At dawn on August tenth.

  Wearing only blue shorts, André stood at the bedroom window and suddenly noticed that the rising sun, driving away the gray dawn haze, looked unnaturally red. In truth, André had barely slept all night. He had remained in the study, receiving intelligence through multiple channels—from the insurrectionary commune, the Tuileries, the Legislative Assembly, and the Military Intelligence Office.

  By four o’clock in the morning, the spear units of all forty-eight Paris sections had joined the uprising. The General Police Office declared neutrality, and the volunteer troops smoothly took control of Paris City Hall and other key organs of government. At that moment, apart from the Palais des Tuileries—still the Bourbon dynasty’s last fortress, already surrounded by 30,000 armed people—Paris as a whole had completely fallen into the hands of the insurgents.

  Only then did André let out a long breath. He returned to the bedroom and slept for two or three hours. At seven o’clock, the gendarmerie’s assembly bugle sounded again, and André was shaken awake by his aide outside the door. As the rotating presiding officer, he had to reach the assembly hall before eight.

  On a day as special as this, he had to soothe the jittery deputies and prevent them from fleeing in panic the moment they heard gunfire and cannon from the palace next door. If the number of deputies fell below three hundred, the consequences would be grave.

  As one of André’s most important bargaining chips in Paris, the National Legislative Assembly would bear the political responsibility of checking—indeed, restraining—the Paris Commune and the Jacobins. If the assembly dissolved automatically, or if it were simply manipulated by the Jacobins and the Cordeliers, André’s standing in the balance of power would suffer a sharp loss. Even if he did not intend to keep the assembly’s banner raised for long, he still meant to sell it to the Robespierre–Danton faction at a good price.

  …

  From six in the morning onward, the old bridge, the new bridge, and the recently completed Pont de Vend?me (the Bridge of Liberty) were all jammed tight by northbound spear units. As André’s rowing boat passed under the arches, every bridge deck above remained a dense, brawling crowd. Many people sang revolutionary songs about hanging nobles again and again; the spears and bayonets they held glinted in the sun.

  When André entered the assembly hall, every deputy rose as one, removed his hat, applauded, and then cheered. The uproar was like a royal session in the days of Louis XIV. André understood perfectly: the deputies now regarded him as their only protector. Otherwise, whether it was the King’s court guard or an undisciplined mob, someone would happily kill a few deputies they disliked.

  As he walked, André observed quietly. He soon noticed that most of those still present were obscure figures. Beyond fear and habit, there was another reason: these holdouts wanted to sign in every day so they could collect the generous daily allowance of eighteen livres.

  Once he reached the dais, the first thing André did was declare, in his capacity as rotating presiding officer, that August tenth would be a “special sitting day” for the Legislative Assembly.

  Under the relevant rules, on a “special sitting day” the assembly hall would be closed to the public: no journalists or ticket-holding spectators would be admitted. However, a limited number of observer seats would be retained for the Palais de Justice, the Paris Commune (City Hall), the provincial commune (the administrative hall), and the National Guard. It should be noted that President André refused to reserve any seats at all for the Tuileries.

  No deputy objected to the proposal. Everyone knew that tens of thousands of armed Parisians had already surrounded the Tuileries before sunrise, with barely a wall between palace and assembly. Every sign suggested that a bloody battle was unavoidable.

  Before long, when the rotating presiding officer rang the small brass bell again, he announced the second measure: all deputies seated on the side closest to the palace were to move to benches on the opposite side. Shortly afterward, guided by two “swallowtails” in formal dress—police—more than ten workmen appeared from the upper gallery, carrying large iron plates. They hammered and clanged for quite some time, adding an extra layer of protective iron over the eastern glass windows.

  Third, André advised all deputies not to leave the building freely until the day’s events were settled. If urgent business arose, they could entrust it to the gendarmes outside to coordinate. As for lunch, dinner, and afternoon tea, the rotating presiding officer had made full arrangements. Naturally, the cost would be deducted from the deputies’ generous allowances.

  “…

  “Fourth, I propose restoring Colonel Santerre’s rank and post, and promoting him to brigadier general of the National Guard, to replace the unfortunate General Mandat as the new commander of the Paris National Guard… hmm, carried.

  “Fifth, the Paris Commune has sent representatives to submit an application to the National Assembly, requesting recognition of its central committee’s legality… hmm, carried.

  “Sixth, the Paris Commune requests that the National Assembly, effective immediately, suspend all powers and status held by Louis XVI (Louis Capet) as King of France… hmm, carried.

  “Seventh, the Paris Commune requests that the National Assembly pass legislation to hunt down and arrest all non-juring clergy, as well as all nobles and other elements who endanger the Revolution and refuse cooperation… oh, not carried.

  “Eighth, …”

  On the dais, President André accepted one motion after another from the clerks below and barked through them with casual indifference. Meanwhile, the debate hall had become unnervingly quiet. All the noise now came from the Tuileries next door.

  Every deputy seemed to have fallen under some dreadful spell, reduced to a mindless voting machine, like a puppet without a will. Whenever President André asked a leading question in favor of a motion, the chamber responded with a unanimous chorus of assent; whenever his tone implied disapproval, the motion was immediately rejected. The efficiency of the voting was so astonishing that it left everyone stunned.

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  Brissot and his friends exchanged glances, anxious and troubled. The blunt Guadet even wanted to jump up and shout a protest at the dais, or to accuse the rotating presiding officer of dictatorship and tyranny, but Brissot and Vergniaud held him tightly back.

  “Extraordinary times—don’t be rash,” the others whispered to Guadet.

  They were indeed extraordinary times. If they openly broke with André, he could simply have the gendarmes stationed in The Manège Hall kill a batch of deputies, then pin all responsibility on the mob units or the palace guard.

  Thinking of this, Brissot’s circle began to regret their earlier efforts to keep André in Paris, and to wonder whether it had been wise. In any case, Plenipotentiary Gensonné had already succeeded in taking control of the Army of the Moselle on the Rhine line, including half of the former central Moselle grouping; there was no need to worry excessively that André would become a dictator over the Army of the North.

  …

  When the first light of August tenth fell upon the Palais des Tuileries, the palace walls were already ringed by a black sea of sans-culottes. Men and women alike waved their weapons: bayoneted muskets, spears, sabers, sickles, axes, rows upon rows of “holy” pitchforks, and soot-blackened clubs.

  Behind them came the newly arrived crowds, surging forward in a crush. The front ranks were terrified and shouted warnings backward, but it did no good. They could only keep shaking the damned cast-iron gate and roaring toward the palace terrace:

  “Death to the King!” “Long live the nation!” “Let us in to kill the tyrant!”

  Soon, volunteers from Marseille arrived as reinforcements. Their leading strongman with black skin began to sing “La Marseillaise.”

  Thank God—this time he finally remembered the words.

  From that moment on, the sans-culottes besieging the Tuileries began to keep order among themselves. There was no more shoving and no more mutual abuse; all voices merged into that passionate revolutionary melody.

  By eight o’clock, the courtiers who had once sworn to rescue the royal couple from danger had all retreated into the palace and did not dare show themselves. Some even disguised themselves, preparing to slip out through a small door toward the National Assembly. The Swiss mercenaries were mostly steady; they gripped their rifles and ignored the threats and curses outside. Perhaps the overly imposing red uniform of the Swiss concealed the fear in the hearts of the Alpine men.

  As thirty thousand, forty thousand, or more surged around the palace, Marshal Maillé de La Tour-Landry ordered the outermost three thousand National Guards to counterattack at once—to use cannon, musket volleys, and bayonets to drive the rabble beyond the Rue de la Tuilerie.

  But no one answered the command. Since General Mandat, who had gone out, had sent no message at all, several colonels and lieutenant colonels responsible for directing the Guard held a brief conference among themselves and then refused the old marshal’s order.

  “Forgive us, Marshal. Unless Commander Mandat issues the order in person, we cannot fire upon French soldiers who wear the same blue uniform.” That was the formal reply from the palace National Guard.

  In fact, half an hour earlier, more than two thousand volunteers arriving from the northern outskirts had already deployed twelve cannon and successfully blocked the approach from the Carrousel square.

  The old marshal was nearly driven to spit blood with rage. At that moment, under the cover of a small detachment of palace guards, Roederer, the Chief Provincial Prosecutor of Paris, finally fought his way out from the blades and bayonets and the thunder of roaring voices. Through a side door to the southwest, he entered the Tuileries.

  Inside the palace hall, an attendant approached and told the Chief Provincial Prosecutor that his wig had slipped, his cravat was loose, and the buttons on his shoes had come undone; he must put his appearance in order before he could be admitted to see His Majesty.

  “Damn you! If you do not let me in, it will not be my appearance that needs arranging—it will be Their Majesties’ corpses!” Roederer barked. The attendant recoiled two steps, then collapsed onto the floor.

  In the great study on the second floor, the King and Queen held their two children tightly in their arms. Their faces were written over with fear and disaster. Two minutes earlier, the Chief Provincial Prosecutor had reported that General Mandat was dead—killed by the insurrectionary commune led by Danton on the steps of City Hall. In short, their only reinforcement was gone.

  At first, Roederer had urged Louis XVI to review the troops to raise the defenders’ morale. But they quickly discovered that the five hundred loyal courtiers had dwindled to less than one third; those who remained were drowning their fear in drink. The Swiss were dutiful enough, but nine hundred men were far too few to matter against tens of thousands.

  And the last three thousand National Guards, upon hearing of Mandat’s death, grew hesitant and fearful, with no desire to turn grief into resolve. When the King and the Chief Provincial Prosecutor passed among them, an artillery battalion and a grenadier battalion were the first to turn. Officers and soldiers alike refused to salute the King; they would not shout “Long live the King!” but instead cried, “Long live the nation!”

  One bold officer even rushed forward with drawn sword and shouted at Louis XVI, “Tyrant, we will never fire cannon or muskets at our own brothers and sisters!”

  With that, the artillery officer ordered the gunners to swing their pieces around and aim the muzzles at the palace itself. In grim harmony with the crowds outside the walls, they sang “La Marseillaise” again and again.

  …

  “Your Majesty, we must withdraw from the palace at once. On this point, do not hesitate for a moment.” After fleeing back inside in disarray, Roederer bowed his head and begged the King and Queen.

  But Queen Marie opposed him. She insisted, “We still have soldiers to defend the palace, and we still have the strength to fight the mob to the death!”

  Roederer reminded her in a low voice, “Your Majesty, all Paris is marching here to kill its way into the palace. We are not only fighting the thirty thousand in front of us—we are fighting the six hundred thousand Parisians behind them. If we continue to resist, it will be a massacre that cannot be won. I ask Your Majesty the Queen to be responsible—to the King, to yourself, and to the safety of the Dauphin and the Princess.”

  “God save me.” Queen Marie fell to her knees in prayer.

  Roederer turned his gaze to the King and pressed on. “Sire, time is short. We must move to The Manège Hall and seek the assembly’s protection.”

  But before he could finish, an aide whom he had sent earlier to the Legislative Assembly rushed back and thrust a letter into Roederer’s hands.

  “Chief Provincial Prosecutor, President André has just refused our request for refuge!” The young man wiped sweat from his brow without stopping.

  “Why? Is he not André—the man who keeps his word above all?” Roederer was first astonished, and then furious. Only days earlier, André had personally agreed to his request, saying he would provide political asylum to the royal family in a crisis.

  The aide’s face went red as he hurried to explain. “Chief Provincial Prosecutor, President André did not break his word. He is only dissatisfied with how you address the King and Queen. A quarter of an hour ago, the National Assembly approved the Paris Commune’s request and, effective immediately, suspended all powers and status held by Louis XVI as King of France. Therefore, there can only be the names Louis Capet and Marie Antoinette now.”