Following the practice of the previous Assembly, the plenary sittings of the Legislative Assembly were usually divided into two sessions: one from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., and another from 5:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. Most of the time, however, the evening sitting did not break up until after midnight. In emergencies, the work ran through the night—for example, during the King’s attempted flight.

  Under such intensity, André held out for a fortnight before announcing that he would attend only the morning sitting each day; as for the evening one, he would plead outside business. In reality, André was either at the ?le Saint-Louis villa, resting and receiving visitors, or he would drift through the Jacobin Club for a while, or—honouring earlier political promises—make an appearance at the Rolands’ salon.

  Even in the “day shift,” André spent most of his time in the Foreign Affairs Committee office. He could not endure the noisy, chaotic misery of the chamber—above all because of that damned Bishop of Lyon, Lamourette. André now suspected that this high-profile new bishop of the Constitutionalists was a major homosexual hiding among the deputies.

  In mid-October, before the chamber adjourned, Lamourette launched an initiative: since deputies, in arguing over national affairs and the people’s interests, often quarreled and flushed red in the face, they might damage revolutionary feelings and comradeship. To prevent division, and out of a worthy desire for harmony and peace, the Bishop of Lyon proposed that before each adjournment every deputy should embrace the others, kiss cheeks and touch noses, as a sign of reconciliation.

  Fortunately, André happened to be on the second-floor gallery that day, and avoided that whole episode. From then on, André generally came late and left early in the chamber, sitting alone at the summit of the Mountain and refusing any intimate interaction with the deputies. (This is a historical event: the “Lamourette kiss” meant a hypocritical reconciliation.)

  Once, a deputy stood up and openly accused André of frequent “absence.” Before the brave man had even finished speaking, the hall erupted into boos; then Left, Centre, and Right combined to denounce him, forcing the deputy to admit his error and apologize publicly to Deputy André.

  This theatrical scene did not occur because André was universally beloved, nor simply because the deputies feared his strength. Rather, they preferred a quiet André; they liked the habitual “absentee,” and hoped he would not stir up trouble within the Legislative Assembly—he could go and ruin anyone he pleased outside.

  André, for his part, felt somewhat ashamed. He announced that he would cut his deputy’s allowance—eighteen livres per day—by half; and he would also donate the Foreign Affairs Committee’s weekly office stipend of thirty-five livres to the Paris charitable relief society.

  …

  Before the riding school’s carriage court, Marquis de Chauvelin, dressed plainly, stepped out of a black carriage bearing no noble coat of arms. Halfway up the steps, the embassy’s first secretary saw Baron de Barthélemy pacing before the National Assembly’s entrance, looking weighed down with worries.

  “Monsieur Barthélemy—what a pleasure to see you,” Chauvelin said, walking up with warm greetings.

  In appearance, Baron de Barthélemy was a middle-aged man of modest height and ordinary looks, with nothing striking about him. Yet Chauvelin had learned from Talleyrand that Barthélemy was mild in temperament and broadly educated, orderly in speech and conduct, and possessed an exceptionally powerful memory—he could read something once and never forget it.

  Barthélemy lifted his head in a daze, recognized the young Marquis de Chauvelin, first secretary at the London embassy, and answered with aristocratic courtesy, “Good day, Monsieur le Marquis.”

  Chauvelin smiled. “Monsieur Ambassador, you should call me Chauvelin. Since last May, the National Assembly has forbidden all noble titles!”

  Barthélemy nodded, and tested him with a question. “You are here for the Foreign Affairs Committee’s hearing?”

  “Yes. It begins at 1:00 p.m. today—there are still fifteen minutes.” Chauvelin took out his watch. “And you?”

  Barthélemy seemed not to have heard the question. He gestured for the younger colleague to enter the Legislative Assembly with him, and spoke as they walked. “I have been asked to speak with you about the precautions and the procedure for the hearing.

  “First, you must change your form of address from ‘Vous’ to the more egalitarian ‘Tu.’ As you said, this de-aristocratization rule has been in force since last May.

  “Second, the hearing is principally a question-and-answer format. All twelve questions will be put by the deputies present; you are to answer. Do not volunteer speeches, and do not pose questions in return.

  “Third, if a matter is uncertain or cannot be spoken plainly, you may refuse to answer. But I sincerely advise you not to do so. Instead, on grounds of state secrecy, request a private exchange with Citizen André, the Foreign Affairs Committee’s executive secretary, and ensure that a record is kept for later reference.

  “Fourth, each answer is limited to ten minutes. If—”

  The scene of the two diplomats meeting in the chamber was observed by André and Thuriot from the second-floor balcony.

  “This young man—he is your recommendation?” André frowned slightly. Judging by looks alone, the young Marquis was indeed tall and handsome, but André plainly did not trust his ability.

  Thuriot could not help muttering inwardly: you, André, were only eight months older than Chauvelin, and yet you were already the practical lord of two departments; while Chauvelin was born to a great hereditary house. As early as ten, he had followed the elder Marquis de Chauvelin into affairs of state and foreign business, and had traveled to more than ten countries in Europe; he could be called a seasoned diplomat.

  “Chauvelin’s value lies in his agreeable face—and his noble manners,” Thuriot continued. “Yes: those manners in speech and conduct, in dress and bearing. In London, the aristocrats still admire precisely that authentic French taste. Besides, Chauvelin’s genuine London accent is more than ten times purer than your clumsy English country slang. I am curious—who taught you English? … Once, when Chauvelin recited Shakespeare at Buckingham Palace, they say even King George III and Prime Minister William Pitt the Younger rose to applaud him.”

  “Oh?” André asked. “If he is so capable, why did he not become chargé d’affaires in London?” The former ambassador had returned home to convalesce in mid-August, and since then the London embassy had been half-paralyzed.

  Thuriot explained, “It is simple. At Versailles, in front of Louis XVI, our young diplomat boldly proclaimed that constitutional monarchy is better than any despotism, and illustrated it with the story of Britain’s Glorious Revolution. Court nobles interpreted this as implying that Louis XVI was a French Charles I—destined for the scaffold. Naturally, he could not be made ambassador in London.”

  Under the Constitution, the appointment of ambassadors and ministers required the King’s signature. But acting ambassadors or acting ministers could be appointed by the foreign ministry without the King’s assent. It should be noted that the acting term of a head of mission—ambassador or minister—generally could not exceed six months.

  After André devised the hearing system, he quickly struck Marquis de Lésart where it hurt. Several subordinates were forced to resign in succession, and Lésart had to reassess Deputy André’s influence—and the immense energy hidden behind it. In the end, with mediation by Barnave and the Lameth brothers, André and Marquis de Lésart reached a ceasefire and reconciliation. At the latest routine meeting between the Legislative Assembly and the cabinet government, André, on behalf of the Foreign Affairs Committee, obtained the right to make four key personnel nominations for major embassies—Prussia, the United Provinces, Denmark, and Britain.

  André had originally wanted Spain, but Marquis de Lésart insisted that Spain was among the fields the King watched most closely—along with Austria, Spain, the United States, and Poland. Still, André ultimately secured Britain. Thus Basseville, originally intended for Spain, was transferred to become ambassador to the Kingdom of Prussia (in October the mission would be raised from minister to ambassador), and would also serve as minister to the Electorate of Hanover and the Duchy of Brunswick; and Barthélemy was reassigned to Copenhagen as plenipotentiary ambassador to Denmark.

  As for the remaining two ambassadorial choices, Thuriot, both publicly and privately, decided to recommend Chauvelin as ambassador to Britain—besides the reasons already given, Madame Thuriot, Julie, was Chauvelin’s cousin.

  For the United Provinces, André rejected every candidate the committee proposed. Belgium and the Netherlands—the Low Countries—would be the future line of advance for the Champagne brigade, and the post required an old fox: shameless, hard, and without scruple, someone who could go and plague those “wagoners of the sea”…

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Barthélemy escorted Chauvelin only as far as the Foreign Affairs Committee door, then turned away; in another small room, André would give the incoming Danish ambassador private instructions.

  It must be said that the executive secretary’s “reception room” was in fact a single-person rest room without a fireplace—though at least it had decent light. The room was not small, but aside from a camp bed and a chest of drawers there was not even a chair. There had been a chair: a worn walnut armchair. But two weeks earlier it had been taken to furnish the hearing room, and had never been returned.

  Ambassador Barthélemy made an awkward circuit of the room, unable to decide where he was supposed to sit—or whether he ought to remain standing beside Deputy André. Neither seemed quite suitable.

  André noticed the diplomat’s cramped expression and laughed. “Sit on the bed, if you don’t mind, Monsieur Ambassador. I never sleep in it anyway, and I have already sat myself sick downstairs.” As he spoke, he even stamped his foot on the floor.

  When Barthélemy had settled, André produced a document and motioned for the Danish ambassador to read it first. André himself paced the room. Five minutes later, André took the paper back from the ambassador’s astonished hands, struck a match and set it alight, and when it was nearly consumed, dropped it into a copper vessel filled with clear water.

  “Understood?” André asked.

  Barthélemy’s eyes were blank, but he nodded firmly.

  André continued, “What you have seen—and what we are about to say—is of the highest secrecy. Even your direct superior, Marquis de Lésart, does not know it. If, aside from contacting me or an envoy I designate, you mention this matter to any person, group, or organization, it will be treated as a betrayal of national interests…

  “Find opportunities to exacerbate Denmark’s unfriendly relationship with Britain and produce contradictions—that is your minimum competent target. Do your utmost to urge Denmark, together with Russia’s Baltic fleet, to challenge Britain’s authority in the North Atlantic; if such an incident occurs, it means you have performed well. If war breaks out between Britain and Denmark, I will personally judge your diplomatic performance ‘excellent.’ I know you have a fondness for the Northern Netherlands. Once the war unfolds as we expect, as a reward you will be appointed governor of that region…”

  Compared with being a diplomat, Barthélemy preferred to become a high administrative governor. In France as it was, since he was not a Constitutionalist, the chance was slender; no cabinet post would be reserved for him. But in conquered territory, Barthélemy had an advantage. He had served for years in the Low Countries, and his wife was local.

  In fact, two hours earlier, Basseville—now ambassador to the Kingdom of Prussia—had just left this same unremarkable room. André’s instructions to Basseville were even clearer: coordinate with intelligence personnel to monitor Prussian and Brunswick military movements, especially that Brunswick–Lüneburg Duke—Karl Wilhelm Ferdinand.

  In sentiment, André preferred common-born diplomats. But the reality was that France’s professional diplomatic corps was monopolized by the nobility—at an even higher ratio than the already heavily aristocratic naval officer corps. Given this, André could only choose men like Barthélemy and Chauvelin—diplomats inclined toward Constitutionalist thinking.

  While André was assigning Barthélemy his future tasks, in the committee’s main office not far away, Chauvelin sat in André’s walnut armchair, exhaustedly fending off the bombardment of eleven deputies.

  “Do you think George III is mentally ill?”

  “Is there an excessively intimate relationship between Prime Minister William Pitt the Younger and their King?”

  “What do you think of the King’s heir apparent—the Prince of Wales, fat as a pig?”

  “Do you believe the British people will join France’s revolutionary masses and overthrow the nobles who oppress them?”

  “What sort of man is the new British ambassador in Paris, Duke of Dorset—does he sympathize with the Revolution?”

  …

  With fifteen years of diplomatic experience, Chauvelin could handle any thorny question in manner and speech. What he could not be sure of was whether the questions themselves were too absurd—especially given the unseen executive secretary André’s intentions.

  “Citizen Chauvelin!” Thuriot, the final questioner, addressed the young diplomat with the fashionable style of the Legislative Assembly (only after 1793 would “Citizen” become the standard), and asked, “Do you believe war will break out between Britain and France? If so, as ambassador in London, what considerations will guide your conduct?”

  Chauvelin prepared to answer, but noticed his cousin-by-marriage Thuriot lightly shaking his head behind the long table. He immediately understood and replied, “I am sorry, Deputy. This question concerns state secrets. I request a private statement to the Foreign Affairs Committee’s executive secretary, Monsieur André.”

  “Request granted! You may remain where you are and wait for Citizen André,” Thuriot declared at once. The hearing was temporarily suspended, and all present—including Thuriot himself—went down to take their seats in the chamber.

  After the eleven members left the main office, an unfamiliar young man entered from outside. He walked straight up and introduced himself to Chauvelin. “Hello. My name is Lozère. I am Deputy André’s private secretary. Please wait a moment; Assembly business may delay him for a while before he can come.”

  André had indeed been intercepted.

  When he escorted Barthélemy out and was about to return, he ran into Deputy Tourneur, a representative from the Manche. Tourneur had once been a retired engineer captain like Carnot, and the two men were allies who shared a political alignment.

  After entering the Legislative Assembly, Tourneur did not imitate Carnot’s proud aloofness; he chose to join the administrative committee led by Brissot. Now, at Brissot’s request, he came to conduct the routine communication before a vote on a motion—a motion concerning émigrés abroad.

  Ever since Louis XVI’s failed flight and his forced return to Paris under escort, a stronger wave of aristocratic emigration swept across France. Even though the King signed two amnesty decrees in September and October, scarcely any émigré nobles or priests returned to preach constitutionalism at home. On the contrary, more and more fled. An English traveler in France described it this way: “Compared with last year, there are fewer carriages on the roads, and fewer well-dressed people… The borders stand open, and the scale of flight is astonishing.”

  The most resolute royalists gathered at Koblenz, rallied around the King’s brother, Comte d’Artois, and succeeded in forming a corps of more than ten thousand. According to intelligence Brissot had somehow dug up about the émigré base, the report ran:

  “…Their arms have already been manufactured at Liège; three thousand warhorses have been brought from some fair within German lands. The recruited cavalry and infantry wear white coats, red waistcoats, and pale yellow trousers… Comte d’Artois and his staff maintain extremely secret channels of communication within France; along the frontier there are discontented nobles everywhere, non-juring priests condemned in absentia, and spies sent by the powers…”

  On this basis, Brissot proposed that the Assembly confiscate the property of the émigré ringleaders—including Comte d’Artois. As for Comte de Provence, he kept a notably low profile in Brussels, hiding almost all day in an inconspicuous apartment, refusing to join any political society and never delivering anti-Assembly speeches in public.

  Brissot also told André that if these measures proved ineffective, France would punish harshly the European states that sheltered émigrés. If necessary, military action would be unavoidable.

  André had no objection. At once, in his capacity as executive secretary of the Foreign Affairs Committee, he agreed to endorse the administrative committee’s policy.

  He said to Tourneur, “Tell Deputy Brissot that I will stand with him and help this motion pass. Great France will not tremble before Europe’s feudal monarchs.”

  After ending that intercepted conversation, André finally returned to the second-floor main office. Before entering, he took the hearing summary from Thuriot and skimmed it.

  “Please do not rise,” André said, waving down Chauvelin’s formal movement. He casually pulled a chair from behind the long table, dragged it to the diplomat’s side, sat opposite him, and asked offhand, “Do you think Talleyrand is suited to diplomatic work?” Lozère automatically served as the recorder.

  Chauvelin’s heart tightened. Many of his answers had been coached by Talleyrand the day before; clearly he had shown his hand to André’s shrewd eye—or perhaps Talleyrand had intended it.

  Gritting his teeth, Chauvelin decided to speak plainly. “Deputy André, forgive my frankness. Talleyrand is a classic Machiavellian: cynical, without taboos, yet brilliant and quick, a practical man with an independent mind. For those in power, he is an extremely sharp double-edged sword. If you wield him badly, he can easily cut the hand that holds him.”

  André offered a small, noncommittal smile and dropped the subject. He continued, “If France goes to war with its neighbors, how will the British respond? Will they declare war on France?”

  Chauvelin answered without hesitation: “When the French army appears at the mouth of the Waal River (the Rhine), or when it invades the Electorate of Hanover.”

  André asked again, “The future problem is this: our army has already occupied the whole of the Netherlands, yet I still want Britain to remain neutral for half a year. Is there a workable plan?”

  “Yes,” the diplomat replied. “Remove William Pitt the Younger and throw British politics, for a short time, into leaderless division. I will submit a detailed plan of action, but it requires full cooperation across departments—especially the task of drawing in Irishmen exiled from France. One point: keeping Britain neutral for half a year is unlikely; I can guarantee three months, four at most.”

  The answer pleased André; what remained was the method of execution.

  Under the original plan, André himself would go to Britain to carry out the scheme to disrupt British politics, seize the whole of the Netherlands before the British could be drawn into war, and intimidate the Electorate of Hanover. But plans always lag behind change. His visit to Britain was postponed again and again.

  André learned that, the day after tomorrow, Mayor Bailly would formally submit his resignation to the Paris City Hall—eighteen days earlier than expected. For the sake of strengthening the resolve of his two firm allies, Pétion and Danton, in their contest for Paris municipal office, André had to cancel his British journey. The scheme would have to be carried out by an agent of his choosing.

  For the moment, the young diplomat Chauvelin was indeed a good candidate. In truth, André had no better option. Most of the time, the Military Intelligence Office could act only in the shadows; the respectable, open side of policy had to rely on professional diplomats.

  With that, André reached his decision. He told Chauvelin, “Within the next three days, you will receive a new appointment from the cabinet’s foreign ministry. And my personal assistant—Lozère, a lieutenant from the intelligence service—will serve as your liaison officer and handle certain un-gentlemanly secret work. Also, please tell Monsieur Talleyrand that, if it suits him, I invite him to the ?le Saint-Louis villa tomorrow evening. In the name of the Foreign Affairs Committee, I intend to dispatch a special envoy to the Netherlands. I fully believe Monsieur Talleyrand is very well suited to that post.”

  Under constitutional constraints, whether former deputies or serving representatives, none could hold high office in the cabinet government. Thus Talleyrand could not become an ambassador or minister; but he could take a roundabout path, travel as a joint special envoy of the Legislative Assembly and the cabinet government to the Low Countries, and in practice function as plenipotentiary ambassador to the northern United Provinces—though only for a term limited to six months.