André's campaign to persuade the two radical deputies of the Constituent Assembly toward fiscal reform — conducted in his dual capacity as tax prosecutor and friend — served another purpose: it was to secure political endorsement for his impending mission to the Gironde.
Earlier that year, in Bordeaux, the provincial capital of the Gironde, a local prosecutor named Randel had brought suit before the district court. He accused several fermiers généraux — tax-farmers — of colluding with municipal officers to extort the wine merchants, levying an unlawful surcharge of thirty-five to fifty percent in indirect taxes.
Judge Duranthon of the Bordeaux court, defying opposition, had agreed to hear the case. Yet three days before the trial was to open, Randel's carriage had fallen into a ravine, killing him instantly. With his death, the entire investigation collapsed.
At the beginning of the month, Judge Duranthon refused the petition of Randel's successor, Prosecutor Luchon, to dismiss the case, and instead sent a formal appeal to the Palais de Justice, requesting that Paris dispatch a special tax prosecutor to revive the inquiry into the Bordeaux wine duties.
André's promotion to national tax prosecutor — and the full backing of the Palais de Justice — was contingent upon his acceptance of this assignment. Authority carried its own obligations: whoever rose quickly must learn to bear the weight of it.
Mindful of Randel's "accident," the court also authorized André to command a detachment of mounted tax police, and quietly ordered the Paris Prefecture to provide assistance if needed.
None of this was secret to Prieur and Robespierre. André had already mentioned it to them during the Babeuf trial. Now, as they met again, his purpose was to consolidate their support.
Robespierre immediately promised to write letters of introduction — to Vigniaux, head of the Jacobin branches in Bordeaux and the Gironde — requesting cooperation with the visiting prosecutor. Should the need arise, Robespierre would also authorise the use of local National Guard forces to secure André's operation.
Prieur, for his part, pledged to contact an old acquaintance — the retired privateer Captain Surcouf. His armed fleet, stationed near the port of Bordeaux, would be ready to assist. Years ago, when Surcouf had faced imprisonment, Prieur had served as his defence counsel and won him freedom.
Before their discreet meeting ended, Prieur asked, "Have you fixed the date of departure?"
André nodded. "Yes. Immediately after the Festival of the Federation — no later than the twentieth of July. According to my correspondence with Judge Duranthon, I must be in Bordeaux before August. And when I return to Paris," he added dryly, "I hope to find Necker and his banker's ministry already gone."
Originally, André had planned to travel south with the Gironde's festival delegation, but after reading the dossier sent from the Palais de Justice, he decided otherwise. He would leave two days earlier, and alone.
As Robespierre rose to take his leave, Prieur continued speaking with André, urging him to pay particular attention to the customs office in Bordeaux.
"As France's third port," Prieur said, "Bordeaux's customs revenues have fallen disastrously these past five months. The Finance Committee and the Treasury both hope that, during your mission, you will restore order there and collect what is owed. Two million livres — that is your minimum target. But mind you, no unrest, no riots.
"As is customary, seven percent of recovered taxes will be returned to you as liquid funds for your expanded command and other expenses. Both the Committee and the Ministry have approved it. An accounting team will join you in Bordeaux to assist. Should collections exceed four million, your share rises to ten percent. Remember this: the taxes must be gathered — but neither the customs nor the city of Bordeaux must be thrown into chaos."
Since June, all six million "active citizens" of France had been mobilised to prepare for the Festival of the Federation — the festival of victory and unity. Across the eighty-three departments, local officials and representatives, their tricolour sashes crossed proudly over their chests, quarrelled endlessly for the honour of joining the national delegation to Paris.
The National Guard was aflame with patriotic zeal. Lottery-chosen volunteers gathered in provincial capitals, drilling in ceremonies and musketry. Soon they would escort the deputations northward, marching beneath the banners of Law and the Kingdom, to the music of drums and fifes, through clouds of perfume and the cheers of waving handkerchiefs.
By mid-July, as three hundred thousand provincials — including those from Brittany and Burgundy — flooded into Paris, the city became a sea of jubilation. Flags of every province lined both banks of the Seine.
On the streets, travel-worn but radiant faces filled every square. To the tune of Tout ira bien ensemble, the newcomers sang and marched, halting only to drink or dance. The Parisians, setting aside their old hauteur, brought out their best wines and loaves to welcome those who had walked ten days or more to the capital of liberty.
At the site of the old Bastille, the earliest arrivals — the militia of Lyon — joined the jobless workers of the Saint-Antoine suburb to build an enormous artificial mountain from discarded planks and plaster. They carved steps and even shaped shrubs into its slopes. But a sudden downpour toppled the "Temple of Liberty" and its goddess, forcing the builders to tear everything down.
By dusk, as André's carriage emerged from the gates of the Jacobin Club onto the quayside, post-rain Paris was again immovable with crowds. Reaching the Left Bank before nightfall was hopeless.
He dismissed the carriage and walked to the pier. For three livres he hired a small ferryboat to cross the river. As he was about to board, a man of about fifty, arm in arm with a young woman, approached and politely asked to join him, offering to pay the fare for all.
"Paris welcomes you both," André said with a smile, lowering his hat brim in a courteous gesture.
In their brief exchange, it was clear that the older man — mild, heavy in manner, with the look of a Quaker shopkeeper — was honest and dull but not unkind. His wife, however, left a far stronger impression: tall, slender-legged, the thin fabric of her dress hinting at a full figure beneath. Her face was not strikingly beautiful but delicately formed; save for the faint wrinkles at her eyes, one would never guess she was past thirty.
The Seine was calm and narrow that evening; the crossing would take scarcely ten minutes. During the passage, André overheard their conversation — and quickly realised they made no effort to hide it. His bearing and dress betrayed him easily as a lawyer.
"From Lyon — the Rolands?" André frowned slightly. What a small world. Only hours after fixing his journey to Bordeaux, he had encountered the future leaders of the Girondins. The husband was Jean-Marie Roland, an inspector of manufactories under the Ministry of the Interior; his wife, Manon — the future Madame Roland — would one day become the muse and moral voice of the faction.
The Rolands were discussing which friends to invite to their new home in Paris. André caught familiar names — Pétion, Brissot, Condorcet, Buzot, even Robespierre.
"Sir, may I ask your name?" the lady inquired gracefully as they stepped ashore on the Left Bank. After whispering a few words to her husband, she approached, her steps light and precise.
André bowed with noble flourish, sweeping his hat. "André — André Franck. At your service, Madame."
The compliment pleased her. "Then, Monsieur André, to thank you for your kindness today, my husband and I would be honoured if you would join us three days hence, at No. 1, Rue de Bac, for an afternoon salon."
André accepted at once. It was impossible to resist the gleam of mischief and warmth in her eyes — that flicker of fire that seemed to dance whenever she smiled.
When she returned to her husband's side, Roland asked quietly, "Why invite a random lawyer to our gathering?"
Manon smiled, licking her lips and taking his arm. "My dear, Monsieur Franck is no mere lawyer. He is the tax prosecutor of Paris."
Even from distant Lyon, the Rolands had followed his exploits through letters and newspapers. Within a single year, André Franck had risen from clerk to one of the most discussed men in Paris. In the Babeuf trial he had overturned a murder charge thought unshakable, forcing the prosecutor to withdraw every accusation.
As tax prosecutor, he had single-handedly brought the fermiers généraux to their knees. Only Necker's last-minute intervention had spared them — and even then, only temporarily. Few believed the Finance Minister could survive the storm of deficits much longer.
André's influence reached from the Palais de Justice to the police prefecture. He was whispered to speculate successfully on the securities market, and admired as a poet — his If Life Deceives You had already been recited in the salons of Lyon's nobility. And of course, his notorious "Four-Colour Problem" had driven the mathematicians of France to collective madness.
Roland sighed. "Condorcet despises that man. Aren't you afraid of awkward silences?"
Manon only smiled. In truth, Condorcet had confessed in private correspondence to her his admiration for André's intellect, and his wish to reconcile him with the academicians — perhaps even to spare Lavoisier and his father-in-law from André's vengeance.
The encounter left André thoughtful but unmoved. The traveller's philosophy was simple: when one ship begins to sink, be ready to step onto another. The Girondins would be one of those ships — which number, he no longer cared to count. He merely wanted to reach home before the next rain.
When he climbed the stairs to his flat, he was pleasantly surprised to find a young officer in blue uniform seated on the sofa — an old friend returned.
"Saint-Just, my friend! When did you arrive?" André embraced him warmly, then turned to his servant Meldar. "Go and reserve a table at a restaurant — quickly! Since the provincials poured into Paris, every café has been packed."
The handsome officer smiled shyly. "Our federation troops from the Nièvre arrived this morning. But Paris is vast; it took us four hours to find this place."
As André handed him a glass of wine, he noticed someone else sitting on the bench opposite — a girl of fifteen or sixteen, fresh-faced and charming. For a moment she seemed familiar.
"Wait, don't tell me," André said, raising a hand. Then he laughed. "Ah! The brave little Marie! I remember — years ago, you came alone by coach to Reims to visit your brother. You were this tall then!" He marked an absurdly low height with his hand, making the girl pout in mock indignation and sending both men into laughter.
Marie was Saint-Just's youngest sister, who had idolised him since childhood. When he left home to study in Reims, it was she — with their mother's secret consent — who sent him his living expenses. On that same journey she had once turned over a thief to the city constable.
"She's been pleading for a month," Saint-Just explained, "and another month convincing our mother. I finally let her come, but only for a day. After tomorrow's ceremony we must leave immediately for Blérancourt."
"So soon?" André frowned. According to the festival's schedule, each provincial corps could remain in Paris for a week of celebrations.
"A sudden emergency," Saint-Just said. "A band of brigands is moving toward the Loire. The Nièvre National Guard is being mobilised to intercept them before they cross the border." He hesitated, then added, "Tonight I must visit Robespierre in Saint-Antoine. I'd be grateful if you could look after my sister until tomorrow afternoon."
"Of course, my friend." André gestured toward a door. "That's the guest room. I'll have the housekeeper prepare it. Tomorrow, my cavalry will secure the southern gate of the National Altar; Marie can accompany me or Lieutenant Hoche."
Though he had expected this meeting, André felt a quiet unease. He wanted to warn Saint-Just — to steer him from the path history had laid — but stopped himself. He knew too well his friend's unyielding will and that lucid, merciless reason. Better to adapt than to preach.
The conversation drifted to poetry, literature, and the old days at Reims. Yet when politics arose, Saint-Just's republican fervour burned far brighter than André's. When the latter urged caution, Saint-Just replied, "The sword in one's hand abolishes all that is unreasonable." The certainty in his tone made André's brow tighten.
At dinner he remained genial, yet in his eyes flickered a trace of doubt and pity — which the perceptive Marie quickly noticed.
After the meal, as Saint-Just departed, the girl asked softly, "André, you don't approve of my brother's politics, do you? Or is it something else that troubles you?"
Her question startled him. He nodded, then shook his head, then turned the subject entirely and sent her off to rest.
That night, André tossed restlessly until after midnight.
"To intervene — or to let history take its course?" he asked himself in the darkness.
It was a question even the traveller could not answer.