“Sir, do you really trust those men who once betrayed France?”

  When André Franck finished seeing Cazalès off, Penduvas emerged from the adjoining room as well. The foreign-affairs head of the Military Intelligence Office had just rushed back from Brussels. Only the day before yesterday, Penduvas—serving as one of Talleyrand’s deputies—had attended a secret peace talk with the Governor-General of the Austrian Netherlands, Duc de Teschen.

  In response to his subordinate’s doubt, André answered with a smile. “You still do not understand politics. Whether it is the old chivalric spirit or the patriotism now in fashion, to a politician they are merely convenient tools—easy to wave before the crowd, and easy to use. As for betrayal? That depends on which side you stand on when you judge it.”

  Then the superior shifted the topic. “Now, to answer what you said earlier: yes, I trust Cazalès. Do not ask why. Have your people give the émigrés in the United Provinces appropriate help. And do not forget—since the time of Richelieu, almost every Frenchman, whether king, noble, merchant, or today’s fanatical crowd preaching the export of revolution, has dreamed of swallowing that beautiful and wealthy Low Country. Do you remember what the Cardinal said? ‘To extend France’s frontiers, imperceptibly, to the Rhine.’”

  In conception, the French Revolution’s policy of expansion continued the same line as the Old Regime: the belief that geography determined France’s European expansion. Since the sixteenth century, France’s rulers had steadily pushed toward the Atlantic, the Rhine, the Alps, and the Pyrenees, by war, diplomacy, and dynastic marriage, and of these, war was the most direct and the most effective.

  What André was doing now was merely repeating arguments Richelieu had made centuries earlier. From the founder of absolute monarchy to the republican deputies of the National Assembly, the idea remained a guiding principle of French foreign policy—a core term that marked France’s existence as a political and territorial entity.

  Likewise, left-wing revolutionaries such as Brissot, who tirelessly preached a “just and lawful war” against Europe, were merely “putting a red cap of revolution on a monarchical policy of natural frontiers,” even if the concept was not always stated explicitly by those in power.

  European geopolitics was far too complex. André, as the so-called The God-Favoured, was at most borrowing certain views from later mainstream historians. In the present age, the true masters of international politics were Kaunitz, Talleyrand, and, in the future, Metternich. That was precisely why André had Penduvas follow Talleyrand—though there was also the intention of keeping an eye on the “limping Comte.”

  Moreover, over the past two years, the Military Intelligence Office had expanded too far and too fast. Its personnel quality was uneven, and the hidden risks were many; it needed a timely reorganization. Therefore, one month earlier, André had brought Father Marey into the operational work of the service as Deputy Director of the Military Intelligence Office, placing him in charge of all domestic affairs within France, while Penduvas would chiefly handle intelligence collection across Europe, information analysis, field operations, and related tasks.

  As for the Brussels diplomatic talks, Penduvas said the process and outcome had been very smooth. In fact, Duc de Teschen’s thinking was very close to André’s: both wished to preserve the present state of truce. The Governor-General of the Austrian Netherlands expected Duc de Brunswick to lead the forming Prusso-Austrian Coalition of 130,000 men (plus 6,000 émigré troops) and win a decisive, hammer-blow victory over France in August.

  Thus, after a round of bargaining drenched in aristocratic etiquette and false smiles, Duc de Teschen and Talleyrand quickly reached a sixty-day ceasefire agreement: the current line of actual control would remain unchanged; both armies would withdraw ten kilometers; border crossings would be opened; private trade would not be prohibited.

  In addition, the two sides would exchange the remains of the fallen, and the mutual redemption of prisoners would proceed openly as a peace measure—though it was obvious the Austrians had taken a loss. Since the war began in April, including those captured afterward, France had only 2,800 men in enemy hands, of whom light cavalry amounted to only 200. Meanwhile, the Army of the North had captured 6,200 Austrian soldiers in total, including 2,500 cavalrymen, among them more than 800 cuirassiers.

  By the accounting that a light cavalryman was worth three times an infantryman, and a heavy cavalryman cost three times a light cavalryman, Duc de Teschen would have to pay the Army of the North hard currency worth nearly 2,000,000 livres.

  André had assumed the Governor-General would stall and haggle for weeks. Yet the very next day after the agreement was signed, Penduvas—escorted by a troop of Austrian cavalry—delivered half a cartload of gold to the Lille camp.

  Naturally, André did not pocket the matter for himself. He immediately ordered the gendarmerie commanders responsible for holding prisoners across the army to complete the exchange with the Austrians within one week. As for the brave Colonel Horton, the French also rendered the highest respect: the hearse carrying the colonel’s remains and personal effects was sent to the visiting Austrian cavalry amid funeral music.

  After the “half-cart of gold” incident, André’s desire to annex the wealthy Netherlands (including the United Provinces) only grew stronger. In French-occupied Tournai, Mons, and other places, the gendarmerie—following the intelligence office’s information—tracked down unfriendly bishops and resistant nobles and seized their movable assets (including cash) and immovable property. The total value had already reached as much as 20,000,000 livres. Coupled with the enormous military pay transferred at the last moment by the now-collapsed “Patriot Cabinet,” the Army of the North was swimming in money, enough to sustain two or three large-scale operations by an army of 100,000 men.

  Of course, André was grateful for the generosity of those three ministers in the Patriot Cabinet—but it was a cheap gratitude, and it would vanish in at most ten minutes. He understood perfectly well that Brissot and Roland had acted with ulterior motives: to sow discord, to provoke political strife between the Army of the North and the Army of Moselle (the central army group) and the Army of the Rhine, and thereby drive the isolated André to tighten his alliance with Brissot’s faction.

  Thinking about these headaches, André decided to set them aside for the moment and settle accounts after he returned to Paris. For now there were only two Netherlands questions: the Austrian Netherlands and the northern Netherlands.

  “Tell me your view of Talleyrand,” André said to Penduvas.

  “He is a nobleman dressed in splendid clothes, with elegant manners—his high-society etiquette is impeccable,” the intelligence lieutenant colonel reported truthfully. “But he is extremely greedy, and he takes enemy bribes without hesitation. I admit that what he sells them is mostly stale or of little value, yet I still suspect this Constitutionalists nobleman’s loyalty to you, sir.”

  André burst into laughter. “In Talleyrand’s heart, there may never have been such a thing as loyalty. So you and your men must watch him closely. I may be using him, but I have never trusted that well-dressed cripple.”

  Because General Lameth of the Constitutionalists had formally taken office as Minister of War, the restriction that former deputies could not hold major posts in administration and diplomacy was thus cleared away. Therefore, in the second week after Brissot’s friendly cabinet fell, Talleyrand—no one knew by what means or through what connections—managed to secure Louis XVI’s approval of the proposal by Champbonneau, the Minister of Foreign Affairs (a Constitutionalists nobleman retained from the previous cabinet): Comte Talleyrand would formally become the ambassador of the Kingdom of France to the United Provinces.

  (Note: In real history, neither Lameth nor Talleyrand, as deputies of the Constituent Assembly, held major administrative or diplomatic office between 1792 and 1796.)

  …

  The unexpected fall of the “Patriot Cabinet” did not make Danton show the slightest joy. In fact, the Prosecutor of Paris appeared confused and somewhat startled by it. He even criticized the irrationality of the Tuileries in public, and spoke in support of the dismissed Roland, Clavière, and Servan, among other former ministers—though the Titan of a man would sometimes laugh loudly in his own bedroom.

  But soon, it was Danton’s turn to suffer.

  Perhaps out of rage at Lafayette, at a session of the General Council of the Paris Commune, Danton and his supporters demanded that the portraits of the former commander of the National Guard, Lafayette, and the former Mayor of Paris, Bailly, be removed from the hall. Most attendees strongly opposed the demand; they were Constitutionalists nobles or their supporters.

  Thus began endless argument between accuser and defender; it escalated into slander and abuse like street brawlers; and at last it erupted into outright fighting. Council members and spectators grappled with one another until the National Guard arrived with bright bayonets to suppress the disorder.

  Danton’s faction was outnumbered and clearly came off worse. His face red, his eyes blazing, he shoved aside those standing in the corridor and stormed out. The door slammed so hard that plaster shook down from the wall. The next day, the new Minister of the Interior, acting in accordance with the court’s wishes, sent the Prosecutor of Paris a letter of reprimand.

  With anger burning, Danton refused to accept humiliation. After weighing matters, he decided to go to No. 5, Place Vend?me. There he held a secret meeting with Brissot, Vergniaud, and others. At the meeting, the Prosecutor of Paris asked to launch “a joint action within the Jacobins to intimidate the depraved and lawless Tuileries. The Bourbon court and the Feuillants are so insolent, so rampant in oppressing the people, because they have not yet met the most resolute counterblow.”

  Brissot and Vergniaud exchanged a glance and waited for Danton to continue. Two hours later, Danton’s spoken words—after being edited and polished by Brissot’s circle—rang out once more in the hall of the Jacobin Club:

  “…We must always remember: we will not forgive the enemies who betray the Revolution, especially those émigré nobles who in Koblenz incite domestic upheaval and foreign intervention. I propose that every citizen may follow the example of ancient Rome and strike down the criminals who destroy liberty, democracy, and the people’s welfare. And to do that, we must first purge the conspirators hiding in the Tuileries. We all know Queen Marie is an Austrian, the aunt of the Holy Roman Emperor. It is she who forces the King of France to obey her every command. Therefore Louis XVI must divorce that wicked Austrian woman and send her back to Vienna.

  …To win this struggle, I must rely on the people of Paris’s districts. If we do not go to the districts to preach, to inspire, and to mobilize the people, we will accomplish nothing, for our enemies will continue to declare that we are merely a pitiful band of rebels. Therefore we must appear as the revolutionary people within the National Assembly. In the club, we must affirm: all of us are an inseparable, united political force. If we cannot speak by aristocratic law, then we will speak by revolutionary law: we are unbreakable; we are invincible!”

  Before Danton’s voice fell, Brissot and the others had already begun to applaud.

  Vergniaud leapt onto the tribune as well. With exaggerated expression, he roared at the crowd: “If there is no equality, no liberty, no support from the people, then we will all wait to die in our graves!”

  Barbaroux spoke next, tears in his eyes, crying out: “Free Marseille will contribute 600 of its finest warriors to revolutionary Paris.” (The origin story of the Marseillaise.)

  And so most Jacobin members began to cheer, shouting in support of the revolutionaries’ speeches. Robespierre was present that night. Though he did not fully agree with the radical course of Danton and Brissot, he also knew he could no longer interfere; he could only let it run its course.

  At noon the next day, Danton returned to the Cordeliers Club and pushed the two clubs into their first joint action. They organized a temporary action committee, constantly sending representatives to Paris’s forty-eight districts and demanding that all Paris unite. The committee also urged the electorate sections to send delegates to the Legislative Assembly to “lobby” Constitutionalists deputies—meaning, in reality, to intimidate them.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  In the end, the great revolutionary procession was still set for June 20.

  June 20 was not only the third anniversary of the Tennis Court Oath; it was also the day Paris’s people gathered to celebrate the Army of the North’s June victory. The Jacobin Club and the Cordeliers Club, the Paris City Hall, and the representatives of Paris’s forty-eight electoral sections would all take part in the day’s commemorations and celebrations.

  One delegation of citizens wrote an open letter to Mayor Pétion, hoping that a Tree of Liberty could be planted in the outer garden of the Tuileries. That was no problem, even though many oak saplings had already been planted around the palace—saplings that would never survive. But the next request startled the Mayor of Paris: thirty-two representatives from the forty-eight sections asked that the City Hall permit them to carry weapons in the street procession.

  Clearly, to obstruct the march would offend the affection of Paris’s people; yet to allow weapons risked a bloodbath. While Pétion hesitated, Roederer, the Chief Provincial Prosecutor of Paris, rushed to the City Hall and, without giving any reason, loudly scolded the Mayor. He demanded that Pétion and the Paris City Hall suppress the next day’s celebration and forbid the people from marching armed.

  After being shouted down so harshly, even the good-tempered Pétion was truly angered. He publicly declared inside the Paris City Hall that “he had no authority to prevent the legitimate actions of free citizens.” Moreover, the Mayor demanded that the National Guard be spread along both sides of the procession to maintain order, and that under no pretext should force be used to suppress the people.

  The conflict between the leaders of the Paris City Hall and the chief of the Paris provincial administration directly produced the disorder of June 20. The American ambassador wrote in his diary: “Tomorrow, there will be a riot!” As a representative of the Army of the North, Suchet—promoted by the War Ministry to lieutenant colonel—felt the same.

  On June 20, the weather was fine and the sunshine bright. If that damned deputy Vergniaud had not dragged him out of bed at dawn, Suchet would have thought it a perfect day to accompany some Comtesse to the Bois de Boulogne for a picnic—and a private dalliance. Yet however unwilling he felt, as the Army of the North’s mascot, he had to obey the Assembly’s orders.

  Suchet described in his diary what happened in Paris on June 20:

  …The first item was the commemoration of the third anniversary of the Tennis Court Oath. The place, of course, was not Versailles tens of kilometers away, but an open space in front of the Manège Hall, where a simple ceremony was held. It was a preserved amusement loved by the deputies in their tricolor sashes. It had nothing to do with ordinary citizens, and the King and Queen certainly would not come. I watched with some difficulty; I yawned constantly and nearly fell asleep.

  Next, Deputy Vergniaud invited me to share a carriage to the Champ de Mars to celebrate the Army of the North’s June victory. Very well—also boring—but I had to perform the duty. As my superior André had said, I was the Army of the North’s mascot, so naturally I had to satisfy the Assembly and the people in all things. Besides, I had already recited that speech draft more than ten times in different public settings in Paris. One more did not matter.

  I must admit that the grand sight of 100,000 Parisians gathered together, cheering and shouting, stirred the blood. Some even cried “Long live Suchet!” which made me blush.

  An officer from the Army of the Rhine, Colonel Pichegru, saw my awkwardness and came to comfort me. “Do not take these useless vanities too seriously. Well—how to put it—today the sans-culottes shout that you should live forever; tomorrow they will hope to send you to the gallows. No, now it has become the guillotine.”

  As he spoke, Colonel Pichegru swept the crowd of more than 100,000 with a look of extreme contempt and told me in a low voice, “Sans-culottes are a pack of violent-tempered, irrational, cruel animals.”

  I could only force a dry laugh at such a sensitive political topic. Yet soon, I experienced exactly what Colonel Pichegru meant.

  Near midday, the celebration had ended, but the grand march through the city had only just begun.

  It must be noted that the march did not begin at the Champ de Mars, but near the former site of the Bastille. Maillard led the unemployed of the Right Bank, carrying a great Tree of Liberty—an oak—intending to plant it before the Tuileries gate. On the way, however, they encountered the Cordeliers crowd under Legendre, who had also dug up a poplar to serve as their own Tree of Liberty.

  As the opposing forces on both banks of the Seine confronted one another, someone proposed a practical suggestion: each side would send champions to fight in the street with bare hands, and the outcome would decide the matter. The brawl proved inconclusive. Soon the two leaders, Maillard and the balding Legendre, held an urgent consultation. The sans-culottes of both banks agreed to march together: they would plant the oak first inside the Manège Hall, and then transplant the poplar to the Tuileries gate.

  By then, Paris’s victory parade had turned into an absurd political farce. Fortunately, the people were still restrained. Though everyone carried spears and long sickles, no serious disturbance broke out. At least, while Colonel Pichegru and I ate lunch and drank coffee in a café on the Rue de Rivoli, we saw no rude conduct—aside from the matter of certain bucket-bearing women being groped, which may be disregarded.

  The turning point came when Roederer, the Chief Provincial Prosecutor of Paris, went to the Legislative Assembly and asked the deputies to order the armed march stopped. Yet the Jacobins opposed it firmly, and the Constitutionalists proposal failed. While the deputies continued to wrangle, 30,000 citizens carrying spears, sickles, and axes, holding banners and flags, had already arrived in the great courtyard of the Manège Hall and shouted to be let in.

  As expected, the demand was flatly refused by the presiding officer. Before they could even water the Tree of Liberty—the oak—the sans-culottes of both banks brandished their weapons and began to sing:

  “Hang the aristocrats from the lampposts!

  The day has come to hang them all!” …

  It was said that at that moment the noble deputies were terrified. The presiding president, himself a marquis, almost begged Brissot and his friends to send these revolutionary crowds out of the Manège Hall and stop them from harassing the representatives of the eighty-three departments.

  Brissot and his circle struggled mightily and finally drove the crowd out of the Assembly’s precinct. The deputies thought the matter finished. Yet an even greater disaster followed.

  Colonel Pichegru and I saw the sans-culottes, driven from the Legislative Assembly, hurry to plant a great poplar before the gate of the Tuileries as their Tree of Liberty.

  Just as onlookers thought the procession would disperse, someone in the crowd suddenly shouted toward the palace: “Death to the veto-man and his wife!” The crowd, which had calmed, surged again. They marched and demonstrated around the palace repeatedly, singing and dancing to “?a Ira.” A full 30,000 people packed the Tuileries tight for more than two hours.

  Clearly, Maillard and Legendre were not wholly reckless. They had noticed that twenty-five companies of the National Guard had been deployed inside the Tuileries in haste (including several companies of the Guards, also within the National Guard), most of them sympathetic to the Constitutionalists. In addition, the King employed twelve companies of Swiss Guards—nearly 5,000 soldiers in all—together with more than thirty cannon.

  Thirty thousand sans-culottes holding cleavers and spears were no match for 5,000 armed soldiers. Neither Maillard nor Legendre wished to see last year’s slaughter on the Champ de Mars repeated.

  Toward four or five in the afternoon, as dusk approached, when everyone seemed at a loss, the western gate of the palace was suddenly opened for reasons unknown. The people cheered and surged forward like floodwater into the Tuileries. They climbed the stairs and pounded on the closed doors on every floor. More than twenty tall sans-culottes, no one knew from where, produced two cannon and carried them in one effort to the doorway of the King’s great study.

  Only afterward did I learn that Colonel Santerre of the National Guard had ordered a corporal to open the western gate, deliberately letting the sans-culottes in—and that the cannon, too, had been provided in secret by the National Guard.

  When Colonel Pichegru saw this, he shook his head in pain and turned away in disappointment. In truth, I wanted to enter the palace out of curiosity, but my superior André had strictly ordered me never, under any circumstances, to approach even one step beyond the palace’s iron railing. Therefore I could not witness the climax of June 20 with my own eyes. Looking back now, it feels a great pity.

  …

  Though Suchet regretted missing the palace scene, Captain Grouchy, commander of the Scottish Company of the Royal Guard, had the fortune to witness in person the shameful acts committed against the royal couple inside the Tuileries.

  Grouchy, the second son of the Marquis of Villette in the outskirts of Paris, was twenty-six years old that year, not yet twenty-seven. He had graduated from the artillery school at Strasbourg, received the rank of artillery lieutenant, and in July 1791, as a noble descendant, was promoted to captain and then joined the newly formed Scottish Company of the Royal Guard (cavalry).

  On June 20, Captain Grouchy was permitted to enter the palace’s main building floors and was assigned to protect the royal couple at close range. In his diary, he described what happened that day:

  Days earlier, when the King ordered the dismissal of the Minister of the Interior and others from the cabinet, we had already foreseen that a terrible disturbance would soon erupt in Paris. For that reason, the Tuileries was placed under heavy guard, inside and out: a total of 5,000 soldiers and thirty cannon were deployed, so that the courtyard and gardens were full of posted troops.

  After noon, I received word while waiting in the officers’ mess that the procession—made up of dismissed former National Guardsmen, invalids, sans-culottes, and women—had arrived at the National Assembly and submitted a petition to the presiding officer of the Legislative Assembly. I heard nothing of any intention to cause trouble at the palace.

  But when I went down to inspect the company, the situation changed. Twenty thousand, thirty thousand, perhaps more, surrounded the Tuileries. The front gallery leading to the gardens was packed with people. Only an ornate iron fence separated them from the palace. I hurried to report to General Mandat that the procession might attempt to storm the palace.

  Yet the commander signaled for me to be at ease. He declared that these ruffians with crude weapons would not dare cross the line, for they faced 5,000 soldiers armed to the teeth and thirty cannon.

  Unfortunately, the general’s words had no effect. The gate was opened. In no time both front and rear gardens were a sea of people. The mob waved spears and sickles. When I tried to return to the cavalry company, the surging crowd blocked me.

  One disheveled, balding sans-culotte looked at me coldly but did nothing. Soon he shouted to the mob behind him: “Let us seize the veto-man and his wife together!”

  I wanted to step forward to stop them, but it was useless. Swept along by these madmen, I was carried up to the second floor. The mob at the front quickly smashed open the door to the King’s study—though afterward it was said the King had ordered the guards to open it.

  Without warning, Louis XVI appeared before the sans-culottes. He placed the guards behind him and stood alone at the doorway, asking calmly, “What do you want?”

  The foremost scoundrels recoiled in fear and stepped back instinctively, but the pressure of the crowd behind drove them forward again. At that moment, a man dressed as a National Guard officer—Colonel Santerre—shouted at the King: “Abolish the veto and recall the patriot ministers!”

  Louis XVI was not afraid. He answered firmly: “Gentlemen, the exercise of the veto and the appointment of ministers are powers granted to me by the constitution. The King is not your enemy, but your friend. My existence is beneficial to France and to the people.”

  I must say: when the King spoke these righteous words, I felt his noble courage and moral perfection. Yet he faced only a mob of scoundrels. They had no patience for argument. They brandished weapons and threatened the King, demanding he renounce the veto. He refused.

  Several grenadiers of the National Guard protected Louis XVI as they fell back step by step, until they reached the corridor outside the room where the Queen, the princess, and the Dauphin were hiding. To protect his family, Louis XVI signaled the two grenadiers beside him to release him, for the King refused to retreat one step further.

  Amid the mob’s shoving and shrieks, the King stepped forward calmly, facing the sharp spearpoints ready to pierce his chest. In the end, the ruffians flinched first and lowered their spears. It was a terrifying sight. As I watched, my heart rose into my throat.

  “Withdraw the veto!” several leaders kept roaring.

  The King remained calm. He stated with measured firmness that everything he did was the sacred duty granted by the constitution, and that his existence served the French nation.

  “Your death would be your greatest service to France!” sneered one ugly wretch.

  The King straightened his chest and stepped forward. “If France needs it,” he said, “I am willing!”

  The room fell silent at once. The mob stared at one another, stunned by the King’s fearless courage. This was not the timid Louis XVI of rumor.

  Soon a balding man broke the silence. He brought a red cap of liberty and handed it to the King. “If you truly believe you can help the nation,” he asked, “then put it on!”

  The King took the filthy red cap without expression and placed it on his head without hesitation.

  Not long afterward, trapped amid the crowd, the King felt hot, thirsty, and short of breath. He asked the onlookers for a cup of water. A half-drunken scoundrel saw the military canteen at my belt and snatched it away. He walked straight up to the King, poured a cup from my canteen, and Louis XVI drank it at once. At once the crowd began to applaud and cheer the King loudly.

  Under Maillard’s direction, a group of rioters rushed from the other side to the room where the Queen, the princess, and the Dauphin were hiding and forced them out. I saw the Queen sheltering the princess and the Dauphin behind the King and the grenadiers. Her face was sorrowful and submissive, yet she remained unbowed.

  A woman came forward and handed the Queen a red cap identical to the King’s. The Queen glanced at her husband, took it silently, placed it on the Dauphin’s head, lifted him up, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the King.

  Maillard laughed. “Madame, you must understand—the people love you far more than you imagine!”

  At some point, Vergniaud, Isnard, and several deputies hurried in to protect the King. They addressed the crowd in order to end the humiliation. When night fell, Mayor Pétion arrived in person. He stood on a chair and spoke to the people, ordering everyone to withdraw quietly. The crowd obeyed.

  These rough and violent sans-culottes had come to demand the sanction of decrees and the restoration of the ministers. They insulted and threatened the King, but did not bend him. Even when he was forced into a corner, wearing the red cap and drinking on command, he still refused to sanction the decrees or recall the ministers he no longer trusted.

  June 20 was, in the end, a day of danger without bloodshed. The King did not yield; the Queen did not yield; and the palace did not run with blood. Yet I was unfortunate. Somehow, some bastard denounced me, claiming that I had provided the canteen and thus forced the King into the extreme humiliation of drinking water handed over by the mob.

  Two days later, General Mandat stripped me of all duties. All explanations were useless. Fortunately, my sister’s lover, Marquis de Condorcet, learned of my predicament and gave me a letter of introduction, sending me to the Lille camp two hundred kilometers away, to report to Plenipotentiary André of the Army of the North.

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  Coming up in the read-ahead chapters: Lafayette is about to be dragged into a brutal political struggle in Paris—and the fallout will reshape everything around André.