On the morning of July 14th, as a mild breeze swept over the oval parade ground, two hundred thousand young men and a hundred thousand elegantly dressed women poured into the Champ-de-Mars. They filled the stands, waiting in anticipation for the Festival of the Federation to begin. To prevent any accident from the sheer press of bodies, the crowds were ushered in by stages and in groups. The National Guard, the Paris police cavalry, and the royal horse guards worked in concert to secure the twelve entrances of the amphitheatre, isolating all risk beyond its perimeter.
Thanks to his official privileges, André had arrived early, escorting young Marie and the ever-faithful Meldar to the site. Near the southern gate, he found them a fine vantage point and provided military rain cloaks in case of weather. For himself, however, he had other duties: mounted on a gentle mare, he was to make a full circuit of the grounds, inspecting the artillery positions encircling the Champ-de-Mars.
To lend the festival its full splendour, eighty-three ceremonial cannon had been placed upon the surrounding hills — one for each department of France. As one of the temporary "inspectors of salute fire," André was responsible for checking thirty of them, ensuring there would be no misfires or accidents that might mar the great national celebration.
When he finished his inspection, he halted atop the highest hill. Five cannon stood there, supervised by a young lieutenant of the National Guard artillery. Around them, five regimental banners snapped in the wind, each representing a province of the northeast — the Marne, Ardennes, Meuse, Meurthe, and Moselle.
From this height, André could see the entire amphitheatre below. The seats were filled to the last bench. The royal band's music drifted upward, and a festive murmur rippled through the multitude. The altar of the Fatherland rose at the centre, reached by thirty-nine broad steps. Incense burners hung from iron frames on either side, swaying dangerously in the wind.
Nearly six hundred deputies of the Constituent Assembly were gathered beneath a cluster of great tents — some seated, some standing. Opposite them, on the royal grandstand beneath a gilded canopy, sat the King, Queen, and foreign envoys. The allied troops from all eighty-three departments stood ready in triple marching columns, their long lines stretching from the Champ-de-Mars to the banks of the Seine. In the distance, people crowded the dome of Les Invalides and nearby bell towers, watching through their spyglasses, too late to gain entry but unwilling to miss the sight.
Soon, a young artillery lieutenant named Alexandre Antoine Hureau de Sénarmont approached and saluted. "Monsieur le Procureur," he said, "the ceremony is about to begin. You should make your preparations."
"Preparations?" André raised an eyebrow. "My duty is to watch you fire, not to join the parade."
The lieutenant smiled politely. "Your mount, sir. She's not trained for war; she'll panic when the cannon fire begins. For your safety, I advise sending her to the woods, one hundred and twenty yards away. My men will care for her."
André laughed, dismounted, and handed over the reins.
"You're newly arrived in the Paris Volunteers, I suppose?" he asked, noting the young man's accent — the soft consonants of northeastern France — and his blond hair and blue eyes that hinted at the same Frankish-Germanic lineage André himself carried. The lands north of Paris were not purely Gallic, after all; they belonged to the broad family of the Franks, while the Mediterranean south remained heir to Rome.
The lieutenant stood at attention. "Yes, sir. Born and raised in Strasbourg. Graduated from the artillery school at Metz four years ago, served since then with the 2nd Artillery Regiment in Besançon. Two months ago, I was transferred to the Paris Volunteers."
"Two months," André mused. That had been the start of Lafayette's sweeping reorganisation of the Paris National Guard — a transformation of nearly fifty thousand men into a professional corps of twenty-four thousand, combining volunteers and regulars, fit at last to serve as a true garrison army. Lafayette had sweetened the reform by raising officers' allowances, especially for engineers, cavalry, and artillerymen.
The lieutenant's own regiment had once belonged to the Marquis de Bouillé's frontier army. As Lafayette was Bouillé's cousin, such transfers were easily arranged — though for an aristocratic officer like Sénarmont, the move from the elite frontier to the civic guard was clearly a demotion.
André recalled Hoche once mentioning a gifted artillery instructor from Besançon who had joined the Paris Volunteers after a family scandal — likely this very man before him. He would have spoken further, but Sénarmont's aide came running: signal flags had been raised from command. The ceremony was about to begin.
At precisely nine o'clock, the surrounding hills erupted in thunder. Salvos echoed across the city, and drums rolled through the vast field.
Over fifty thousand representatives of the eighty-three departments entered first, their flags rippling in the wind; behind them marched columns of children and elders bearing slogans, then twenty thousand of the Paris National Guard. They sang, they chanted, they danced as they circled the Altar of the Fatherland, where deputies and monarch awaited to receive their salute.
Then came the clergy. Lame and solemn, Bishop Talleyrand of Autun climbed the steps in his robes of ceremony — a mitre on his head, a tricolour sash at his waist. Behind him came two hundred tonsured priests in white vestments bound with the same three colours. Just as the procession reached the altar, the heavens darkened. Black clouds surged from the north, the wind roared cold, and rain fell in torrents.
The spectacle turned chaotic. The iron frames around the altar shook with a sinister creaking; the incense burners filled with rainwater, hissing as smoke gave way to steam. Parasols blossomed across the stands only to be ripped away by the gale. Save for those sheltered beneath the royal canopy and the deputies' tents, all were drenched within minutes.
The eighty-three provincial contingents stood fast like heroes, yet even they shivered under the icy downpour. Hats sagged, feathers drooped, fine gowns clung to skin. Ten thousand of France's loveliest women found their silks reduced to rags, their ostrich plumes to skeletons, their paper corsets dissolving into pulp.
Still the rain fell, heedless and merciless.
Only Talleyrand remained unmoved. Meticulously, almost serenely, he continued the Messe nationale, swinging his thurible in graceful arcs, blessing the flags of France as if invoking divine favour through sheer stubborn dignity.
From his vantage on the hill, André watched with grudging admiration. "If I get the chance," he murmured, "I'll buy that bishop a cup of coffee." He knew well enough how much of the performance was theatre — and yet respected it all the same.
He counted the banners of the eighty-three provinces, noting with quiet relief that none bore the name of Avignon. At least in 1790, France had not yet broken entirely with Rome. That absence marked the success of a secret mission — a "reactionary" compromise arranged by Mirabeau and the Comte de La Marck, and executed by André himself.
The previous month, the self-proclaimed municipal deputies of Avignon — unrecognised by the papal legate — had demanded that the Vatican withdraw within twenty-four hours. The envoy's contemptuous refusal had sparked riots: four suspected papal loyalists — two marquises, a burgher, and a worker — were dragged from their homes and hanged in the square. Soon after, Avignon's citizens petitioned the Constituent Assembly for annexation to France.
Their delegation arrived in Paris by late June, warmly received by many deputies. But Mirabeau, Barnave, and the Lameth brothers opposed the move. They feared alienating the papacy and offending Louis XVI's piety — and they grasped the international consequences too well. Meanwhile, the radical left — Pétion, Buzot, Prieur — planned to parade Avignon's flag at the festival as a political gesture.
André, sent by Mirabeau to mediate, secured a compromise: with Robespierre's cool reason backing him, they agreed that Avignon's delegates might attend the ceremony but their flag would be temporarily confiscated.
Yet André had his own motives. His Bordeaux broker, Ouvrard, had written in haste, urging him to delay any annexation. Like all shrewd profiteers, Ouvrard sensed opportunity — the Rhône Valley's trade, its ports, its half of Provence — riches ripe for seizure once Avignon became French. Better, for now, to let the matter rest until they themselves were ready to carve their portion of the papal inheritance.
By one o'clock, the rain ceased. The clouds scattered, sunlight returned, and the vast field shimmered again with colour.
Then came the hour of Lafayette.
Mounted on a magnificent white horse, the "Grand General" rode before the altar. Amid thunderous applause he dismounted, ascended the steps like a knight of legend, and, standing before Talleyrand's swinging censer, drew his sword.
In the name of himself and the armed forces of France, Lafayette declared:
"I swear to be faithful to the Nation, the Law, and the King;
To uphold, with all my power, the Constitution decreed by the National Assembly and accepted by His Majesty;
To defend property and the safety of every citizen;
And to remain forever united in brotherhood with all the people of France!"
The crowd answered with deafening cheers — "Vive la Nation! Vive le Roi!" — while the artillery roared again. Each deputy of the Assembly rose to repeat the oath aloud.
Then Louis XVI stood, took his daughter's hand, and pronounced solemnly:
"I, the King of France, use the sacred authority of the law entrusted to me, to maintain and accept the Constitution decreed by the National Assembly."
Applause like thunder shook the sky. The Queen, weeping with emotion, lifted the Dauphin and cried out, "My son and I, like the King, share this oath!"
The acclamation seemed endless. In that instant, monarch and people appeared reconciled; faith and nation as one.
Mirabeau, watching, felt the weight on his heart finally lift. The King and Queen had chosen trust, not resistance; the Orleans serpent would not strike today. The tempest had passed.
Robespierre, however, watched with cold amusement as nobles and citizens enacted their great pantomime of unity. Among the ranks of the federation he spotted Saint-Just, flag in hand — a vision of austere beauty and fervour. Their eyes met; the young officer saluted his mentor with a wave of his hat.
When the music swelled once more, four hundred thousand citizens embraced and kissed one another, soldiers waved muskets in the air, and the guns upon the hills boomed anew, echoing across all of Paris.
Lafayette's fame reached its zenith. Crowds surged toward him as he descended the altar — kissing his cheeks, his hands, even his boots and his horse's harness. Some, too slow, kissed the horse's flank, or worse. Prieur, nauseated by the spectacle, turned to Robespierre and muttered, "Look at them — men who cry for liberty yet worship a master. We must beware."
Robespierre smiled faintly, his gaze still fixed on Saint-Just.
André, watching from the hill, smiled as well — a cold, knowing smile. If oaths could solve the world's problems, who would need cannon or armies? A year later, the Champ-de-Mars would prove him right, in blood.
France in 1790 stood at a fragile balance. Neither bourgeois nor people yet grasped their true power. The monarchy still cast its shadow, and the faithful still clung to its vestiges. The shrewd concealed the truth of its death, pretending the corpse still breathed — all but one madman named Marat.
When the wave of embraces reached the troops, an officer approached André for a hug. He declined coolly and stepped aside, expression unreadable.
"Sir, you don't seem pleased," said Sénarmont, approaching cautiously.
André shook his head. "When this ceremony ends, I am no longer your superior. But next week I depart for the Gironde. I'll need a military adviser — if you're willing, I'd have you take the post."
Sénarmont straightened proudly. "It would be my honour, sir." As an aristocrat from the provinces, he found little comfort in revolutionary Paris. To serve under a patron with both influence and foresight — and one who appreciated competence — was an opportunity worth seizing.
"Good," André said. "Your orders will arrive by Friday." He mounted and rode back toward the amphitheatre, where preparations for the continuing celebrations were underway. A word to Lafayette's adjutant would suffice to transfer the officer.
By afternoon, the formal ceremonies had ended, but revelry flooded the city. At the site of the Bastille, where the Lyonnais had failed to raise their statue of Liberty, the Cordeliers succeeded in erecting a colossal "Tree of Freedom" — thirty yards tall, painted and gilded, crowned with a red Phrygian cap like some festive ancestor of the Christmas tree.
Throughout the city, games, lantern shows, and dances were held. Even amid the broken stones and iron bars of the old fortress, a board proclaimed: "Ballroom Here." When the dancing ended, visitors gathered fragments of brick as mementos of the Revolution to carry home.
That evening, as André saw Saint-Just and his sister off, he noted the young officer's exhilaration — a glow not of festival joy but of Robespierre's approval. He smiled thinly, exchanged polite words, and let them go.
"My dear brother," murmured Marie as they rode away, "you may have gained a mentor in Paris, but you may have lost a friend."
Saint-Just only laughed. Yet Marie sensed the change already at work within him — that subtle arrogance born of comparison. His pride as poet had been shattered by If Life Deceives You; his provincial rank seemed small beside André's power. Jealousy, she thought, quoting Shakespeare to herself, makes monsters of men.
As André watched their carriage disappear, a splendid coach rolled past — gilt wheels flashing in the sun. Inside sat two men: Bishop Talleyrand of Autun, now immaculate in fresh silk, and a young nobleman of André's age — the Marquis Bernard de Chauffran.
Talleyrand drew the curtain closed and turned to his companion. "If I may offer counsel, Marquis," he said softly, "keep your eye on that tax prosecutor, André Franck. Rarely in Paris have I seen a man under thirty possess such political instinct — every step deliberate, every move precise."
The marquis frowned. "A friend, or an enemy? You know my loyalties, monseigneur. I stand with the King. This Franck is the enemy of the Crown."
Talleyrand smiled, tapping his cane on the floor of the carriage. "My dear Marquis, in politics there are no eternal friends and no eternal enemies — only eternal interests. That was said by a certain English prime minister, and I hold it as gospel. You would do well to remember it — especially now, when you go to London as France's envoy."
And the carriage rolled on through the jubilant, rain-washed city — carrying with it two men who, like André, understood that beneath the banners and oaths of unity, the Revolution had only just begun.