Judge Larive was not only Lafayette’s law teacher in his student years; he was also a “justice of the peace” who supported the Constitutionalists. It was precisely because of Larive’s repeated endorsements that Lafayette believed that everything he had done in the past, was doing in the present, and would do in the future was lawful, just, and in the interest of the majority.

Now that Larive had been removed from the bench, it meant that the Constitutionalists led by Lafayette had fallen into an absolute disadvantage in their legal struggle against the radical Jacobins. In a sense, as long as the Left represented by André obtained evidence that Lafayette had directed Judge Larive to commit crimes, they could at any time pursue the former commander of the Army of Moselle (the central army group) before the Legislative Assembly, or file a case at the Palais de Justice, and even declare him a “public enemy” beyond constitutional protection.

“Impossible! Larive would never be so reckless! This must be a plot—a plot!” Lafayette roared in fury, his boots thudding hard against the floorboards of the second floor.

If Larive had signed arrest warrants against Jacobin radicals, Lafayette could understand it. But ordering the arrest of deputies was an obvious overreach, and as a former deputy himself, Larive certainly knew it. Unless the Assembly voted to strip a deputy of his seat, a sitting deputy enjoyed judicial immunity.

Hearing the commotion, the butler in a silver-threaded wig came over—only to be cursed away by his master. When he turned back toward the hall on the first floor, he found a group of men in blue uniforms, fully armed, forcing their way into the Marquis de Lafayette’s residence without announcement.

“W-who are you?” the butler asked, trembling. He saw that before the household attendants could raise their pistols or draw their swords, each of them already had five or six rifle bayonets pressed to chest and back. They surrendered their weapons obediently.

Intelligence officer Grisel followed André down from the carriage and into the hall. The Captain waved a hand, ordering the soldiers to escort more than twenty disarmed captives into an empty room for guarded confinement. After confirming the Marquis’s exact location with the butler, Captain Grisel took two grenadiers and accompanied Sir André upstairs to Lafayette’s study.

When the door opened, Lafayette was already standing calmly in the middle of the room. In an even voice, he asked the intruders, “André—have you come to arrest me?” On the desk behind the General lay two pistols and a sword, set flat. Plainly, he had no wish to make a pointless resistance.

André nodded, then shook his head. “Commandant, I am only here in person to inform you that you are to attend a hearing of the Assembly’s Military Committee. Before that, I merely wish to speak with you privately for a few moments.”

At the side, Captain Grisel stepped forward without ceremony and searched Lafayette from head to toe. The other two soldiers carefully checked the study for weapons or other dangerous items; when they withdrew, the pistols and sword on the desk were gone.

“You wait outside as well,” André instructed his intelligence officer.

When the door was shut again, André spoke with an apologetic air. “This is normal procedure. I trust you will understand, my friend.”

“No,” the master of the house rejected the apology with arrogance. “No normal man accepts an apology offered at bayonet point. And when you bring troops into my home, we are no longer friends. We are not.”

André shrugged with easy indifference and walked straight to the small bar in the corner of the study. He poured himself a beer and drank.

“You may not know this, but I spent the entire morning in the Palais de Justice. I argued until I was hoarse to persuade those obstinate justices. Only now, after four or five hours, do I finally get a drink.”

“Did you persuade them with bayonets as well?” Lafayette asked, full of contempt.

André laughed. “How could that be? Among all the Generals in France, none respects the law more than I do—provided, of course, it is law I recognize. I merely told those gentlemen of the court—no, stated a fact—that if public opinion was not calmed quickly, the National Guard and the Paris police would be unable to restrain the sans-culottes who wished to enlist as volunteers from staging demonstrations and marches in the Champs-Élysées quarter and the Place Vendôme quarter.”

Both quarters lay on the western side of Paris, where many great men and high officials lived; the residences of those high-court justices were also in that elegant district.

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Lafayette, whose anger had been burning, did not retort. He fell silent and grew calm instead. André’s words were not new to him. Three years earlier, on this very date, in July 1789, Lafayette had said much the same—standing in the hall of the Estates-General, together with Mirabeau, Bailly, Barnave, Duport, and Lameth, in response to the threats of conservative nobles and intransigent clerics.

André did not linger on the bitterness in his host’s face. He set down the empty glass and spoke as if to himself. “More than once, I heard Mirabeau warn that it is easy to begin a revolution; what is hard is to end it. For that reason, I advised you that when you wished to end the revolution, you must strike decisively and without mercy against every conspirator and agitator. Yet your bullets always missed their target, and you squandered opportunity after opportunity. So now it is my turn to stand with the revolutionaries and take the offensive.”

As he spoke, André called his intelligence adjutant by name through the door. Captain Grisel soon entered the study and lifted the green velvet curtain that connected to the terrace. Through the glass, the scene in the courtyard came clearly into view.

There, Lafayette saw his most capable subordinate and loyal friend, Kléber, seated in a carriage. The unfortunate General wore shackles on both ankles and handcuffs on his wrists, with two grenadiers at his side. He could not move.

Only then did Lafayette understand. No wonder the confidential letter he had sent to Kléber three days earlier had received no reply. At first, he had thought Kléber was hesitating. In truth, André had had him seized in secret.

“Kidnapping?” André said. “Do not put it so crudely. I merely invited General Kléber to appear before the Assembly’s Military Committee for a hearing.” As he spoke, André signaled Captain Grisel to draw the curtain again before he left, cutting off the unpleasant sight.

Seeing the mockery on André’s face, Lafayette understood that there would be no more evasions. André decided to lay everything bare.

“Three days ago, you sent a letter instructing General Kléber to move troops into Paris. And one month ago, General Kléber submitted a memorandum urging you to suppress the Jacobins with blood. Unfortunately for you, both documents have fallen into my hands. One letter alone proves little. But two letters placed together and shown to others—then the conclusion speaks for itself. I can guarantee that once the Legislative Assembly learns of this, the hundreds of deputies, furious beyond measure, will be enough to tear you both to pieces.”

At these words, Lafayette collapsed into the chair behind his desk, drained of all strength. In fact, the moment André’s men broke in, he already knew he had lost—he simply had not expected to lose so completely. The National Guard company taking orders from André’s adjutant was, in truth, Menou’s own unit. As for General Mandat, he had long since gone over to the court and parted ways with Lafayette. And the one loyal friend he had left had fallen into André’s trap, helpless.

“Speak,” Lafayette said at last. “As long as you can guarantee the safety of my friends and my family, I will cooperate with you in full—even if it costs me my life.” He lowered his naturally noble head.

Yet unlike usual, victory brought André no joy. What he felt was closer to resignation before the course of history. In his heart, André would rather have worked with the Constitutionalists, who upheld the Constitution and valued order, than take as comrades the Jacobins—men he did not trust, men who believed violence could solve everything.

But in the end, one’s position decided one’s mind. As a commoner, André could not obtain the recognition or support of most nobles. If he wished to act freely upon the brilliant stage of history, he had to create an environment favorable to himself. The first necessity was to win the support and allegiance of the overwhelming majority.

Before ordering the soldiers to take Lafayette away, André said to the General of the White Horse, “You may choose to believe me, as Mirabeau once told you. When I defeat a political opponent, if he admits defeat, I do not fire a second shot. Of course, those who seek to destroy me in the flesh are not included.”

In truth, André’s decision to place Lafayette and his circle under house arrest was also a form of protection. If the matter proceeded strictly through the courts, they would not escape a charge of treason—one that could send them to the guillotine. Under an “official investigation” conducted within André’s authority, the outcome could be managed at will, and at most treated as dereliction of duty. Exile to an overseas colony might well become the severest punishment Lafayette and the others would face.

With Lameth and the other ministers resigning one after another, with Larive stripped of his judicial rank by the Palais de Justice, and with Lafayette placed under house arrest by the Military Committee “for investigation,” the vast power the Constitutionalists had built in Paris collapsed as well—like a house of cards before the storm of revolution.

Soon, more than a hundred noble deputies who supported the Constitutionalists resigned their seats, much as the fallen royalists had done before: either they fled abroad, or they withdrew to the countryside and ceased to take part in public affairs.

After the Jacobins successfully drove out the Constitutionalists, began to win a majority in the Legislative Assembly, and constantly incited violent revolution in public, the Assembly passed a resolution restoring Pétion and Danton at once to their public offices as Mayor of Paris and Prosecutor. Yet Danton, to general surprise, refused the appointment, and the acting prosecutor, Manuel, continued to perform the duties.

Only then did the Tuileries grasp how grave the situation had become. On the day after Lafayette was confined, a group appeared at the gates of the Tuileries and raised a banner bearing a striking slogan: “Tremble, tyrant! Your end is near!”

Louis XVI, frightened half to death, struggled to change his relationship with the party of the commoners—but it was far too late. Like a pig of an opponent, after he had decisively abandoned the Constitutionalists, he had also placed the royal house itself upon the Jacobins’ revolutionary altar, a lamb to be slaughtered at will.

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