Wherever there are people, there will be conflict—it is only natural.
In July 1789, just a week after Bailly and Lafayette were respectively elected Mayor of Paris and Commander of the National Guard, the newly renamed National Constituent Assembly abruptly decreed that no deputy might hold an executive government office. Thus, Bailly and Lafayette were compelled to relinquish their seats in the Assembly, swallowing their frustration.
By late October, the Assembly followed Louis XVI back to Paris, taking up residence in the refurbished riding school adjacent to the Tuileries Palace. It was then that the deputies began to realize, with growing alarm, that their every move was being observed—closely and persistently—by the very men they had just unseated. The central instruments of power in the capital—police and military—remained firmly in the hands of the Paris Commune and its allies.
For the next four or five years, the capital would dominate the nation. The people of Paris saw themselves as guardians of the Revolution, intervening again and again to unseat whichever faction displeased them—royalists, constitutional monarchists, Girondins, Jacobins, even the people themselves. The great terrace of the Tuileries bore witness to this endless parade of victors and vanquished.
Those who felt most endangered by this volatile climate—particularly the deputies—moved quickly to weaken their former colleagues. Yet attempts to oust Lafayette failed miserably; the General's popularity was unrivaled, with forty out of Paris's forty-eight National Guard districts willing to swear personal loyalty to him.
Turning their ire on Bailly, the deputies backed radicals like Marat, Danton, and Santerre in the Paris Commune elections—only to meet defeat again. Of the twelve seats on the General Council, only three, including Billaud-Varenne, aligned with the Assembly.
Just as hopes dimmed, the once-neutral Palais de Justice extended an olive branch to the Assembly. With the meddling of one particular interloper—André—the spheres of justice and legislation began to intertwine.
By January 1790, thanks to André's careful orchestration, the Paris Police Bureau secured an allotment of 200 patrolmen, a victory that earned the judiciary newfound appreciation among the police ranks.
In March, a proposal ghostwritten by André and submitted by local prosecutor Legoff passed the Assembly. Citing rampant disorder and surging urban population, it authorized a full restructuring of the Police Bureau: a new central headquarters, multiple direct sub-bureaus, and a mobile rapid-response division.
In April, the former Director of Police stepped down due to illness. With strong backing from both the judiciary and the Assembly, Legoff triumphed in the Commune's internal election, securing his place as Paris's new Director of Police—the de facto head of the future Police Prefecture.
Legoff, 38, and brother-in-law to the Supreme Judge Vinault's wife, struck most as an imposing man. Years of dealing with criminals had honed a certain fearsome presence in his bearing—a reminder to all that his word might very well mean life or death.
Yet in the corner café that afternoon, speaking with André over a quietly served cup of coffee, the new Police Director appeared in good spirits. The owner, having delivered the drinks, discreetly withdrew to his counter, leaving the two men in peace. Javert, the inspector, patrolled the street outside with a few trusted aides, keeping watch.
Six days had passed since the conclusion of the Babeuf trial. That morning, André received an appointment decree, officially naming him Tax Prosecutor with a salary of 4,000 livres. And yet, the Special Tax Tribunal that should have followed remained mired in delay.
"The Assembly has run into trouble," Legoff admitted, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "We underestimated the power of the tax farmers. Lavoisier, leveraging his influence, rallied numerous Academicians to lobby on their behalf. With Necker's help, they pushed through a motion of no-confidence against the Tax Commission. This morning, the motion passed. The Commission chair resigned, and the entire body was dissolved. Its duties now fall directly under the Assembly—and under the rules, a new commission cannot be formed for twenty days."
Twenty days? André silently scoffed. Even five sets of twenty days might not be enough. So long as the tax farmers kept up their sweet-talking siege, the commission would remain in limbo—perhaps until the next legislature convened in 1791.
He had warned them, again and again, to move swiftly after the Babeuf affair. Yet all their energy had gone into jockeying for the Police Director's seat. Now Legoff sat upon it, and André was left holding a hollow title, bereft of any court.
He stirred his coffee with the same measured rhythm, letting the spoon tap lightly against the cup. Each note rang clear. To Legoff's ears, it sounded like the drumbeat of a debt collector.
André wanted compensation.
Were it anyone else, Legoff would have left in a huff. But André was no ordinary peer—he was the protégé of Judge Vinault, the man whose support had secured Legoff the top post. He was also the darling of the Palais de Justice and the rising star of the legal world, backed openly by Mirabeau, Prieur, and even Robespierre. Mayor Bailly himself had supported André during the Babeuf trial.
To estrange André now would be reckless.
"Javert, your fellow Reims native," Legoff began cautiously. "He could be made deputy chief of one of the district bureaus."
André didn't blink. "Wait two weeks," he said. "There will be something far more worthwhile by then."
What he truly sought wasn't a mere title. He needed power—specifically, enforcement power.
"A 100-man city cavalry unit?" Legoff balked. "Impossible. The mobile force has only 200 men in total. You're asking for half. This isn't your private judiciary playground. At most, I could spare you a single troop—22 men."
André smiled faintly. "Two troops, no more than fifty riders, organized into a squadron. When the Special Tribunal is formed, it will assume responsibility for all their pay and equipment—including prior disbursements from the police budget."
That last phrase was the clincher—among those "prior disbursements" were the bonuses reserved for Legoff himself. Once the Tribunal came into being, André would wield near-absolute control, and a fifty-man squadron would be but a droplet in the storm.
"Done."
"To a profitable collaboration."
They raised their cups and toasted, sealing the accord.
"Who'll lead your squadron?" Legoff asked.
"Hoche. Louis-Lazare Hoche. He's a sergeant now. I'd like him promoted to lieutenant when the time comes."
The name meant little to Legoff. A minor cavalry officer wasn't worth remembering. He nodded and excused himself, leaving for his waiting carriage.
André summoned Javert and issued a few short instructions. Then, turning onto Rue Saint-Jacques, he spotted Legendre waving from across the street.
The landlord rushed over. "Danton's returned!" he said breathlessly. "Last night. His wife and newborn child, too."
André's eyes brightened. "Shall I bring a gift? Visit him at home in the Bourse Courtyard, or wait at the Cordeliers Club?"
"Neither," Legendre said, halting. He hesitated.
André felt his heart cool. He understood at once. Danton had no wish to see him.
Not even the Club's expanded reach across twenty districts; not even André's success in quashing Danton's arrest warrant; not even the upcoming repeal of Marat's own indictment… none of it was enough. Whispers from Desmoulins, Fabre, Fréron, perhaps even Séchelles—jealousy, like venom, had begun to coil.
In less than a year, an unknown intern had risen through the Palais ranks, gained the favor of Duke Orléans, and claimed a position most of Paris's lawyers could only dream of. Now, at twenty-four, André had become the target of envy from all sides.
He had always known that his ideals would diverge from Danton's. But he had not expected the break to come so soon, nor so bitterly.
Still, he was no longer powerless.
He took a long breath, then told Legendre, "Thank you. Tell President Danton that Hoche and I will soon depart the Cordeliers."
"I'm sorry," Legendre murmured. "I tried to speak on your behalf. But Danton—he seemed passionate, yes, but lucid."
André embraced the man gently, then turned to leave.
When men feel restless, they often seek beauty or solitude. Without realizing, André wandered through two blocks and arrived before the Luxembourg Palace.
In 1790, it still belonged to the Bourbon dynasty—not yet a feared prison.
Built in the style of Tuscany, its colonnaded central pavilion rose between two wings, a Florentine crown atop its dome. André had walked here before, in another life—reading, jogging, picnicking with friends by the central pond.
Now the palace stood guarded by the King's Swiss Guard, but they made no move to stop him. The Revolution was still young. Citizens could stroll freely—even those who mumbled about monarchy.
Two guards noticed him.
"You see that man?" said the shorter one. "Keeps walking round the fountain. Maybe he's suicidal."
The taller, wirier soldier squinted. "Some fool from the provinces. Doesn't know the deepest part barely reaches your knees. I'll jab him with my bayonet if he gets his boots wet."
His name was Augereau. Thirty-two years old, a veteran of Prussia, Russia, Switzerland, and Naples. Rejected by the National Guard—Lafayette had no love for disobedient mercenaries—he had returned to Paris only to be restored as a mere sergeant.
Today, Augereau did not get his wish. A luxurious four-wheeled carriage rolled to a halt beside André.
From within, a lady stepped down, clothed in silk pink, her gesture as graceful as a fairy's spell.
Without a word, she extended her pale, slender hand.
And with quiet resignation, the weary Prosecutor of Taxes stepped onto the carriage and left the royal gardens behind.