Since the tax commission remained stalled in endless wrangling, the special tax court could not be formally established. Thus, in the days that followed, André felt no guilt drawing his 4,000 livres annual salary while remaining, ostensibly, idle at home.
The recruitment and training of the mounted tax brigade had been delegated to professionals like Hoche and Augereau. André's visible responsibilities were limited to liaison with the upper ranks of the police hierarchy. Of course, this was but the surface. Behind the scenes, the tax prosecutor continued collecting evidence against the tax-farm syndicates, instructing Inspector Javert to make preliminary deployments across Paris. When the time was right, he would play his trump card.
Sixty million to a hundred million livres—that was the tax revenue André had promised the nation's decision-makers during committee hearings. When the fiscal deficit for the second and third quarters climbed to fresh historic heights, when bond discounts reached 8% or even 10%, and when Necker, thoroughly discredited, was forced to retreat to Geneva, the resulting crisis would compel the National Assembly to reconsider André's proposals.
One early summer afternoon, just after lunch, André—drowsy and preparing for his customary nap—was interrupted by a knock at the door. Upon receiving permission to enter, a young man stepped inside. He was short, bookish, and carried a leather briefcase under his arm. He introduced himself as Charles Ouvrard, an agent for the Paris stock exchange, sent by none other than Monsieur Legendre.
"A twenty-year-old broker?" André arched a brow. That was impossible.
By regulation, all brokers at the Paris Exchange were appointed by the Ministry of Finance: 99 in total, with 71 in Paris and 8 in the provinces. Brokers had to be at least 35 years old, from respectable families, and with spotless legal records. In practice, many inherited the title from their fathers.
André's voice was dry with irony. "I assume your father is the actual broker—Old Ouvrard, is he not?"
"No, sir, that would be my elder brother," the young man replied. "There are three of us. My eldest brother inherited the brokerage license from our father. My second brother now works in London, also in finance. As for me, I study law at the Sorbonne, and only handle errands for my brother in my spare time—mostly to cover tuition."
André smiled faintly. He did not believe for a moment that a part-time law student had come all this way simply to introduce himself. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Surely Monsieur Legendre has already made my investment amounts and preferences clear. Is there something further you need from me?"
Ouvrard waved his hands quickly. "No, no, not that. I'm here today to propose a different investment. One that promises, quite literally, a thousandfold return."
Only monopoly or plunder could offer such returns.
"Go on," André said, reclining in the armchair. Boredom, more than curiosity, prompted him to listen. He gestured for the young man to sit.
"Franck, sir—surely you're familiar with the assignats issued by the Treasury late last year?" Ouvrard leaned forward, his voice earnest. "I've studied this financial instrument in detail, and I believe it is on the cusp of becoming the de facto paper currency forcibly imposed by our deficit-ridden government. The naive Monsieur Necker imagines that printing paper backed by confiscated church property will resolve the crisis—when in fact, it is utter lunacy. A grave and dangerous mistake. What we're witnessing is nothing less than a banker's government waging economic war on private citizens."
Surprisingly, André agreed with every word. That, in fact, had always been the assignat's true nature.
Back in December, the initial issuance had been 40 million livres. By March, the face value had already doubled to 80 million. And within months, it would be 200 million, a billion, ten billion—until finally the printing presses could no longer keep up with the rate of devaluation. The assignats would collapse into worthless scraps, not even fit for wrapping fish.
In truth, much of the promise of revolutionary France had already been squandered by men like Necker. The careless expansion of the assignats and the lack of meaningful oversight had enabled a swarm of speculators to drain the wealth of the French people—twenty-five million strong—right out from under them. As the notes lost value, inflation surged. Bread became unaffordable. Civil unrest loomed.
But André had to ask himself—what did any of this truly have to do with him?
Even if he joined the National Assembly's finance committee or became the chief adviser to the Ministry, he could not change the fundamental structure. The rot was systemic.
Oblivious to André's thoughts, Ouvrard pressed on. "Yet sometimes, sir, what is rotten can be turned into gold. In my view, assignats present an exceptional opportunity. Here in Paris, Necker's regime has artificially capped their depreciation at roughly 10%. But in London, on the open exchange, the discount has reached as high as 30%."
As he spoke, the young man pulled a hand-drawn spreadsheet from his leather case and laid it on the table before André. It was covered in numbers and symbols, dense with calculation.
"To put it plainly," he said, "disregarding transaction fees, I can purchase 114 livres in assignats on the London market for 100 livres in silver. By contrast, the same 100 livres would only buy 111 assignats here in Paris. But with my brother's support in London, I can secure a leveraged loan of five to eight times the principal—compared to only threefold here in France. Even using the lowest multiplier, five to one, I could turn 100 silver livres into 715 livres in assignats via the London exchange."
André scoffed, unimpressed. "And what would I do with 715 livres in ever-depreciating assignats?"
He already had a rough idea of where this was going—but decided to let the man continue.
"Ah—but you forget, Monsieur André," Ouvrard said quickly, seizing on the opportunity. "Assignats are backed by church property. When used to purchase such property, the face value must be honoured by the state. One can exchange them directly for land, buildings, vineyards, granaries—whatever the auction list contains."
He straightened, eyes shining now.
"Here's the key: the law requires only a 10% down payment to secure church property, with the remainder payable over three to six months. So—715 livres in assignats, acquired via five-to-one leverage, require only 10% upfront. That means you could control 7,150 livres worth of land… with only 100 livres in silver. Even after interest, fees, and other costs, the profit margin holds steady at around 1 to 40."
"One to forty…" André murmured. "So ten thousand becomes four hundred thousand. Fifty thousand becomes… two million."
Unwittingly, André found himself drifting once more between centuries—listening, half-amused, to a young financial peddler describe a scheme that, for all its complexity, bore the same hollow rhythm of pitches he'd heard in a very different life.
But unlike those long-winded frauds of his previous world, this scheme had teeth. Messy? Yes. Multi-layered? Certainly. Yet the raw returns—fortyfold profits—were monstrous. A part of him whispered: Is it too much? Is it too ruthless? Was he truly about to gouge the financial underbelly of the French Republic with such shameless precision?
He looked up and interrupted. "Why me?"
Ouvrard flushed, lowering his gaze. "Because no one else would listen. Not even my brother."
Of course. Who in their right mind would entrust fifty thousand livres to a university student, barely out of adolescence, to gamble on financial speculation? If André hadn't been armed with the unfair advantage of foreknowledge—of precisely how the assignat frenzy and church asset auctions would make fortunes for a select few—this conversation would have ended ten minutes ago.
He leaned back, fingertips pressed together. "Suppose I agree. Where would you recommend we invest?"
The young man's eyes lit up at once. A bright, eager smile broke across his face, flashing immaculate white teeth. "At first glance, Paris seems ideal—high returns, quick flips—but also dangerously volatile. The mood on the streets is unpredictable. The hungry are easily provoked. Instead, I recommend Bordeaux or Champagne. Both regions are famed for their wine, red and white. The Church owns vast vineyards and wine cellars in both provinces. These will be in high demand. Once we subdivide the estates into smaller lots, we can list them for resale almost immediately."
André raised his brow, privately impressed. The boy had sharp instincts. Very sharp.
Even now—over two centuries later—much of the vineyard land in Bordeaux and Reims remained in the hands of private growers whose ancestors had first acquired it during the revolutionary auctions between 1790 and 1795. Church property had once accounted for roughly 15% of all land in France. In Champagne, especially along the Marne river upstream from the Seine, the concentration was even higher: up to 60% of vineyards and winemaking estates in and around Reims were held by ecclesiastical institutions.
Ever since arriving in this world, André had dreamed of tapping into this motherlode. He had no illusions about playing the moralist—he was here to win. But until now, he had lacked the means.
Today, the conditions had aligned: nearly 100,000 livres in capital, enough political sway to move unnoticed, and now a broker with the audacity—and perhaps the desperation—to execute such an operation.
Besides, if he didn't do it, someone else would. Why let the monks have all the fun?
From the conspirator's view, if the French financial system wasn't broken enough, it was his duty to break it further. Only by creating chaos—by making Necker's defenders fall—could he hope to remind the Assembly that somewhere out there, a just and diligent tax prosecutor was still waiting to serve.
André stood, walked to the drinks cabinet, and withdrew two crystal glasses. He uncorked a bottle of 1777 Bordeaux—deep red and impeccably aged—and poured it without ceremony. One glass he handed to his new partner.
"Then we have a deal," he said quietly. "To a most profitable future."
"To our success," replied Ouvrard.
The glasses met with a soft chime. They drank.
And then, like seasoned schemers, they got to work.
…
An hour later, having reviewed the asset authorization documents one final time, André signed each in turn and pressed his personal seal into the warm wax. The papers were binding, discreetly executed, and carried the full weight of private enterprise backed by public position.
As agreed, Ouvrard would depart for London within the week, to rendezvous with his brother at the Exchange and prepare the assignat-leveraging operation from across the Channel. By mid-June, he was to board a vessel directly bound for the Gironde region in southwestern France. Bordeaux awaited him—a city whose vineyards masked fortunes waiting to be unbottled.
André, meanwhile, had his own timetable. Once the first round of training for the mounted patrol was completed, he would travel to Bordeaux in late June, this time not merely as an investor, but in his official capacity as the Chief Prosecutor of the Fiscal Tribunal. There, he would conduct a state-sanctioned inspection of local tax administration, under the banner of judicial oversight. It was an advantageous pretext, perfectly suited for surveying property markets and legal archives without arousing suspicion.
Some titles, though ceremonial in appearance, held sharp, real authority. As fiscal prosecutor, André had the legal right to investigate any tax-related matter within the borders of France, to issue search warrants, and to detain suspects for questioning. His detentions, while revocable by judges, nonetheless carried the chill of imminent prosecution. And though the special tax tribunal had yet to be formally constituted—pending appointments by the Assembly and the Chancellery—it was only a matter of time before his reach extended from inquiry to sentencing.
Serendipity played its part too. Just days prior, the district court in Bordeaux had submitted an official request to the Paris Chancellery for assistance on a cross-regional tax investigation. It was the opening André had been waiting for.
He slipped the final document into its envelope, sealed it, and poured the remainder of his wine.
"Oh—André, one more thing," Ouvrard said while gathering the stack of folders. "I recall Monsieur Legendre mentioning you were also considering a position in the Paris Waterworks bond series."
André nodded. "That's correct. I've been monitoring it."
"Well, if you're not in urgent need of the bond, I suggest you wait just a few more days. Rumor has it there's a coalition brewing—some powerful actors unhappy with the Périer brothers. They're seeding damaging rumors across the market. If the timing holds, the price may drop substantially. You might be able to acquire over half of the company's two-year notes for as little as thirty thousand livres. Perhaps even less."