In Paris, André refused more grandees than just Louis XVIII and the Duc d’Orléans. When the Constitutionalists nobles—Barnave, the Lath brothers, and Duport—sent him salon invitations, he likewise declined, though in a gentler and more courteous tone, pleading that he was tied up with training at the Versailles camp.
As André saw it, these figures who now thundered across the political stage were, in truth, n of bluster. Within a year or two they would either mount the scaffold, die abroad, or fade into the background—hardly worth “investing in,” and troubleso to be associated with.
By faction, André was closer to the Constitutionalists line of Mirabeau, Lafayette, and Bailly: they commanded the Paris National Guard, controlled the Paris City Hall, and held sway in the Constituent Assembly. General Lafayette was Colonel André’s nominal superior (nominal—he paid no salary), and André still owed the respected Mayor Bailly a major favor.
As for the Comte de Mirabeau, he counted as André’s ntor in oratory. André’s Brutus-style triumph in the Assembly owed much to that two-faced, licentious man. If André did not know that Mirabeau was mortally ill and near his end, he might have chosen to stand with the Constitutionalists camp led by Mirabeau and Lafayette.
Among the Revolution’s leaders at its various stages, only the keen-witted Comte de Mirabeau understood that, in launching a revolution, one must first think how to shorten it and lessen its destructiveness. Had Lafayette—fad for rectitude, honesty, kindness, and courage—cooperated to support him, France in 1792 might have been spared the runaway horse that, after a hysterical gallop, plunged into an endless abyss of terror.
Of course, this was André’s irresponsible conjecture. In fact, all Paris knew Mirabeau’s health was failing by the day. André himself was already planning for the post-Mirabeau arrangents.
One day André brought Percy and Larrey to pay a joint call on the great statesman. After they stepped out, the two surgeons told Colonel André bluntly: the case was beyond control. Beyond syphilis, the comte’s suppurating eye disease had worsened; the blood-shot eyeballs looked ready to spring from his face (they strongly suspected late-stage diabetes with multiple complications). Kidney disease tornted him as well. For work, sleep, and won, he had resorted to heavy doses of laudanum; this only aggravated the illness.
“Earliest by next spring, latest by midsumr,” was the doctors’ prognosis for Mirabeau’s life.
On the sickbed Mirabeau motioned André to stay alone. He said frankly, “Days ago I advised the royal family to seize any chance to flee Paris, as Louis XIV did with the Fronde.”
“You are playing with fire, comte. But no matter,” André replied coolly. When Mirabeau struggled to press further, André cut him off:
“Please say no more. In the Marne—whether in Reims, or for myself, or for my troops—we will not welco any sort of traitor.”
With that, André rose, bowed, and left without another word. With his own power swelling and Mirabeau’s ti short, there was no need to indulge excessive requests. Weeks earlier, André had already learned that Mirabeau was plotting the royal family’s flight to the Marquis de Bouillé’s post at tz.
Back at the Île Saint-Louis villa, André summoned Javert and ordered him to have n steal back his autograph letters to Mirabeau—11 in all—and bring them to him intact. Cautious as ever, André was sure he had not discussed the King or any bribes in that correspondence; still, better to retrieve and burn every line—safest of all.
Besides Mirabeau, André also paid a private call at Lafayette’s residence. Thanks to the deft handling of the bogus “comte” affair, André received a warm welco from the family—warst of all from Lafayette’s two nieces. In the salon they recited André’s poems over and over at the top of their voices—from “If Life Deceives You” to the new “I Have Not Loved This World”—winning rounds of applause.
But once in Lafayette’s private room, the talk turned awkward. The “friend of the Arican people,” the Arican President’s godson, had a special request from the U.S. minister, Gouverneur Morris: to persuade André, a provincial deputy chief prosecutor, to stop publicly harrying Arica over its arrears to France.
Months earlier, Minister Morris and Minister of Finance Necker had agreed a morandum on the 1.06-billion-livre debt. Under the Franco-Arican alliance, after deducting France’s free military aid, sums already repaid by the United States, and waiving interest, the net Arican debt ca to 200,000,000 livres.
Even so, the Aricans kept stalling. Commissioned by the Paris Commune, André attacked the U.S. governnt in the press. Leveraging his “foreknowledge,” he even “reported” a true-to-co story in Paris papers: that President Washington had quietly diverted the 200,000,000 livres owed to France to build a blue-water fleet—over 60 ships of the line, cruisers, and frigates—to strike the North African pirates preying on Arican shipping and to overawe European powers across the Atlantic.
The mont it ran, the French Assembly burst into outrage at the untrustworthy Arican minister, while across the ocean Congress raised an uproar—not over French funds as such, but over the Washington administration’s autocracy: deploying a vast national outlay without prior approval of the legislature, in gross violation of the Constitution. The U.S. governnt spent the latter half of 1790 on the back foot.
To Lafayette’s lobbying, André said he would listen—but in his heart he would not relent. In history, the Aricans had only dragged revolutionary France backward—more harm than help. Better to seize the chance to berate the North Arican rebels and curry favor for a year or two with Westminster and Buckingham, so he might steal more cutting-edge technology from the far side of the Channel.
At least Lafayette brought a happier note. He told André that once Reims stabilized and the Ardennes brigands were crushed, he would, as Commander-in-Chief of the National Guard, petition King Louis XVI to confer on André Franck the rank of brevet General, and to expand the Champagne regint into a 5,000-man Marne-Ardennes composite brigade within the National Guard establishnt.
“If possible, my lord marquis, please have the Military Committee of the Constituent Assembly process my promotion—and it should be the Champagne Composite Brigade, not a Marne-Ardennes Brigade,” André reminded him.
He did not wish to court disaster—especially in next year’s sensitive season. Unlike Mirabeau and Lafayette, André held no reverence or awe for monarchy. What worried him more were those tricolor-sashed, tricolor-cockaded ultra-left deputies and Commune mbers who could rouse the crowd—yet they were his first political allies in Paris at present.
As for pay—the matter André cared most about—Lafayette dodged and weaved until he could not. “Well… you must still find your own way.”
Soon Lafayette ntioned his plan for next year: with like-minded friends—Bailly, Mirabeau, Barnave, Talleyrand, the Laths, and Sieyès—to found a new political club to uphold constitutional liberty, and he hoped André would join.
André turned deaf and soon pled a call of nature. Joking aside—an orphan without even a minor title—he had no need to wade into that mire.
In France—especially Paris—hosting a successful salon is never effortless; for hosts, and especially hostesses, it is a craft of years: learning others’ circles, honing skills, building networks.
Mada Condorcet was outstanding among them: sociable, innately elegant, learned; thanks to her husband, well read in letters, politics, philosophy, art, and music; a Bordelaise, skilled in wine and fluent in several tongues.
When Mada Necker, in tears, had to accompany her husband—stripped of the Finance Ministry—back to Switzerland and shut the doors of the “first salon of Paris,” Mada Condorcet’s salon beca the brightest star in Paris—without peer.
Although an hour remained before the Friday 15:00 start, the clever, gracious, and wealthy hostess kept moving without pause. With notebook and two stewards in tow, she flitted room to room, checking every item: lectern, chairs, and equipnt for talks; refreshnts and sweets; the rooms’ arrangent and tone—flowers were indispensable. Though Paris was in late autumn, the Jardin des Plantes’ hothouses could supply roses and lilies year-round—at terrifying prices.
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Mada Condorcet turned to ask about preparations: “Today the wines must be Bordeaux reds from my ho—Lafite if possible—so that the deputy chief prosecutor will be pleased. … For tea we’ll use a cold buffet; I hear it is the rage in Bordeaux, and I rather like it. Remind the marquis at dinner not to draw Monsieur André into philosophy or mathematics. … And have the attendants keep their ears sharp. When they hear a fine poem, they must copy it down for at once—the whole text. Yes, especially Monsieur André’s. … If Mada Lavoisier is present, seat her apart from Monsieur André; their relations are poor. Not the sa room, and at dinner not face to face.”
Seeing his wife—a year younger than himself—so keyed up over an ordinary salon, the Marquis drew her into the study.
“My dear Sophie, there is no need for such pomp over a new guest nad André,” he pleaded once the door shut. Unlike his warm-blooded wife, the marquis—with long, fluffed curls—was habitually shy, stiff in manner, and always buttoned up in plain high-collared linen.
Truth be told, today’s trouble was his doing. As a courtesy, he had invited the Marne Deputy Chief Prosecutor—soon to leave Paris—to his wife Sophie’s Friday salon. To his surprise, André—who had refused two Bourbon princes—accepted. He himself thought little of it, but once he told Sophie, matters changed.
Sophie was from Bordeaux; her family held dozens of hectares of vines and several châteaux. This year, thanks to André’s Bordeaux Mixture, growers and rchants had been spared disaster. Her gratitude was beyond doubt. Her earlier disdain for André—on account of her husband—had vanished.
Now she brushed off his pleas. She had another reason: “I want Monsieur André to leave a poem that will circulate through all Parisian high society. Just yesterday Mada de Staël, Necker’s daughter, returned from Geneva; her salon, they say, opens next week.”
The marquis understood: Mada de Staël would revive her mother’s salon in Paris, threatening Mada Condorcet’s renown; André—the city’s most popular poet—could offset the impact if he debuted there.
“So,” Mada Condorcet stressed, “by any ans, André must leave a poem—and it must be newly composed at Mada Condorcet’s salon.”
To his young wife the marquis was ever accommodating. To win her, he had labored 5 years to please her family. In his philosophy he had even first proposed the shocking political thesis of won’s emancipation and equality.
He would not fail her now. Soon he had the carriage readied and went himself to fetch André from the judge’s villa on Île Saint-Louis.
Honored by such ceremony, André arrived; but when he learned the hosts’ request, he shifted from guest to hard bargainer.
“Well then…” He put on a show of difficulty, said nothing further, neither yes nor no, staring instead at the Académie des Sciences badge on the marquis’s breast—the Louvre statue device.
“All right,” said the marquis, knowing what the man wanted.
A week ago, André had asked the Académie des Sciences to establish a branch at Châlons—a faculty or laboratory. As permanent secretary, the marquis had refused the impertinent request, boasting that only Paris was the proper gathering place for French science.
After a paus,e he said, “It cannot be an Académie des Sciences ‘Champagne Branch.’ It can be a ‘Champagne Institute,’ with at most 3 académiciens at a ti working there. You bear all costs.”
Under Louis XIV, the reford academy was set in the Louvre Library, with revised statutes and two classes of mbers—salaried and honorary. Today mbership generally ran to 70–80: in descending order, full mbers, honorary mbers, corresponding mbers, and pupils.
André nad his price: “At least 10 scholars of the academy, attendance voluntary, salaries doubled. Results and patents to be co-owned by the institute and the authors. In addition, United Investnt Company will donate a substantial annual research grant to the Académie des Sciences.” Since the scale of the many companies grew, André established the United Investnt Company as the above layer of almost all the companies under his control for better managent; and patents and investnt are controlled through it.
Seeing the marquis frown, he added: “I guarantee the poem composed at Mada Condorcet’s salon will shine—through Paris, France, even all Europe. If not, this gentleman’s agreent is void. Now—what, precisely, does the lady require in the poem?”
…
Life, Love, and Liberty—such was Mada Condorcet’s the this week.
A regular, the couple’s old friend Brissot, spoke first from the lectern:
“…The balance shifts by age and circumstance. In youth, before one knows love, life proceeds; perhaps freedom is most desired. What we call bonds then may not be true bonds, yet we crown freedom with nobility. Life is precious; love is beautiful; yet beside freedom they are sowhat less…”
André had little taste for such philosophizing. With a glass of red in hand, he glanced about the 20-odd guests and saw many acquaintances. He greeted Robespierre, Pétion, and Buzot, chatted briefly, then moved to Judge Duranthon by the great window—who had signaled him.
“I hear you refused the Comte de Provence and the Duc d’Orléans?” the judge asked casually. In Paris, he had quickly fallen in with Brissot, Condorcet, and the rest.
André nodded, thinking how poorly Paris kept a secret; three days on, and all Europe knew.
“Mind yourself,” Duranthon warned. “The Tuileries’ contacts with the Marquis de Bouillé are mostly managed by the Comte de Provence in person. And the Duc d’Orléans still wields considerable power in the Palais de Justice. I am told he has n shadowing you and inquiring into your appointnt as Marne Deputy Chief Prosecutor.”
“Thank you.” André took two glasses from a tray, handed one to his ally, and they drank.
“The Comte de Provence is the cleverest of the Capets—he will not act rashly. As for the Duc d’Orléans—my people will soon have the truth,” André said.
Before he could finish, the hostess’s sweet voice filled the hall again—Brissot had finally ended his long turn to half the room’s applause.
“If it had been Robespierre, I’d suggest a breath of air in the garden,” Duranthon joked; Robespierre’s speeches were deep and obscure, short on fire, and sent listeners dozing.
In 1790, many still took Robespierre for an honest man—upright, sincere, pure, loyal beyond weakening. André, however, knew that behind the wigs, the tight face, the gentle, thin fra, a terrifying virus lay hidden. Once it took him over, Robespierre would beco boundlessly vain, cold, and pitiless.
Though André in Paris kept close company with Robespierre—staunch allies on the left—he never ceased to watch and guard against him. Five large drawers at the Police Prefecture held Robespierre’s secret files—Deputy Chief Javert’s handiwork at André’s special order.
After a few minutes of patter, Mada Condorcet announced the next speaker: “The Marne’s Deputy Chief Prosecutor, Monsieur André!”
To applause, André smiled, passed through the parted crowd, and strolled to the lectern. Mm—no rostrum at height; he felt a touch unmoored.
“I would like to recite a new poem, just composed. I hope you will enjoy it.” Unlike his Assembly performances, he cleared his throat, spoke a little haltingly, with a studied air of pride and oddity—drawing “tittering” laughter. It was deliberate—to hook interest and warm his voice. As for the verse, there was no need to polish: the original author had carried its aning to a world-beating height.
“Life is dear indeed,
Love is prized yet more;
But for the sake of Liberty,
Both may be given o’er.
Give both—and only then you’ll know:
Without life, where will love be found?”
…
When André’s asured recitation ended, the 30-odd listeners were silent. As he stepped down, expression clouded, squeezing into the aisle, the guests seed to wake from sleep and thundered applause—clapping his shoulders and back, crying for an encore… One beca 5, until everyone could chant it by heart.
Later, Mada Condorcet wrote: “His eyes flashed with wit and passion; in that mont André enjoyed a reverence like Henri IV’s; even the odd way he left the lectern was morable. I knew he would bring a surprise, but I still underestimated him. It belonged not just to my salon, but to all Paris and to France.”
After the day’s “borrowing,” André declined the hostess’s repeated pleas and left early. At the door he signaled the académicien not to forget their gentleman’s pact.
Waiting for his carriage, he saw Lavoisier arriving. They exchanged a nod.
“Thank you,” Lavoisier murmured as they passed, then entered.
The greatest of French chemists had been a lawyer; once calm, he knew that without André’s pushing for reduced penalties and quick plea deals, the successor to the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court—the ultra-left—might have hounded Lavoisier and the rest until the tax-farrs were stripped to ruin.
André halted and looked back. In his heart, he wished to urge Lavoisier and Condorcet both to flee to Britain and return in 1795. But such folly carried political risks no prudent statesman would take. He shook his head hard, cast the thought aside, and mounted the carriage.
…
In mid-November, André left Paris again for the Versailles camp. The Champagne Composite Regint had completed just over 2 weeks of intensive training—ready to move the 150 km to the Marne at any ti.
Days later, at Colonel André’s order, the regint’s 1,500 set out for Reims. At the sa ti, Parisian politics was brewing a trendous upheaval.
On 11-23, after fierce debate, the Constituent Assembly passed the highly contentious Decree on the Clerical Oath. It required all clergy in France to swear fidelity to the French Constitution of 1791. On 12-26—the second day of Christmas—the vacillating King Louis XVI, on the advice of his new ministers, again chose to yield to the Assembly and signed the decree into law.
anwhile, Talleyrand resigned the Bishopric of Autun and ignored Ro’s rebukes and threats, casting off the conservative Church as a revolutionary and freeing himself of all religious bonds. In a public letter to the Sacred Colleg,e he exulted: “So long as I am French, everything suits . The Revolution has revealed a new destiny to the French nation; I will advance with it, laboring for its success. I will devote all my talents to the nation, resolved to serve the fatherland…”
Upon learning that Louis XVI had signed the Decree on the Clerical Oath, thereby making it law, André—the Marne Deputy Chief Prosecutor—sprang to his feet and told his intimates: “Gentlen, take note! From this mont, France will split. And the shadow of war will follow. For ourselves, our families, and our common interests, we must keep tightly united at all tis.”
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