That evening, in a letter to the King of Prussia, Frederick Wilhelm II, Louis XVI wrote:

  “My esteemed brother, I have already written to the Empress of Russia, to the King and Queen of Spain, and to the King and Queen of Sweden. Moreover, my Queen has also written to her imperial brother. We have proposed to them that a congress of Europe’s principal powers be convened, with armed force as an auxiliary— as the best means to hold in check the factions of this country, as the best means to restore a more desirable order of things, and as the best means to prevent the evil that torments us from seizing control in other European lands… Finally, I implore His Majesty most earnestly to keep absolutely secret the measure I propose!”

  Brissot, of course, did not know that from the very beginning the King had hoped France would suffer a thorough defeat in next year’s European war. From the Jacobin rostrum, from the speaking platform of the Legislative Assembly, from gatherings at Madame Roland’s salon, Brissot ceaselessly cried out, rallying support for war. His fervent speeches stirred the public’s patriotic passions and placed war within a lofty ideal of mankind. He declared:

  “After 1,200 years of slavery, a great nation newly recovered to freedom needs a war to strengthen its power, and to awe the restless league of Europe’s feudal monarchs… To fortify and consolidate the Revolution, we must fight! For war is the greatest good deed of a progressive people! War will liberate all Europe, and end forever the rule of tyrants on the Continent!”

  It must be said that this oration greatly raised Brissot’s reputation in the Legislative Assembly and among the people of Paris. He became a hero of the hour. The people trusted such men’s words, followed them boldly, and pinned their hopes on the war’s outcome to bring France—and themselves—supreme glory.

  …

  On the very day Brissot dazzled the Legislative Assembly, in a reception room at Paris City Hall, Deputy André, as a representative of the people, accepted the Champagne handed to him by the Mayor of Paris. He raised a glass with Pétion and Danton, and the three drained it at a single swallow. Then André pointed to Le Figaro on the table, which had printed in full the King’s speech in the Legislative Assembly, and said with a smile to the two leading officials of Paris—his friends:

  “Look at it. Louis XVI seems never to have learned. He keeps striking this na?ve, equivocal pose; he keeps misjudging the strength of the Revolution… He is eager to drag France into war, and he wants that war to be lost. For after defeat, the King imagines that, under the punishment of a Prusso-Austrian Coalition, Paris can be brought to heel and his absolute power restored. So now he does everything he can to neglect national defense and prepare for defeat. He obstructs the manufacture of military supplies. His Minister of the Navy, Bertrand de Molleville

  André rose. He patted Pétion’s and Danton’s arms in turn in a gesture of intimacy, and said in an impassioned tone:

  “But none of that is the Tuileries’ greatest mistake. The King and Queen’s greatest stupidity is that they have made my friends the masters of Paris. Yes—masters. I like that hard word very much. So long as the three of us are united in purpose, we can launch armed insurrections in Paris again and again, knock down every reactionary force that blocks the Revolution, and then grind it underfoot so it can never rise again. Our triumvirate will use Paris to control the government and the Assembly, and then rule all eighty-three departments of the nation.”

  With an excited look on his face, André went to the service cart, brought back a pot of hot chocolate and three porcelain cups, and filled them one by one—for his friends and for himself—while in truth observing, in secret, how Pétion and Danton would react to such “treasonous” words. The servants had long since been driven out of the reception room, and Pétion had ordered that no one come near.

  As André had expected, the na?ve and good-natured Pétion—though now the supreme master of six hundred thousand Parisians—remained gentle and candid, and accepted André’s “triumvirate” without reserve. Danton, by contrast, was far more complex; his expression was a shifting mixture of delight, jealousy, and displeasure. André understood that the Paris prosecutor was no longer content to stand beneath him, and wished still more to obtain a ministerial post in the cabinet.

  For the moment, however, the three of them still appeared to outsiders as a sacred alliance that could not be broken.

  Danton held his cold hands near the fireplace and rubbed them hard. He then turned and asked André:

  “By the way—I heard you issued orders in the name of the National Assembly to the administrative bureaux of the northern departments, requiring each of them to send at least one provincial administrative official and two agricultural technical experts to gather at Chalons-en-Champagne in the Marne, to prepare for a week of training. Oh—and when are you going back to Reims?”

  By the Legislative Assembly’s internal arrangement, two weeks earlier André had transferred from the Foreign Affairs Committee to the Administrative Committee as executive secretary. That committee’s task was to supervise the cabinet’s interior ministry, the principal administrative heads of the departments, Paris City Hall, and the Paris police, and it had the right to impeach unfit officials directly before the National Assembly. In any age, agriculture was a matter of national livelihood; no degree of attention was excessive.

  André spread his hands and smiled. “In two or three days, perhaps. Let me say again: this is hardly ‘training.’ It is simply a field exchange on agriculture—taking local officials from food-short departments to tour the Champagne region and learn the cultivation of high-yield potatoes. Everyone must understand this: once next year’s war begins, grain imports from abroad and overseas will become a distant impossibility. We must prepare in advance. Enough food reserves will be the paramount priority of the work to come.”

  The moment Pétion heard “war” and “food,” he tensed and asked at once, “Paris has 650,000 people already; perhaps next year it will be 700,000—more after that. But the flour supply is only enough for 600,000. If grain from America and Eastern Europe can’t arrive, at least 100,000 people will go hungry.”

  André waved a hand and laughed. “It isn’t as dramatic as you think. Don’t let Marat’s men fill your head with nonsense in their newspapers. I have calculated it: even if grain from North America and Eastern Europe cannot enter the Seine, it will not trigger a food crisis in Paris. In the south, the grain regions of the Massif Central can supply enough flour. But there are two prerequisites.

  “First, you must send the highway office to repair the road linking to Orléans, and reduce transit loss from 30% to below 6%.

  “Second, you must coordinate with the National Guard around Orléans, and carry out a joint operation to clear out the bandits entrenched along both sides of the grain road. In troubled times, harsh law: the ringleaders are to be shot, without exception; as for the rest, draw lots—kill one in five. All the bodies are to be hung in the trees along both sides of the grain road for one month. You must not be soft.

  “Of course, besides external supply, Paris itself can produce food—potatoes and beans, for example. We can mobilize citizens to plant potatoes and legumes widely on abandoned wasteland, in the open squares of monasteries, even in their own front and back yards. I have had the Administrative Committee conduct detailed estimates: so long as 100,000 Parisians truly respond to the municipal call, it will cover the yearly ration of 10,000 to 20,000 people.

  “And the third granary must be pushed hard—strive to finish it by the end of this year. The fourth granary must also begin construction before next March. Pétion, you come from a wealthy family, unlike Danton and me. But remember this: never count on the patriotic ardor of grain merchants—they are money-grubbing bastards. One more thing: besides the bread certificates I proposed in 1789, we must also accelerate the printing of grain tickets, cloth tickets, meat tickets, wine tickets, sugar tickets, and the like—though none of us hopes to see the day we truly need them. By the way, I had this memorandum delivered to Paris City Hall the day before yesterday—how do you still not know about it?!”

  Pétion gave an awkward smile. Since his election, he had been consumed by social engagements—salons, banquets, the grand opera—rarely sitting in his office to handle the city’s actual administration. Paris City Hall still followed Bailly’s practices; even the staffing of the various bureaus had scarcely changed.

  So, faced with André’s rebuke, Pétion had nothing to say, and even felt ashamed. As for André’s unpleasant tone, the Mayor of Paris chose to filter it out and not take it to heart. Sometimes, Pétion could not help admitting that André did everything with that same exceptional, singular brilliance. Perhaps the prematurely grave young man before him truly was what people praised as the one who knew everything and could do everything—the God-Favoured.

  Seeing Pétion’s posture of admitting fault without truly correcting it, André knew he had to change tactics. He shifted the topic to Danton and said, “Georges, as Paris prosecutor, you will take responsibility for Paris’s food security. I assume the esteemed Monsieur Paris will not mind.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “I don’t mind, I don’t mind!” The beaming Mayor of Paris declared at once. Tomorrow, in the name of “visiting the King,” he meant to spend the entire day at the Tuileries. To converse with the august Queen Marie, and share a room with her, was far more pleasant than grappling with heavy municipal business.

  Since Louis XVI’s return to Paris this year, the Assembly, City Hall, and the Palais de Justice had reached a common arrangement: each would detach personnel. Every day, in teams of three, they would keep watch on the royal family at close range, to prevent another escape.

  At Pétion’s evasive maneuver, Danton shrugged and, resigned, took the food task into his hands. Since taking office as Paris prosecutor, Danton felt he had become Paris’s deputy mayor in all but name (in truth, the prosecutor was the mayor’s first deputy and also served as a check from the side), spending his days handling thorny administrative business for “King Pétion” (the affectionate nickname Parisians gave their mayor).

  As for Danton’s proper prosecutorial work, he rarely touched it at all; it was largely handed off to Deputy Prosecutor Manier and his staff. Yet this suited him well enough. Years as a lawyer had left Danton somewhat weary of judicial matters; he found himself increasingly absorbed by administrative work, issuing orders to a crowd of clerks and officials, and enjoying it thoroughly.

  On the very day the Constituent Assembly dissolved, Robespierre, together with his brother, hurriedly left Paris. Later, Danton joked, “The great L’Incorruptible rushed off like an émigré noble.” Of course, Danton only said this potentially scandalous line to his wife.

  Robespierre was no longer the unknown deputy of 1789 who had just entered the Assembly. He had become a celebrated popular hero, a champion of democracy, and a figure rare in French politics—one worthy of respect as L’Incorruptible. For more than two years, Robespierre had labored day and night, diligently and tirelessly: at Versailles (the Estates-General), at the Manège Hall (the Constituent Assembly), and at the Jacobin Club.

  Now, at last, he could rest.

  At this moment, the retired deputy of the Constituent Assembly had a total of 15,000 livres in his pocket—his rightful earnings (18 livres per day in deputy allowances, plus various committee stipends). In addition, the salary from his post at the Versailles criminal court—8,000 livres (an annual pay of 6,500 livres, plus a 1,500 allowance)—could also be collected around February next year.

  As for what had caused Robespierre to leave Paris in such alarm, no one knew, and no one conducted any detailed inquiry—except André, who knew perfectly well what had happened.

  On the road back to Arras, Robespierre instructed the coachman to turn aside and stop at a small unnamed village. He took a money bag containing 3,000 livres, got down alone, and remained in that shabby, barren place for more than two hours. At last he returned to the coach with a weary, helpless expression.

  The first thing Robespierre said as he climbed into the carriage was a warning to his younger brother. Fixing his eyes on Augustin, he spoke word by word: “Forget everything that just happened—forever, forever!”

  Because of this episode, the brothers’ journey ran nearly five hours behind schedule, so that the welcoming crowd in the town of Bapaume failed to see L’Incorruptible. Only at night, when the long-distance coach pulled into the post station, did word of Robespierre’s arrival turn the quiet town into a sea of jubilation.

  Citizens and farmers poured out of their sleep at the news, enthusiastically surrounding the inn until it was packed tight; the National Guard was also mobilized in full to maintain order. Everyone—including uniformed soldiers—shouted “Long live Robespierre!” All praised his incorruptible integrity, his extraordinary courage, his singular devotion to democracy, and his unrelenting struggle against the enemies of the nation…

  The impromptu welcoming banquet lasted from midnight until dawn, until an assistant prosecutor from Arras arrived, saying he had come expressly to escort the honored Citizen Robespierre home. Only then did the people of Bapaume reluctantly part to let the brothers’ carriage continue its journey.

  In Arras, the welcoming procession was even more spectacular, and everyone was aflame with enthusiasm. Many citizens, together with municipal officials, had waited at the city gate for nearly twelve hours; by the time the brothers’ carriage arrived, some were dozing against one another, and some had even collapsed drunk in the road.

  Yet the moment the stirring cries rang out—“Long live Robespierre!” “Long live the People’s Guardian!”—everyone stood up at once, like soldiers drilled to a command. They ran to the carriage to escort the hero of their hearts into the city; more than a hundred people from Bapaume followed behind.

  As the carriage crept along a street, the broken road surface snapped an axle and it could not proceed. Some shouted for repairs; some called for a different carriage. Robespierre, frightened by the crowd’s fervor, opened the door with Augustin, thinking the two of them could simply walk home.

  But how could that be allowed? L’Incorruptible could not be made to touch the filthy chaos of the street!

  In short order, amid cheers, the townspeople hoisted Robespierre and Augustin high on their shoulders. The great throng surged toward City Hall. Though the two brothers protested with all their strength, it was useless; nothing could block the revolutionary ardor of Arras.

  From the gate to City Hall, the commotion continued deep into the night. At last Robespierre made it home. When the door closed behind him, the kindly elder brother put on a severe face and scolded his sister, Charlotte:

  “What happened today is something I cannot accept—free citizens debasing themselves to do things only low animals would do… If our compatriots remain so ignorant and so blind, then all the efforts I and the other representatives have made in the National Assembly will come to nothing.”

  As with all great men, the annoyance of such acclaim passed quickly; what remained was the immense satisfaction of pride, or vanity. Several days later, in a letter to his landlord, Duplay, Robespierre described his excitement on the journey home:

  “The patriotic ardor of the people and the National Guard filled me with exhilaration… Each time I recall it, I am overcome with emotion. Even former political enemies—those nobles who disdain the common people—lit lamps in their windows, so that we could see the road home. And this very morning, a detachment of National Guard soldiers about to depart for the frontier sang and danced before my door—so full of joy.”

  Perhaps Robespierre would never know—or perhaps he knew and chose to pretend otherwise—that those nobles lit their lamps because they had been threatened by the mob: if they refused, their windows would be smashed.

  Robespierre’s concern now was for the young soldiers in brand-new uniforms who still sang and danced before his door. They were passionate, filled with patriotic fervor; yet Robespierre doubted deeply whether these men had made any real preparation to defend their country.

  Plainly, they had not.

  From brief questioning, Robespierre learned that only one third of the soldiers had the standard equipment of flintlock musket, bayonet, and cartridge box; the others carried mostly pikes, spears, and sabres. As for training, there was almost none—so little that not only the soldiers, but even their officers scarcely understood loading procedures or the principles of shooting.

  In Paris, Robespierre had often discussed infantry and cavalry tactics with André. That National Guard General strongly favored forming efficient hollow infantry squares to counter Austria’s excellent cavalry. But in Arras, near the frontier of the Austrian Netherlands, senior commanders had never even heard of such a practice, and had no desire to adopt it.

  Even now, Robespierre could still recall what André had said to him after inspecting the readiness of the troops stationed outside Paris:

  “We must admit that, beyond high morale, our soldiers are practically good for nothing: insufficient training, insufficient rifles, insufficient artillery, insufficient ammunition, insufficient supply, insufficient officers, insufficient competence among officers—insufficient in every way… If you ask me now, Maximilien, what we will do once war breaks out, I will say this: we will only be able to use more lives to make up for every one of these deficiencies.”

  At first, Robespierre had thought André was merely indulging in alarmism, taking the opportunity to boast of how well-equipped and well-trained his Champagne Composite Brigade was, and how overwhelming his artillery could be. Now, however, it seemed André had spoken precisely to the point, and Robespierre began to worry about the coming “European War of Liberation.”

  Nor was lax military preparation the only trouble. Robespierre also noticed that the roads and junctions near the frontier were packed with carriages—nobles, priests, and various dissenters seeking to flee abroad. Nearly every restaurant, inn, and tavern was filled with émigrés’ resentment toward the Revolution, which left Robespierre deeply unsettled. He knew many of these people would likely join the émigré force of Prince de Condé.

  Beginning in November, while making short journeys in the Pas-de-Calais, Robespierre became convinced that the non-juring clergy would inevitably harm the French Revolution and serve as guides for foreign intervention forces. Unlike the Paris clergy, which largely shared the Jacobins’ stance, the provincial Church still stood on the Revolution’s opposing side.

  In many towns run by traditional Church authorities, the classic Passion Play of Good Friday was being performed again and again. In itself, that was nothing; Robespierre had even acted in such a play in his schooldays. But once, the Paris revolutionaries were dressed up as ferocious Roman soldiers and made to offer poison to the dying Jesus. Whenever the play ended, the onlookers wept with emotion and shouted calls to strike down the executioners, along with various slogans against Paris.

  Not long after, Duplay—also a member of the Jacobin Club—wrote back to Robespierre:

  “My great friend, the situation in Paris is changing. Whether noble Constitutionalists, or Jacobins, or the idle men of the Marsh, everyone is talking about the imminent ‘European War of Liberation.’ It is said that this immensely stirring phrase was first put forward by Deputy André. Now even the two Majesties at the Tuileries have been persuaded, and have joined the ranks of those calling to resist Europe’s feudal monarchs. Strange, isn’t it? My instinct tells me this is a plot—a great plot. But my abilities are extremely limited, and I cannot uncover any truth. So I beg you to return to Paris as soon as possible, and prevent a disaster.”

  Robespierre’s friend Georges Couthon

  also wrote, likewise urging Robespierre to hurry back to Paris to stop Brissot’s faction and its supporters from agitating, at the Jacobin Club, in the Legislative Assembly, and in every public venue in Paris, for a hasty war for which France was not prepared.

  Whether it was his landlord Duplay, or Deputies Couthon and Carnot, all mentioned André’s name. Every sign suggested that André—once cautious to a fault, and long holding a conservative line—had chosen to stand with Brissot’s faction and support the “European War of Liberation” they were pushing.

  Thus, on November 15—half a month before Robespierre returned to Paris—he wrote to André, hoping that this former friend would change course and halt a war for which preparations were still inadequate. War, he argued, would plunge France into greater chaos, rather than win peace.

  But André clearly refused to reply. His silence meant that he would continue to support Brissot’s war.