One evening, André turned to the ever-restless Marat, who had once again ascended the attic stairs, and said, "If we want to win, we cannot limit the battlefield to the courtroom. No. We must take this battle beyond those walls. My defense of Babeuf will not be addressed merely to the twelve gentlemen of the jury—but to the 600,000 Parisians of the 48 districts, to the five million citizens of eight provinces. They will be the true jurors in this trial."
So stirring were his own words that André nearly broke into a song—"Our blood shall boil for justice! Let the old world crumble!"—before catching himself.
"Cut it out! You're not in a play!" the traveler within him cried, reining in the surge of theatrical passion just in time.
Yet beside him, Marat's eyes lit up with wild delight. The doctor was thrilled. To him, stirring rhetoric, fiery idealism, and a touch of public hysteria were the highest political virtues. André's remarks had struck all the right chords.
When the Revolution had first erupted in 1789, Marat had proclaimed that the guillotining of 8,000 reactionaries would suffice to usher in a new France. By 1790, that number had climbed to 10,000. In 1791, it rose to 50,000. By the following year, he was calling for 100,000 heads. Fortunately—for both France and himself—Marat would never see 1794.
Marat now paced the attic, rubbing his hands together in fervent excitement. "What do you need? Resources? Plans? Manpower? Draw up your proposal and bring it to the Cordeliers Club tomorrow. I will mobilize everything we have. Livres, weapons, men—it's all at your disposal!"
André flinched. "No, no, no. This must be peaceful. No revolutionary violence."
Was Marat mad? In the relatively stable France of 1790, where different social classes were cautiously cooperating and the public largely at peace, a full-blown uprising would be disastrous. Even if the bourgeoisie were timid by nature, attempting to incite a revolt could land both of them on the scaffold.
André knew that Paris had not yet reached the conditions required for another revolution.
Bread, the most essential commodity, was widely available. Prices for brown bread had fallen from a high of ten sous to five sous per pound, making it affordable for most families. Though the sans-culottes lived hard lives, they could at least keep their children fed.
There was no foreign invasion, no embargo strangling the capital. In cafés, the petite bourgeoisie still sipped Dominican coffee at a quarter-livre per cup and offered imported English roses to their mistresses.
The Constituent Assembly remained firmly under the control of wealthy citizens and liberal nobles, who could block any motion from the extreme left.
The royalists, though discontent, lacked both leadership and courage. Louis XVI, timid and hesitant, refused to support any decisive action.
The clergy, once the First Estate, were now pariahs. Everyone attacked them—from liberals to royalists to revolutionaries. Even the traitors Talleyrand and Sieyès, who had abandoned the Church, dared not defend them in public.
André's own alliance with Marat was purely pragmatic. He had no desire to join a doomed rebellion. He would not be a fool—or a pawn. Better to stay in the shadows and play the long game.
"No," he resolved. "Marat must be sidelined."
After seeing the doctor off, André climbed into a four-wheeled carriage bound for Île Saint-Louis.
Before dusk, he returned to 156 Rue Saint-Jacques, where he found Meldar leaning over the third-floor windowsill, watching a group of blue-uniformed soldiers drilling in a nearby courtyard.
"Come on," André called. "We've got writing to do."
As the boy shuffled over, André unfurled a massive map of Paris and began plotting.
"What's your dream, Meldar?" he asked, offhandedly.
"To get a rifle," the boy chirped. "Next year I'll be old enough to join the National Guard and go kill Russians as a proud colonel!"
André blinked. Meldar was of Polish descent, and his father had reportedly died resisting a Russian invasion in 1779.
"Shhh," André put a finger to his lips. Then, catching a glimpse of the boy's shoddy penmanship, he rolled up a sheaf of papers and smacked him on the head.
"Idiot! War gets people killed! I don't want your aunt to lose another loved one! Now, write 'roi,' 'Dieu,' and 'loi' ten times each. How many times have I told you: The King is not God, and he is certainly not the law."
...
The next afternoon, it wasn't Marat who came knocking but the landlord, Legendre. Vice president of the Cordeliers Club and electoral delegate for the Théâtre-Français district, Legendre had been tied up in club business and the ongoing municipal elections.
"Marat's in trouble," he said as soon as he reached the attic. "Two of City Hall's dogs were sniffing around the club this morning asking questions. By noon, three battalions of the National Guard had surrounded the entire Cordeliers quarter. Their orders were to arrest the so-called 'Friend of the People,' who's now officially a fugitive."
"And?" André asked, a chill creeping into his voice.
"They failed, of course!" Legendre beamed. "Two hours ago, I smuggled him into the sewer tunnel leading to the Seine. By now he's likely aboard a merchant vessel headed for England. Damn that fool Bailly and his toy soldier Lafayette—they've tried to capture Marat five times now and never once succeeded."
Whether the earlier failures were due to incompetence, André couldn't say. But this time, he knew for certain that the order had come from within the Palais de Justice—specifically from a prosecutor who was Vinault's trusted ally and whose sister was married to a presiding high judge.
Thankfully, it was still under control. Had the attackers been soldiers instead of bumbling detectives, the story could've ended very differently.
"Still," André said with a sigh, "with Marat gone, he won't be able to lead our peaceful demonstration next week."
"Don't worry," Legendre chuckled. "We have Danton!"
"Wait—what?"
"Didn't you hear? Danton lost the election for the Commune General Committee. He left for Arcis the day before yesterday—his wife's about to give birth. Marat's been running the club alone."
André's heart sank. He had been too wrapped up in court battles to follow the Commune elections. He had planned to sideline Marat and place the "tolerant" Danton at the helm. Now, both leaders were gone.
"So… who's in charge?" he asked.
Legendre grinned and jabbed a thumb at his nose. "Me."
"You?" André blinked.
"Don't worry, I'm just handling internal matters. You're in charge of the public campaign. Danton and Marat both said to give you everything you need—money, manpower, pikes, muskets, you name it. We just can't get any cannons."
"Stop! No weapons!" André barked. "This is a peaceful campaign to defend justice—not a revolution!"
He had already agreed with Vinault and the high prosecutor that everything had to be under strict control. One spark of violence could bring the entire city down.
"Fine, fine," Legendre shrugged. "The point is, we're behind you—all of us at the Cordeliers Club."
"Wait," André frowned. "I'm not a member of your club."
"You are now. Founding member, actually. I paid your dues—just four sous for the whole year. Oh, and your rent this month will be a little higher."
Before André could protest, Legendre was bounding down the stairs.
"To the club! Meeting starts now!"