As the Jacobins’ various factions joined forces and launched a sweeping counteroffensive against the Constitutionalists, the anniversary celebrations for the third Festival of the Federation were also unfolding across France in full fervor. By July 14, most of the fédéré contingents had already gathered in Paris. Yet even after the ceremony began, the provincial “armies of pikes” continued to file into the capital in an unending stream.

  It must be noted that the last contingent to arrive would not reach the outskirts of Paris until July 30: the Marseille volunteers. In all, there were five hundred and seventeen “Romans” from the Mediterranean—men of a different stock from the northern Germanic type—black-haired and black-eyed, sun-darkened in skin yet hot in spirit, ragged in dress yet high in resolve.

  Not long afterward, the brave men of Marseille would bring revolutionary Paris a great gift: . This forceful battle melody and revolutionary hymn, composed by an engineer Captain (Rouget), would become France’s greatest piece of music—and, for a time, one of the greatest in all Europe—and would be sung for more than two centuries.

  As the Legislative Assembly’s newest appointee as Security Commandant for the Festival of the Federation, Lieutenant General André Franck was authorized, throughout July and the first days of August (in reality, no more than about thirty days), to command all armed forces within Paris, including the militias. General Mandat and General Menou of the Paris National Guard would serve as his deputies.

  “Security Commandant” sounded intimidating, but it did not carry much practical power. Instead, every kind of disorderly problem was pushed onto his desk and demanded to be solved. The one advantage was that André could, with full legitimacy, assign himself a gendarmerie cavalry detachment of five hundred—something almost necessary for a man who, in truth, was close to a commander without troops. Of course, the ill-disciplined riffraff in Paris that refused to take orders was beneath André’s notice. Thus, the light cavalry—wearing conspicuous tall shako-style caps with visors, a red armband wrapped around the right arm, and an air of bold confidence—could only come from the gendarmerie headquarters in Reims.

  From mid-July onward, as usual, eighty-three Trees of Liberty were planted around the Champ de Mars—of which, it was estimated, half would not survive to the next month. In the center of the field stood a gigantic Tree of Liberty built from planks, cardboard, glue, and nails. Its branches were hung with noble coats of arms, hereditary badges, and family pedigrees—symbols of every kind of inequality—reserved, as always, for the bonfire, where all of it would be reduced to ashes.

  Across the Champ de Mars, neat and handsome tents were erected in rows, replacing the former air of shabby discouragement. This was the result of Commandant André’s “good wishes,” paid for by donations from the many dignitaries gathered in Paris—gifts returned to the fédéré contingents from the provinces, who were afterward permitted to take them home freely.

  As repayment to the donors, the capital’s Security Commandant began, on his first day, to set about restoring order in the city’s streets and alleys, tightening public security throughout the districts. Under André’s orders, patrolmen and National Guard units coordinated to send hundreds upon hundreds of long-rampant ruffians—men who bullied merchants and preyed upon the streets—to hard labor in the quarries.

  Before long, public order in Paris improved visibly. It would be an exaggeration to say that nothing was ever lost in the streets or that doors were never bolted at night, but the crime rate did fall to its lowest level since the outbreak of the Revolution. Even the persecuted non-juring priests were able to breathe again. The most notorious agitator, Marat, and his frenzied followers—Chaumette and Hébert among them—quieted down, not daring to challenge General André’s authority openly.

  Soon, however, rumors began to spread again. Many accused André of purging opponents in Paris, striking at dissenters both openly and in secret, and scheming to impose a dictatorship. Others claimed that André had secretly gone over to the Bourbon court, because the escaped Princesse élisabeth had supposedly been released by André’s hand. Before long, someone declared publicly that he had seen the Army of the North moving troops south and that it would arrive in Paris within a day or two to carry out a massacre. Some went further still, reading aloud in public the “purge list” that the future military dictator had allegedly drafted long ago—names upon it including Brissot, Vergniaud, Danton, Robespierre, Marat, and others.

  Faced with this flood of rumor and slander, André, unusually, kept silent and offered no rebuttal at all. When the Assembly sent men to inquire about the matter, he submitted his resignation with decisive speed, declaring that he would no longer serve as this thankless commander of the city’s defenses. Yet one hour later, his resignation was rejected in the Assembly hall, and he was informed that he must fulfill the duties of Security Commandant until the night of August 5.

  At a villa on the ?le Saint-Louis, Thuriot (a deputy of the Legislative Assembly), Blanc Deyo (editor-in-chief of ), Perrier (president of the United Commercial Bank), and Javert (deputy director-general of the Paris Police Bureau) raised their glasses to celebrate André’s escape from this not-insignificant political crisis.

  André drained his champagne in one swallow and said with a smile, “Gentlemen, you understand now why I do not wish to remain in Paris of my own accord. Three years ago I said it plainly: this is a city that is impatient, licentious, lacking in endurance, and unwilling to obey order. I have merely brought five hundred gendarmes into Paris, and rumors rise at once. From the royalists who support the court, to the nobles of the Constitutionalists who have already lost power, and even within the Jacobin camp—those ‘comrades’ who appear so intimate—almost everyone is hoping that I, André, will come to grief.”

  Unfortunately for their enemies, André and his confidants had prepared for this long ago. Whenever a “true lie” arrived, even more absurd and fantastic rumors would be released into the streets, leaving people unable to judge what was real. As rumor piled upon rumor, growing more and more implausible, the makers of the original lie would find themselves with no way to proceed. Only then would André strike at the root, forcing the Legislative Assembly and the Jacobins alike to restore his good name once more.

  Thuriot nodded and continued along the subject. “The very fact that the Legislative Assembly reset the final deadline for your office shows that you have already lost the trust of Brissot and his circle.”

  André laughed. “Not only Brissot. My two former friends—Danton and Robespierre—likely had a hand in this grand carnival of rumor as well. As for Marat and his people, they spread the least.”

  Javert stepped forward to report, “General Menou has also been making frequent appearances in Madame Roland’s salon these last days. However, Mayor Pétion of the City Hall and Prosecutor Manuel have certainly not been involved.”

  André turned his gaze toward Blanc Deyo and said to the Jew, “When I leave Paris again, I advise to reduce its scale here in Paris and prepare for the coming two-year winter. You as well must protect yourself. If the moment turns ill, leave at once and flee to Reims, or to territory under the Army of the North.”

  Then he said to Perrier, “The relocation of the head office—the sooner it is finished, the better. Once you lose the shelter of me and the army, both the newspaper and the bank will become a playground for the mob.”

  …

  On July 14, the Champ de Mars lay under bright sunshine, and the crowds were dense. Yet the so-called Festival of the Federation, at least in André’s eyes, lacked any scene worth praise. André and more than six hundred other deputies did not see the King, Louis XVI, arrive alone until the very end of afternoon tea. Queen Marie, the Princesses, and the Dauphin were all kept in the palace, said to be unwell. Who could believe that?

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  Madame de Sta?l emerged from the royal tent, looking about anxiously for her lover, General Narbonne, who had resigned from the Army of Moselle (the central army group).

  With tears in her eyes and despair on her face, she said to her lover, “Comte, I truly fear the King will be swept away by the mob that welcomes him, and will not survive. Just now I saw that he was wearing a breastplate beneath his waistcoat—and that he even had a pistol hidden inside, perhaps already loaded. My God, how has France become this?”

  General Narbonne patted her shoulder as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. He pointed toward the deputies’ seats and comforted her in a low voice. “My dear, do not fear. André has guaranteed to me the King’s absolute safety. Look—he has deployed five hundred gendarmes around the King to prevent anyone from coming too close.”

  “But he is also one of the Jacobins,” Madame de Sta?l whispered, reminding the kind-hearted Narbonne.

  The Comte looked unconcerned. “Remember this: André is the most faithful Jacobin to his word. At least until August 5—until he formally leaves his post—the mob will not storm the Tuileries again.”

  “And after that?” Madame de Sta?l pressed.

  “There is no ‘after that,’ my dear. Before August 5, we shall be far from Paris and far from France. Yes—Britain.” Comte de Narbonne tightened his grip on one of Madame de Sta?l’s hands and spoke with excitement.

  After the King, the deputies, and the representatives of the fédérés took their turns at the Altar of the Fatherland and completed the oath to the nation, another solemn ceremony followed: the declaration that the French fatherland was in danger.

  Mayor Pétion, Prosecutor Manuel, and the entire body of officials of the Paris City Hall, each wearing tricolour sashes, began a grand political procession under the joint witness of the King and the Assembly. In response, the booming of cannon—and, at intervals, volleys of musket fire—echoed above the Champ de Mars for the whole day.

  Amid the unceasing gunfire, the gendarmerie rode on horseback; the officials wore their sashes; behind them marched representatives of the provincial fédérés, waving long banners of every kind with great effort. On one great flag held high by the Paris volunteers was written, with bleak solemnity: “Citizens, the fatherland is in danger!”

  They departed from the Champ de Mars and, to mournful music along the route, crossed the Pont Neuf and wound through the streets and alleys of Paris. Usually, every two hours, an orderly dispatched by André would choose a resting point so that the procession could pause briefly. After fifteen minutes, they would move on again, delivering their revolutionary message to every Parisian.

  As Security Commandant of Paris, Lieutenant General André had the right to issue orders from a four-wheeled carriage. But after hours beneath the blazing sun, he looked listless and languid. Fortunately, a quick-witted Captain-adjutant brought him a bottle of chilled champagne. After half of it was gone, Commandant André finally returned to full vigor.

  Under wave after wave of mournful staging, the Parisians’ feverish patriotism flared once more, and they surged, as if by one impulse, toward the recruiting points across the city. Each was a large open-air tent, with pikes and red caps fixed atop it, and within stood a long wooden table for signatures, beside a clerk’s thick register. The patriots shoved forward in a scramble and wrote their names upon the roll with solemnity. Those who could not write pressed two little red marks with thumb and forefinger, and the clerk signed for them.

  A young man who had just been accepted declared with pounding emotion, “My name is bound up with blood and life. They will follow me, and I will offer them to the fatherland of France! But I wish to give more.”

  Those who were rejected—because they were too young, too old, too short, or physically unfit—broke into sobs. André saw a father arrive with his five sons to enlist, while the mother followed close behind in silence, tears in her eyes.

  Suddenly, André said to his intelligence officer, “In my name, send an order to the Paris recruiting officers: any only son in a household is forbidden to enlist; and the youngest son among brothers, whether of age or not, must remain at home. Yes—bring it to me for signature. Good. Issue it at once.”

  Even after night fell, endless lines still stood outside the recruiting tents. By the order of General André, every recruit would be issued three days’ rations and would march by company to the new training camp at Soissons, one hundred and thirty kilometers away. Those who failed to arrive by the deadline would be struck off.

  Only after the recruits endured three months of strict training—or torment—under their instructors would they be assigned to the battalions and regiments at the front. After they learned to function in formation, they could be sent into battle. As for the most capable among them, instructors would select them and send them to the Bacourt camp for the training of probationary non-commissioned officers.

  Although these rules met fierce opposition, the acting commander of the Army of the North, General Berthier, upheld Sir André’s intent and remained firm. Berthier even declared openly that the rebuilt Army of the North would accept only those who met its standards: they were to fight for victory. Men of bad conduct, those who refused to obey their superiors, or those whose “free thinking” ran rampant would be singled out and eliminated by the instructors.

  Fortunately, the expanding Army of the Rhine and the newly formed Army of the Alps needed large numbers of recruits. None of the unlucky men eliminated by the Army of the North would lack a destination.

  …

  On July 29, after more than two weeks of meticulous investigation and strict collection of evidence, the Military Committee of the National Legislative Assembly voted to confirm that the charge of conspiracy and incitement to rebellion against General Lafayette and General Kléber was not established, and that there was no need to transfer the matter to a court-martial. However, both men had committed disciplinary violations: dereliction of duty, and leaving their posts without notice. Thereupon, as executive secretary, André proposed that Lafayette and Kléber be exiled to the North American colony of New Orleans, or to the French Caribbean colonies. If family members accompanied them, the term of exile could be reduced from fifteen years to seven.

  On the morning of August 1, the five hundred and seventeen daring Marseille volunteers, after twenty-five days of marching and more than one thousand kilometers on the road, finally entered Paris. In fact, the men of Marseille had reached the outskirts on the afternoon of July 30. Patriots led by Barbaroux and Santerre rushed out beyond the walls to welcome these dust-covered brothers from the Mediterranean. They embraced, ate and drank together, exchanged new blue uniforms and tricolour sashes, and in the end Colonel Santerre—who paid the bill—gathered a thick stack of receipts, preparing to seek reimbursement from his “boss” André tomorrow.

  In André’s view, the entry of the Marseille volunteers was neither as grand nor as imposing as later legend claimed. The Parisians, after nearly a month of noise from the provincial fédérés, were largely indifferent. The “War Song of the Rhine” sung by the men of Marseille was itself halting and without rhythm—despite nearly a week of practice on the road—while the Reims gendarmerie who welcomed them sang it best. Yet the next day, nonetheless called this song—still unfamiliar to most Parisians—“the Marseillaise.”

  By regulation, as the representative of the Jacobin Club, Vergniaud embraced the brothers of the Marseille section warmly at the former site of the Bastille. Mayor Pétion and Prosecutor Manuel received the southern warriors at the Paris City Hall. General André placed the camp prepared for the five hundred and seventeen Marseille officers and men to the north of Paris, thus avoiding, on that day, the bloody clash that occurred in another world between the men of Marseille and the guards of the Tuileries.

  It was also on this day that Lafayette, Kléber, Larive (the dismissed judge), Barnave, the Lameth brothers, and Narbonne (the last few being voluntary exiles), together with their families or lovers—key pillars of the constitutional monarchists—were escorted by the Reims gendarmerie onto a merchant ship bound for the port of Le Havre at the mouth of the Seine. There they would transfer to a refitted ocean-going passenger vessel and sail toward another world at the far end of the Atlantic.

  Three days later, as the merchant ship prepared to leave Le Havre, Lafayette returned to his cabin. He opened a parcel that a gendarmerie officer had quietly handed him before disembarking. Inside were the two confidential letters—evidence—André had promised to return, along with several cash cheques issued by the United Commercial Bank, with a total value of more than 3,000,000 livres.

  At that moment, Lafayette’s wife came to his side, glanced at it casually, and then, astonished, began to chatter. “1,080,000 livres—this is what that insatiable André extorted from our household, saying it was the price to restore your freedom… Yes, of course. Kléber’s family is 450,000 livres, Judge Larive’s family is 380,000 livres, and…”

  Faced with André’s series of pranks, Lafayette could not help but laugh and sigh at once. Yet he understood perfectly well that this was the greatest help his Jacobin friend could offer to him and to his family.

  At the very bottom of the parcel lay a sheet of white paper. On it was written a single line in a familiar hand:

  “Farewell, General of the White Horse!”

  Lafayette smiled through tears. On the day he left Paris, André must have been standing somewhere, silently bidding him goodbye.