The Jacobin Club and the Cordeliers Club were the two most renowned political clubs of the French Revolution. The former would soon come to exert influence over eight provinces and more than five million citizens; the latter, through two major uprisings, would eventually come to dominate all 48 Parisian districts and some 600,000 Parisians.
The Cordeliers Club was headquartered in the former Cordeliers Monastery on Rue des Cordeliers. In November of the previous year, the Paris Commune had issued regulations—based on the spirit of the August Decrees passed by the National Constituent Assembly—stating that any monastic institutions not engaged in public education or charitable aid must shut down by January 1, 1790. The Cordeliers Monastery, being devoted solely to divine service, was promptly closed and its few remaining monks evicted by the National Guard.
By the end of January, the Cordeliers district was merged with the Théâtre-Français district. To ease tensions with City Hall, the ever-calculating Danton adopted a tactical retreat: he relinquished his position as district president and instead set his sights on the General Committee of the Paris Commune, aspiring to run for mayor or chief prosecutor the following year.
To achieve this, Danton needed allies. He selected the abandoned monastery as a base to train and unify the Cordeliers under his leadership.
Unfortunately, Danton gravely underestimated the animosity harbored by Bailly, Lafayette, and other liberal nobles. Many of them believed Danton and Marat to be the masterminds behind the October Women's March on Versailles, the storming of the Queen's bedchamber, and the murders of several royal guards.
So in the April elections for the Commune's General Committee, Danton, usually brimming with confidence, suffered his first political defeat.
...
It took André just fifteen minutes to walk from Rue Saint-Jacques to the Cordeliers Club. Like most Parisian districts, the streets were filthy—trash was strewn everywhere, and merchants shouted loudly as carts rattled past. With most adult men off at work, the streets were left to coughing elders, housewives dragging muddy skirts, and children running naked through the muck.
Turning onto Rue des Cordeliers, André heard someone call his name. He turned to see a familiar face: Louis-Lazare Hoche.
The young soldier, tall and striking, wore white breeches, black boots, and a blue uniform with a white cross-belt. The royalist fleur-de-lis on his chest was gone, replaced by a tricolor cockade on his bicorne hat—the emblem of the National Guard.
Smiling, André embraced his old friend. "Louis, it's good to see you. I passed the Tuileries earlier this year and heard from Lieutenant Lefebvre that you'd resigned and gone back to Versailles. What brings you to Paris?"
Hoche scratched his head. "I didn't exactly resign—they kicked me out. Someone reported me for reading Rousseau's Social Contract in the barracks. But I came here with a letter from Monsieur Legendre. He helped me join the Théâtre-Français district's National Guard. Look—I'm already a sergeant!"
He proudly slapped the three yellow chevrons on his left sleeve. Before the Revolution, a commoner could rise no higher than sergeant—unless he somehow became a nobleman.
André laughed and waved a finger. "A sergeant's nothing! You don't get paid, you buy your own uniform, and you bring your own weapons. Why don't you come work for me? The great, righteous, and soon-to-be-legendary André needs a brave warrior to guard him. Who knows—maybe in two or three years I'll make you a captain, a colonel, even a general!"
In years to come, Hoche would not be the Republic's most brilliant strategist, but he would become its most obedient commander—faithfully carrying out every order from the Republic with stunning results, whether against the Austro-Prussian alliance on the Rhine, the Vendée rebels in western France, or the doomed expedition to Ireland.
Compared to him, Napoleon's repeated insubordination at Toulon would've cost him his head—were it not for the protection of Robespierre the Younger and Barras.
And with that, André dragged his new protégé toward the Cordeliers Club.
Legendre, watching from the doorway, was surprised. Since meeting André last October, he had never once seen the aloof lawyer embrace anyone—not even Marat. If Hoche, a young provincial nobody, could win his favor, perhaps there was hidden promise. Maybe Legendre should invest further—invite Hoche to live at 156 Rue Saint-Jacques, rent-free.
André, unaware of his landlord's musings, was too busy absorbing his first impressions of the club. He wasn't impressed.
The Romanesque facade of the monastery was crumbling. The narrow windows let in almost no light, so dozens of torches burned day and night beneath the stone dome.
Inside, the decor was even more dismal.
The grand hall that once housed silver candlesticks, censers, crucifixes, and saints' relics was now barren. The pews and religious statues were gone.
The chairman's "desk" was a carpenter's bench. The speaker's podium was a thick plank laid across four massive wooden stumps. On the day the club was founded, Danton and Desmoulins had hung a red-painted cloth banner behind the rostrum, emblazoned with the words:
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity
When André and Hoche entered the hall, a man was already speaking at the podium. It was still early—most workers hadn't finished their shifts—so only a dozen or so people milled around in loose clusters, whispering amongst themselves.
Hoche, after a brief apology, made his way over to a fellow guardsman—a young officer in blue, speaking with a middle-aged man.
"That's Captain Brune," said Legendre, appearing at André's side. "He's Hoche's commanding officer in the district's National Guard. The man he's buttering up is Laclos—a former artilleryman, now secretary and agent for a certain… influential figure. Supposedly he carries a fortune in livres and spends his days buying loyalties in clubs and salons across Paris. See those wrinkles on his handsome face? That's from scheming too much."
"An influential figure?" André smirked. "Let me guess. The Duke of Orléans?"
For a time-traveling historian, such secrets were trivial. He even knew that Laclos had penned Les Liaisons Dangereuses—a scandalous novel later hailed as a milestone in French literature.
"I'm impressed," Legendre murmured, then shrugged. "But of course—you're from the Palais de Justice. It makes sense."
"What about the others?" André pointed toward a cluster near the stairwell. Only one face was familiar: Camille Desmoulins, the long-haired, bright-eyed young man who'd helped him join Danton's law office. Though charming, Desmoulins' stutter had derailed his legal career, so he became a journalist, editor, and revolutionary propagandist.
"The one talking to Desmoulins is Fréron," Legendre continued. "Also a journalist. Quiet, mild-mannered, never argues—but Marat says he's got a viper sleeping in his soul."
"The flashy older one is Fabre, a playwright. Won some literary prize before the Revolution.
"The tall, handsome fellow in the brown cloak is Sèze. He's a lawyer like you—and quite the lady-killer. Has more noble mistresses than some regiments have men."
André nodded. His gaze shifted to the man on stage.
"Hebert," Legendre said, without prompting. "The loud one. Pink face, big mouth. Preaching violence to anyone who'll listen."
Hebert's audience consisted of two loyal followers.
The stocky one with massive hands was Simon, a hot-tempered cobbler. The squinty one with darting eyes was Frey, twitchy as a rat.
"…So in the days ahead," Hebert was bellowing, "we have a choice. We can hold our breath and pray to a useless god, hoping the aristocratic courts will spare our comrade Babeuf. Or—we can heed Marat's call and rally the sans-culottes from all 48 districts for a holy insurrection to liberate our brother from Châtelet prison!"
André rolled his eyes. If this buffoon ignited a riot, he would be the first to suffer.
"Only fools worship brute force!" André shouted, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "If violence solves everything, then let lions rule France!"
"Who are you?" Hebert roared, fists clenched. His lackeys echoed him with snarls and shouts.
"He's André Frank," Legendre rushed over. "Babeuf's lawyer."
"As his attorney," Frey squeaked, "shouldn't you support our righteous cause?"
"I oppose all senseless violence," André said, now quoting shamelessly. "Because in the clamor of violence, the voice of law becomes a whisper."
"But even Babeuf believes in violence," Simon scoffed. "So why defend him?"
André's eyes gleamed. This was the line he'd been waiting for.
"I may disagree with what you say," he declared, slowly and clearly, "but I will defend to the death your right to say it."
(Disclaimer: That quote is often misattributed to Voltaire. It was actually coined by an English journalist in 1906.)