When André's carriage arrived at 30 Rue Saintonge, it was already past five in the afternoon.
As he stepped down from the coach, he noticed a young woman crouching on the steps by the door. She wore a half-worn white dress, its collar frayed, her hair dishevelled and tangled. He could not see her face—her head was buried between her knees, her hands clutching her temples. As he passed, he thought he heard a faint sob.
Pushing open the door, André was greeted by Pierre Villiers, Robespierre's secretary, who was busy sorting his master's correspondence on the dining table of the first-floor hall. As Robespierre's fame and influence grew, the letters pouring in from every corner of France had become a daily deluge. Villiers' primary duty was to read, categorise, and summarise each one—placing those of importance or sealed official documents directly upon his employer's desk, while managing or replying to the rest himself.
Upon hearing André's purpose, Villiers explained that the deputy was not at home but promised, with a clerk's brisk politeness, that Colonel Saint-Just's letter would be classified as important and laid on Robespierre's desk before dusk.
"My thanks," André said—and along with the envelope, quietly slipped across twenty livres in silver.
Robespierre himself—the Incorruptible—accepted no gifts, no bribes, no favours, not even those offered without expectation of return. But the same could not be said for all his associates.
Villiers, for example, had a family to feed. His weekly allowance of two livres was scarcely enough to keep them alive. The small gratuities pressed into his palm by visitors were the only thing that kept the household from starvation. Robespierre had scolded him for it more than once—but the practice endured.
"And the woman outside?" André asked casually.
Villiers glanced about and lowered his voice. "His mistress. She used to come twice a week. Last month, the Deputy gave her a sum of money and told her never to return. But she came again this morning—claims her child is ill, and she needs money for a doctor."
"Oh?" André was genuinely surprised. The Incorruptible, entangled in romance—it was almost comical.
He drew a 300-livre assignat from his coat, handed it to the secretary, and said quietly, "See that she's taken care of—and make sure he never hears of it."
With that, André turned and left.
Once back in his carriage, he did not immediately order the driver to depart. Instead, he raised his hand slightly out the window—a subtle gesture. A plain-clothed police agent, disguised as a sans-culotte, approached the coach and waited for instructions.
"Follow the woman on the steps," André said in a low voice. "Find out everything."
Then, with a nod, he directed the driver toward the Jacobin Club.
For Robespierre, life in 1790 revolved around a narrow triangle—his apartment on Rue Saintonge, the National Assembly, and the Jacobin Club. It was a rhythm of speeches, debates, and relentless vigilance.
At that hour, before four o'clock, he was likely still in the Assembly hall, seated among the deputies in the former riding school beside the Tuileries. But André had no wish to go there. With summer upon the city, the air inside the cramped chamber was thick with sweat, dust, and the sour odour of unwashed humanity—a stench that made him physically ill.
The Jacobin Club, formally the Society of the Friends of the Constitution, had begun as the Breton Club during the Estates-General, before moving to Paris in October 1789 and settling in the abandoned Dominican monastery from which it took its name.
Situated on Rue Saint-Honoré in the Palais-Royal district, it looked from the outside like any derelict monastery, its great tower shadowing the church that now served as the debating hall. At the entrance hung a black-and-white Breton banner—its stark stripes faintly reminiscent, André thought, of the American flag. In time, under Jacobin rule, it would be replaced by the tricolour of red, white, and blue.
Behind the church stretched a row of former monks' dormitories, now refitted as reading rooms and resting quarters for members. For within these walls, discussions ran through the night—arguments, speeches, visions of the republic's destiny—until dawn crept pale through the cloisters.
Before 1793, the Jacobin Club was not yet a formal political party but a rapidly expanding society bound by strict internal rules. It had a president, four secretaries, and a treasurer, all elected on a rotating basis. Of its more than a thousand members, nearly a quarter were deputies of the Assemblée Constituante; the rest were Parisian notables, men of learning and position.
Membership rules were clear: any deputy might join without sponsorship, but a non-deputy required the written endorsement of two existing members, together with an admission fee of twelve livres and an annual subscription of four—thirty-six livres in total.
At the club entrance, a constable was arguing with a man in a servant's livery. The man clutched a small parcel and insisted that he was merely delivering medicine—an ointment for the eyes—to his master. But the rules of the Jacobins were strict: no servants and no non-members were permitted to enter the premises.
"Who is your master?" André asked, stepping forward with mild curiosity.
The constable, recognising him at once—the famed procureur fiscal of Paris—stopped pushing the servant and stood respectfully aside.
"Lord Mirabeau, sir," the man stammered.
"You should say Citizen Mirabeau," corrected the doorkeeper sharply. "No titles—no counts, no dukes, no marquises. The Assembly forbade them last month. From now on, every Frenchman bears only his family name. At least in public."
André took the vial of ointment from the servant's trembling hands. "I'll deliver it myself," he said, and walked through the heavy doors of the club.
It was past five o'clock, and the hall was already packed—bustling, humid, loud. Few deputies were present; most were still at the Assembly, labouring in the former riding school beside the palace. They would come later, after dinner, for what Parisians had begun to call the candlelight sessions.
André looked around. He recognised several faces, but all too distant to approach. Better, he decided, to deliver Mirabeau's medicine first.
After several inquiries, he learned that the orator was resting in a private chamber behind the debating hall. Approaching the second door in the corridor, he found it shut, with voices murmuring within. Out of courtesy, André stepped back and waited in the shadows.
Ten minutes later, the door opened and a tall man in a silver waistcoat emerged—the Marquis de Lafayette, or rather, Citizen Motier.
The general of the National Guard, hero of the American war, was lean and long-limbed, his face pale beneath a cascade of red hair. His sharp nose and calm grey eyes lent him a severe dignity. He held a tricorn hat adorned with the tricolour cockade.
André inclined his head politely as the commander passed, but Lafayette halted and spoke first.
"Prosecutor Franck," he said, his tone measured but edged with suspicion. "I hear you've been accepting favours from the Palais-Royal—speaking for certain… influential interests?"
André's reply came without hesitation: "Forgive me, General. I speak for no one but the law."
Inside, the traveller from another century cursed silently. So the great hero of two worlds can't even guard his tongue. He thought of Lafayette's squandered goodwill—his endless hesitations, his half-measures that alienated friend and foe alike.
He turned away without another word and entered the chamber. Lafayette shrugged, affecting indifference, and departed with brisk steps.
If André had to name a few men he truly regarded as his teachers, three came to mind: Professor Thuriot of Reims, Judge Vinault of the Palais de Justice—and the man now reclining half-supine on the sofa, Honoré-Gabriel Riqueti, Citizen Mirabeau.
The forty-year-old orator was a striking sight: broad-shouldered, powerful-armed, his heavy features dominated by a pair of blazing black eyes and a hooked nose that gave him the air of a wounded eagle. The mouth, sensual and mocking, curled with perpetual irony.
Once branded the disgrace of his class—debt-ridden, reckless, and unfaithful—Mirabeau had since forged from ruin a new kind of power: the mastery of words, of crowds, of will itself. In the chaos of revolution, he alone could thunder his way through the storm.
"Come here, boy," he said, his voice gravelly but commanding. "Put the ointment on my eyes."
André obeyed without protest, performing the small service with the solemn respect of a pupil attending his master.
The cool balm soothed the inflamed lids, and Mirabeau exhaled in relief. Waving a hand, he motioned André to take a seat.
"I've been watching you for some time," the orator began with a faint smile. "André—yes, I know you prefer to be called that. I've heard you speak, and I know your opinions."
The smile faded. "You despise the King. You call him timid, unfit to lead a great nation. You are not wrong. But remember this—monarchy is the spare anchor of the ship of state. That is why, against every voice raised against me, I defended the royal veto. Do you know why?"
André said nothing. His eyes flickered around the room, cautious.
"Stop that," Mirabeau snapped. "No one eavesdrops on me while I breathe."
Then André answered, evenly: "Because you took the King's one million livres in political funds—and because a division of powers prevents seven hundred and forty-five petty despots from replacing one."
The orator threw back his head and laughed.
He had struck the truth.
Mirabeau chuckled, the deep laughter of a lion who knows the forest bends to his roar.
"You resent me, but you're right," he said. "Now tell me, young man—define your politics for me. One sentence only."
André hesitated. Before this formidable intellect, his own thoughts felt transparent, stripped bare. After a pause, he said:
"Whether under empire or republic, I believe law is the final bastion that guards order."
The older man smiled faintly and lifted a finger.
"You're hedging, André. But I see what hides behind your words—you think yourself the incarnation of law and order, perched high on the mountain, an eagle watching over the carrion of the tax-farmers. That's fine. You've chosen your enemies wisely—rich but politically weak. Sacrifice them to justice, and the crowd will love you for it.
But tell me—do you know why, two months ago, at the hearing that dissolved the Tax Commission, I refused to defend you?"
The question struck like a blow. André had long puzzled over it, but now, facing the man himself, he simply answered with quiet candour:
"Because you wanted Necker's downfall. You knew the Swiss banker's deficit would destroy him, and you hoped to take his place in the next cabinet—as Minister of Justice or of Finance. And in the meantime, someone had to be offered up as the price of that manoeuvre. Me."
Mirabeau threw back his head and laughed again, this time with a rasp of genuine admiration.
"Sharp as a razor," he said. "Yes, I made you the scapegoat. And I regret nothing. Politics is a trade in human lives, and I sell them dearly."
André did not answer. He understood too well.
"But now," Mirabeau went on, his tone softening, "I no longer bargain. My doctors—and this treacherous body of mine—have warned me I shall not see another summer. My lungs are gone. My heart, my liver… all of them rotting."
He leaned back, breathing heavily. "I once thought, like you, that law could restore order. But no one believes a scoundrel. They see only the beast, never the mind. I've fought alone in that chamber, shouting to stop this country from devouring itself, but in vain.
So I looked for men who might finish the work. Perhaps you are one of them."
André's expression did not change, but Mirabeau's sharp eyes caught the flicker of pride, the faint tremor of ambition.
"Good," he said. "That is what I needed to see. You are too prudent to sell yourself to that shameless Orleans duke, and too clever to trust in the mob's affection. The King's family—yes, fools all, save the King himself. You despise him, yet you envy his power. You flatter the people, yet you mark a line they must not cross. You smile, but in your smile lies a hidden knife."
The words struck André like cold steel. He opened his mouth to reply, but Mirabeau cut him off with a sweep of his hand.
"Damn it, don't argue with a dying man. Just listen."
He coughed, the sound deep and raw, then spoke again in a hoarse whisper.
"This nation is lost in delusion. They worship the sans-culottes, but forget the sans-culottes are the most faithless of creatures—greedy, forgetful, insatiable. They will consume everything until a dictator rises to tame them. Ending a revolution is far harder than beginning one. It takes discipline, deception, and the courage to act.
Tell me, André—how will your law preserve order? With speeches? With committees? Or with a pound of cannon?"
André said nothing. His silence was answer enough.
"You and Lafayette are opposites," Mirabeau went on. "He worships human virtue; you distrust it. He dreams; you measure. He hesitates; you strike. Yet I tell you—yes, Lafayette is a fool, vain and sentimental. But he is an honest fool, and in him France still has a conscience. With the right guidance, he could save her—with less blood than what's to come. Tell me, André—would you help him?"
After a long pause, André answered quietly:
"If I can, I'll try. But I make no promises."
"That will do," Mirabeau murmured, closing his eyes. "Once, I thought to give those words to Danton, but you are better suited. I will see you repaid, child of fortune. And now—remember what I say. I must keep faith with the King, and you—must sever your ties with the Duke of Orléans."
A few minutes later, the calm broke into fury.
"Get out!" Mirabeau roared, his voice filling the room. "You Reims bastard—tell your precious duke this: the King and Queen live in the Tuileries, not in the Palais-Royal! If I see your face again, I'll have you thrown out myself!"
André emerged pale with anger, fists clenched, trembling with the humiliation of it. None dared speak to him; no one wished to become the next target of Mirabeau's wrath.
Back in the main hall, he found a quiet corner and sat, replaying every word of their conversation. The dying lion had told him to leave Paris—to return to Reims, build his own base of power, and come back as a deputy next year.
"Paris," Mirabeau had said, "is a city that devours its lovers. Its people cheer you today and stone you tomorrow. Their tradition is to welcome everything, destroy everything, and finally destroy themselves."
He had even promised to handle André's "private concern"—the matter left unspoken but clearly understood.
"Accept or refuse?" André muttered to himself.
As he wrestled with the question, two familiar voices cut through the din—Prieur and Robespierre, deep in debate.
Prieur was speaking first, his tone clipped with impatience.
"Three months ago the Assembly began discussing the Festival of the Federation, and now the Paris Municipality claims it lacks both funds and manpower to build the altar on the Champ de Mars."
The deputy was a slight man with a narrow, ascetic face, forever dressed as if on his way to court—dark coat, white cravat, powdered wig. His voice carried the confidence of a lawyer accustomed to commanding a jury. Passionate, tireless, forever busy, Prieur had recently been elected secretary of the Assembly's new Finance Committee and was effectively organising the birth of the new Tax Commission.
Robespierre, standing beside him, interjected mildly:
"Citizen Bailly can hardly be blamed. The Assembly only finalised its plan yesterday. There are barely three weeks left before July Fourteenth. Anyone would be overwhelmed."
"Then perhaps he should not have been mayor," Prieur replied with a hint of disdain. "Astronomers belong in observatories, not at the Hôtel de Ville."
André approached, offered a polite greeting to both men, and said, "If I may—there might be a solution."
The two deputies turned to him, curious.
"Voluntary labour," André said.
They stared at him blankly. "What?"
"Yes—voluntary labour. Work without quota, without pay, undertaken freely for the good of the nation. Citizens joining together to build what the state cannot—by their own hands."
He spoke calmly, yet his tone carried a strange conviction. "In working together, they'll feel the strength and warmth of the collective—the dignity of labour itself. Such a movement will help erase the vanity of the idle rich, teach those who profit without effort the worth of honest work, and close the gulf between those born to eat and those who must toil to live."
The two men exchanged a look.
"Excellent," said Prieur at last. "A brilliant notion."
Robespierre nodded. "Yes. Truly republican in spirit."
They insisted that the author of such an idea should announce it publicly at once, take the floor and explain it to the club.
André waved his hands quickly. "No, no. I'd rather not be shouted down by Mirabeau again."
He recounted briefly the stormy encounter of the evening. Both deputies fell silent. No one, whether in the Assembly or the Club, was eager to cross the roaring lion of Provence.
"Then it must be you, Maximilien," Prieur said suddenly, turning to his companion. "Go on—take the rostrum."
André smiled faintly and joined in the urging. "Yes, Citizen Robespierre. Let them hear it from you."
That night, Robespierre ascended the platform beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Jacobin chapel. Hundreds of candles flickered against the stone, casting ripples of gold across the faces of his listeners.
"Citizens!" he began, his voice low but carrying. "I dream of the day when, on the field of the Champ de Mars, priests in their vestments—patriotic cockades on their chests—labour side by side with soldiers, artisans, and modest women, all working the same earth, united by love of country!"
The hall erupted in cheers. People rose to their feet, clapping, weeping. Someone began to sing Ça ira—'All shall be well!'—and soon the anthem of revolution swept through the crowd.
By the time the candles burned low, the resolution had already passed. The very next morning, newspapers across Paris carried the news of Robespierre's stirring call to action.
On the afternoon of June 6, at the Champ de Mars, fifteen thousand hired labourers—paid double wages yet working sluggishly—looked up in astonishment. Tens of thousands of Parisians were gathering at the edges of the construction site, staring at them with anger and contempt.
Then, as if on a single command, the citizens surged forward. Men and women alike seized the shovels, picks, and wheelbarrows from the hands of the idle workers and began digging, hauling, levelling the ground with fierce determination.
In hours, the site transformed. The murmur of protest turned into the roar of purpose.
Three thousand volunteers became ten thousand, then thirty thousand—each one working without pay, their clothes soaked in sweat and dust. Before nightfall, they had accomplished what the paid labourers could not achieve in three days.
And thus, the altar of the nation—the heart of the coming festival—rose not from the coffers of the state, but from the hands of the people themselves.