In mid-May of 1790, Paris ushered in the festival of Pentecost. As in years past, it was a grand occasion for the capital to display its splendour and ceremony—but in truth, many Parisians saw it as a dress rehearsal for the upcoming Fête de la Fédération.
By eight o'clock in the morning, Rue Saint-Denis and the riverside avenues leading toward Notre-Dame were packed wall to wall. The surging crowd, clad in silks of dazzling hue and splendid fabric, formed long, colourful processions moving from north to south like a flowing sea of blossoms—tulips, dahlias, wild lilies—all arranged in ornate golden carriages that gleamed in the sun, a spectacle both delightful and proud.
Riding atop the lead carriage was Madame Necker, graceful in bearing and handsome in her maturity. This year, she replaced Marie Antoinette as the fête's principal guest of honour. The once-retiring wife of the finance minister, who had built hospitals from her own purse, hosted scholars at her table, and ever sought to fortify her husband's faltering spirits—today she finally basked in the adulation she was due.
"Look at her—like a queen," said Meldar, lifting the carriage curtain, his voice tinged with awe.
Madame Necker, nearing fifty, sat unflinching in her open-top carriage, receiving the applause of the crowds with the composure of one who stood upon a foundation of diamonds and destiny itself.
"Hmph. A queen of flowers—about to be dethroned," André sneered.
It had been nearly ten months since Necker and his cabinet of financiers had proposed their sweeping scheme to balance the royal budget—all of which had failed. France's deficit had now reached historic proportions.
Was it twenty billion livres? Thirty? André no longer bothered to keep count. It was none of his business—for now.
Two days prior, Camille Desmoulins had once again mocked the Swiss banker in his paper, calling him "a fool dancing on burning parchment." Ironically, ten months earlier, the same Camille had stirred the Revolution to life in fury when Necker had been dismissed.
History, it seemed, never missed a chance for contradiction or cruel satire.
Once Madame Necker's float had passed, André prepared to eject his pageboy from the carriage. He handed Meldar a sealed envelope and instructed him to—
"To the magistrate's lady again? Third time now. Another poem?" the Polish boy grumbled, reluctant to leave the plush cushion.
"Out. Walk home today—no carriage will fetch you," André growled, his pride stung.
"Ha! She always gives five livres per visit," Meldar laughed, patting his pouch before leaping from the step to blend into the parade, hunting for the float in question.
André checked his pocket watch. A quarter past ten. Time was tight.
He rapped the front of the carriage with his knuckles and curtly instructed the driver to move on. For twenty whole minutes, the man had idled at the intersection, transfixed by the floral parade.
Even with orders, the carriage crawled at a snail's pace.
Finally, André stamped his foot and threatened: "If we're not at Place de la Révolution within half an hour, I swear I'll cancel every one of your company's contracts."
Place de la Révolution—officially still named Place Louis XV by the government—had been given its new title by the citizens of Paris the previous July (not formally ratified until 1792 by the Commune). Located on the Right Bank, this famed octagonal square had been designed to glorify the Sun King's lineage. Its eastern edge faced the Tuileries, its western end led into the Champs-Élysées; to the north, it bordered the Hôtel de Crillon and the Naval Ministry, and to the south, the Pont de la Concorde that led to the Bourbon Palace. From here, one could survey the lush choreography of the Tuileries Gardens or gaze down upon the shimmering waters of the Seine.
The carriage drew to a halt. As André stepped down, he was relieved to see the bronze equestrian statue of Louis XV still standing in the square's centre. Somehow, its continued presence gave him comfort.
The Restaurant Méditerranéen lay at the southern end of the square, near the river. A typical Provençal establishment, it offered dishes from the south of France and along the Mediterranean. Once obscure, it had grown fashionable since October last year, after the Count of Provence—brother to Louis XVI—had begun dining there regularly.
By eleven o'clock, with lunch approaching, the restaurant was already seventy percent full. In a back corner, Lieutenant Lefebvre and Sergeant Augereau of the royal guards were seated, each nursing an empty cup of coffee, chatting without ordering.
The proprietress scowled. If not for their uniforms, she might already have shown them the door.
Augereau, ever the loudmouth, suddenly shouted, "Hah! Lefebvre—look there! That fool outside the window—I know him! Saw him at Luxembourg Palace, pacing around the fountain like he wanted to drown himself. Then a pretty noblewoman dragged him into her carriage!"
Lefebvre took one look, then turned to his comrade with irritation. "That 'fool,' as you call him, is André Franck. The very man I'm introducing you to today. He's the new tax prosecutor—and soon the commander of a mounted patrol. Augereau, my friend, if you ever hope for a rank above sergeant, I suggest you shut that mouth of yours."
From his interactions with Hoche, Lefebvre had learned of André's plans. Though only a mounted police unit on paper, André's cavalry was to be outfitted with horses and arms that rivalled the German dragoons stationed on France's borders. Rather than drawing from the police ranks, André had chosen to recruit destitute herdsmen from the outskirts of Paris.
Lefebvre, a veteran officer, understood: born riders though they were, these men were wild, unschooled in discipline or command. To forge them into soldiers—cavalrymen—would require a severe, seasoned master.
Hoche was too green. But Augereau—sixteen years of brutal military service across Europe—he was the man for the job.
The only risk lay in whether André would tolerate Augereau's insubordinate streak. Just two days earlier, the sergeant had been reprimanded for insulting his superior—his third such offence. Though spared a court-martial thanks to Lefebvre's lobbying, Augereau had been banned from re-entering the Guards' barracks.
As André entered the restaurant, no one looked more relieved than the proprietress herself.
After a round of greetings, André summoned her and ordered a veritable feast: salted cod, egg pudding, beef stew, bacon-mushroom soup, scallop gratin, ratatouille—washed down with Bordeaux, as this year's champagne was reportedly poor.
He ate heartily, hunched over the table, offering little conversation save a few compliments to the cook.
At last, as the table was cleared and coffee served, André dabbed his lips with a napkin and turned to Augereau.
"Thanks to Lefebvre's detailed recommendation, I believe you're fit to serve as drillmaster for my mounted unit. So I have but one question: when you refuse a superior's order, shall I send you to the gallows of the military tribunal—or levy thirty years of back taxes on your father's fruit stall, with penalties?"
The air turned cold. Augereau's eyes blazed with rage; his fists clenched, jaw tightened.
Lefebvre reached to calm him, but André remained placid, smiling.
"You have one minute to answer," he said.
Augereau exhaled sharply, then gritted his teeth. "I swear: I will never again defy your orders. But as for others—I make no such promise."
The tension broke. In truth, Augereau respected strength. He had once bowed to a short Corsican with a ruthless will—what shame, then, in yielding to this Parisian?
André pulled a blank commission from his case, scrawled the name "Charles Augereau," and handed it across.
"Sergeant Augereau: as training and tactics officer of the Mounted Revenue Patrol, report to the Prefecture by 8 a.m. tomorrow."
The sergeant stood and saluted. "Yes, sir!"
André nodded. "I hear you once served under General Suvorov. When time permits, work with Lieutenant Hoche to revise the Suzdal Regiment Code. Make it fit for our French army."
"Yes, sir!"
Minutes later, Augereau took his leave, eager to pack his bags and share the good news with his family.
"Thank you," Lefebvre said. At least his friend now had a future.
"No thanks needed," André replied evenly. "He'll be a competent instructor."
Everyone had their soft spots. Augereau's were his family—father, mother, his Greek wife Gabrielle Gourgi, and their child. That, in André's eyes, was no flaw.
But the meeting ended on a sour note.
Lefebvre had invited André to visit Louis XVI at the Tuileries. The prosecutor refused, firmly.
As they settled the bill, André made it clear—with disdain.
"Louis Capet may be a decent man. But he is no king. Not even a competent one. A monarch must be the first to mount his horse and swing his sword in battle. Not shriek like a fishwife at the sight of danger. If I were you, I'd leave the Guards immediately."
Throughout the Revolution, Louis XVI had proven himself unequal to his crown. A coward was worse than a tyrant—for at least tyrants dared to strike back.