While Paris surrendered itself to revelry, André had little time for rest. No sooner had he seen Saint-Just and his sister off than he hurried straight to the quarters of the Marne delegation — his own countrymen — lodged in a derelict monastery on the Left Bank, not far from the ruins of the Bastille.
At first, the place had been uninhabitable. The city government, desperate for funds, had stripped the monastery bare — furniture sold, doors and windows removed, dust and cobwebs thick on every surface. Upon hearing of it, André had taken matters into his own hands. Out of his own purse, he hired workers to sweep, plaster, and repair, furnishing five hundred crude bunks with mosquito nets, chairs, candlesticks, and clean water. He even supplied paper, ink, and quills. When the Marne delegation arrived, they thought they had been lodged in a provincial inn by some miracle of fortune.
Their meals too were André's gift. Five hired cooks prepared simple but hearty fare — black bread and meat stew, always enough for all. The afternoon table offered cheap wine, coffee, and fruit: apples, pears, and sweet Mediterranean oranges.
Only three delegations enjoyed such comfort — Marne, Gironde, and Avignon — the latter two courted by the shrewd Paris prosecutor for future political or commercial advantage. Yet André was no philanthropist. The expenses — a total of one hundred thousand livres — were discreetly covered by the royal envoy, the Comte de Lamarque, physician and treasurer to Louis XVI.
More than once, Judge Vinault and Madame Marguerite had laughed that their once-innocent protégé had transformed too swiftly, playing the double-faced politician with alarming skill. André himself made no denial. To oppose the King was revolutionary duty; to accept the King's gold was merely the art of living well.
"How much have you made in Paris, truly?" asked Professor Thuriot, deputy head of the Marne delegation and member of the provincial commune's executive council, as soon as he saw his former student. A lawyer, a scholar, and now an administrator, Thuriot was no puritan — a little corruption was simply the grease of politics.
André hesitated, then raised a single finger in jest.
Thuriot burst out laughing. "A hundred thousand livres! Then Prieur was right — you've done handsomely in the Exchange. I needn't fear you bankrupted yourself feeding us."
André exhaled in relief — not for concealing his true earnings, but because his old teacher and Deputy Prieur, long at odds, now seemed reconciled thanks to his quiet mediation. Before 1790, the two Reims lawyers had never even exchanged a letter.
After greeting his compatriots one by one, André drew Thuriot aside to a small tavern for private conversation.
"Thank you, André," the professor said, raising his glass. "To my finest student."
Two weeks earlier, Thuriot had resigned his post as magistrate to campaign full-time for the upcoming election of Procureur-général-syndic (Chief Provincial Prosecutor) of the Marne. The five hundred and ten delegates gathered in Paris for the Federation were, conveniently, the province's eligible electors — and they were already basking in André's hospitality, proud to be treated as guests of a famous Paris prosecutor.
Other delegations, less fortunate, had begun to visit uninvited, shamelessly partaking of the Marne's bread and wine. André, with calculated generosity, tolerated them all. He discreetly placed five thousand livres in the hands of the Marne committee and told them to ask for more if needed. With that, and with Prieur's scheduled visit tomorrow to voice his official support, Thuriot's victory was practically assured.
André accepted his teacher's praise with modesty. Supporting Thuriot's campaign was, in truth, one of several burrows the cautious hare had dug for himself. For all his present triumphs in Paris, the winds of politics could shift overnight — the tax-farmers' revenge, Necker's reprisals, Danton's envy, Marat's malice, Mirabeau's duplicity. A wise man always prepared an escape before the storm.
"There is something curious," Thuriot said, setting down his empty glass. "I've heard that the Marquise de Moët has withdrawn the decree of banishment against you. They say it was the Comte de Lamarque who interceded — yet in your letters you swore never to serve the Tuileries."
André did not hide the truth. "Mirabeau arranged it. We made a private bargain — I was to lend covert support to Lafayette, and when the time came, to join him against the reactionaries. Judging from today's ceremony, that gallant 'Grand Marshal' has conquered King, people, and nation alike."
He left unsaid his dealings with Moët, and Thuriot did not press. Instead, the professor turned the topic to the great oath sworn that morning by king, deputies, and people alike. "A magnificent gesture," he said dryly, "but even oaths have an expiry date."
André nodded. "Another year, perhaps two — then the same Parisians who kissed the Marshal's horse today will rise to curse him. From the Fronde to now, this city has loved everything, worshipped everything, destroyed everything — including itself."
He laughed, refilled both cups, and drank to his teacher's health.
Thuriot, pleased by his pupil's clear head, let the subject rest. They spoke instead of Reims — the old university, the cathedral, the memories of lectures and quarrels. But as always, nostalgia gave way to politics.
André mentioned the Assembly's latest debates. "The Commune of the Marne must prepare itself. The municipality of Reims has banned Jacobin meetings, arrested several members, and refused to sell former church lands. The Jacobin deputies in Paris are pressing for reprisals. After the festival, the Assembly intends to bypass the Minister of the Interior and issue direct orders to the provincial council: the cathedral to be purged, all refractory clergy dispersed, and the university — if it obstructs the National Guard — to be closed by decree. The city council itself will be dissolved, and Reims divided into new electoral districts."
He was repeating Prieur's own words — hard, cold, bureaucratic. The Assembly demanded full obedience.
Thuriot shook his head angrily. "Fools! They think the Marne is a chessboard. Between the Marne and the Ardennes, in the deep forest, there's a band of brigands — at least five hundred men, well-armed and disciplined. They rarely touch villages, but they ambush our patrols. Last winter they slaughtered a company near Reims. We begged Bouillé's regulars to help, but each time the army came, the bandits vanished into the woods — forewarned, always.
"For six months this cat-and-mouse game has bled the National Guard white. Many believe — I should say know — that the Reims clergy and city hall aid them. Some even suspect exiled nobles and Bouillé himself. But without proof, nothing can be done. If his border troops interfere again, any punitive expedition will fail before it begins."
This was news to André — the sort of thing no letter could safely convey. He listened, frowning, with no ready answer. Matters involving Bouillé's frontier command lay far beyond a tax prosecutor's reach. Let Lafayette and Mirabeau worry about that.
As their talk drew to a close, Thuriot added casually, "Yesterday I visited Île Saint-Louis. Judge Vinault looks dreadful — two strokes, they say. His wife told me he may soon retire to his estate at Sedan."
André already knew. The judge had indeed suffered two seizures; his left hand trembled, his headaches worsened, and laudanum no longer steadied his mind for long. Every physician advised the same: leave Paris, abandon the bench, live quietly in the countryside — or die.
For André, that meant one thing: the loss of his strongest patron in the capital. Hence his decision to follow Mirabeau's advice, draw nearer to Lafayette, and prepare for retreat if need be.
Returning to Reims — the former provincial capital before Châlons-sur-Marne — was one option. Thuriot had hinted that if elected, he would keep the deputy's post open for his protégé. André thanked him sincerely, though he preferred to stay where power and fortune were richest.
Two hours later, when the tipsy professor stumbled back to his quarters, he discovered a bank draft slipped into his coat pocket — thirty thousand livres.
"That rascal," he muttered, smiling. "He's made far more than a hundred thousand."
Indeed he had.
In Bordeaux, the broker Ouvrard, armed only with André's letter of introduction, had ingratiated himself with Judge Duranthon, joined the local Jacobin Club, and thrived in the wild commerce of bonds and confiscated church lands. A week earlier he had remitted two hundred thousand livres to his employer, promising still greater profits ahead.
With money in hand, André felt untroubled. In times of peace, he believed, there was little that gold could not solve — and if it failed, the answer was simple: not enough gold.
Note:
"The Prosecutor" refers to André, based on context.