of the London embassy lowered his head. “Very well. I will attend tomorrow’s hearing on time. But before that, Comte de Talleyrand, I need your guidance.”

  The former Bishop of Autun abruptly swept a backgammon board off the small table—one that his mistress, Madame de Flahaut, had set there. The clatter startled the sleeping little Charles, and drew a flurry of complaints from the mistress. But Talleyrand, unromantic and heedless, did as he pleased. He shouted to the butler who came running, “Quick—pencil and paper!”

  When Talleyrand bent over the tea-table to write at speed, his pencil suddenly stopped. He turned and asked Chauvelin, “Monsieur le Marquis, what do you think André’s policy toward Britain is?”

  Chauvelin hesitated. After weighing his words for a long while, he answered cautiously, “Mutual cooperation and orderly competition; using economic means to settle trade disputes.”

  “Ha!” Talleyrand burst into loud laughter. He flung both pencil and paper to the floor, and waved everyone out of the room—including his mistress and his illegitimate son.

  Soon Talleyrand rose from the sofa, brandishing his golden cane, and said with smug delight, “You have been taken in, my dear friend! If you carry that policy into tomorrow’s hearing, André will treat you as a fool. Very well—I apologize at once. I have just used an irrational term of insult.

  “But you must understand: André is not what people call pro-British. His wariness toward Britain is far greater than toward any other power. He once said that if a European war breaks out, Britain will be France’s most obstinate and most formidable enemy. Heh—do not ask me how I know; that is my secret. And now you must prepare the hearing from that angle: how to deceive Britain effectively, restrain Britain, and strike Britain.”

  …

  To be fair, André’s original purpose in convening this foreign-affairs hearing was indeed connected with checking the cabinet’s Minister of Foreign Affairs. Most of the seven diplomats whom the Legislative Assembly had impeached were good-for-nothings.

  Take Comte de Portman, the ambassador in Berlin. This “ambassador” had not even learned in advance that the monarchs of Prussia and Austria met at Pillnitz on August 27 and ultimately issued the Declaration of Pillnitz. By any measure, this was a major diplomatic dereliction.

  And then there was the man who publicly tore the Assembly’s summons: Comte de Rannée, chargé d’affaires in Saint Petersburg. He had even urged Empress Catherine and her war minister to strike Warsaw, thereby drawing Poland—France’s traditional ally—into Russia’s dominion. That was nothing less than a grievous act of collaboration with the enemy.

  Yet for these failures (these crimes), Marquis de Lésart, as Minister of Foreign Affairs, imposed no disciplinary measures whatsoever on the Berlin or Saint Petersburg missions. That was difficult to understand.

  In its notice to the cabinet, the Legislative Assembly sharply pointed out these errors by the foreign ministry. At least André, on the Lameth brothers’ persuasion, had no intention of impeaching the Minister of Foreign Affairs himself. The notice also strongly praised two diplomats. The first was Baron de Barthélemy, first secretary at the Rotterdam mission in the United Provinces. Through Barthélemy’s successful mediation, the commercial and trade dispute between France and the United Provinces was quickly resolved.

  The second was Basseville, minister-resident counsellor at the mission in Rome. He was not from a noble house, but a diplomat of common birth. When the Holy See interfered in French internal affairs, Basseville, despite threats from fanatical believers, went alone to the Curia, took the floor in debate, and refuted reactionary arguments one by one—winning dignity for France.

  In the notice, André, in the name of the Legislative Assembly, strongly recommended that Marquis de Lésart promote Barthélemy over rank to become minister to Berlin, and appoint Basseville as plenipotentiary ambassador to Madrid.