Although Brissot was not a deputy of the Constituent Assembly, as a journalist and editor he knew far more of political realities than the playboy Buzot. The Assembly’s annual budget was 8,000,000 livres, but actual expenditures exceeded that by 20–30%, reaching roughly 10,000,000. The funds covered the deputies’ daily living stipends of 18 livres, venue rent, office expenses, travel reimbursements, and so on.

Of this total, the central state—namely, the Finance Ministry—shouldered half. The other 5,000,000 livres had to be shared by the 83 provincial communes (that is, local assemblies with autonomous powers). Wealthier provinces—Paris, Gironde (Bordeaux), Rhône (Lyon), and Bouches-du-Rhône (Marseille)—could manage to remit tens of thousands of livres on a regular basis. Most others—poor and rural, like Vendée or Dordogne—remitted nothing and expected subsidies instead.

“So,” Brissot said, softening after a glance at the despondent Buzot, “we must recognize the prosecutor’s friendliness toward, and support for, the Paris Assembly—don’t press him so hard. I know what you want to say: that in Bordeaux he takes bribes, traffics in influence, seizes deeds to land. My stance—shared by most journalists and editors—is no comment. If the people of Gironde do not complain, why should we, 200 leagues away in Paris, fly into a rage and posture as righteous scourges?”

There was one thing the journalist did not say: 2 weeks earlier the prosecutor had sent him 10,000 livres, now sitting in an account at the newly formed Union Commercial Bank of France. The same political gratuity had gone to Comte de Mirabeau, Bailly, Marquis de Lafayette, Pétion, Barnave, and the Lameth brothers.

The prosecutor gave no cash to President Prieur, the “upright” one, but quietly presented Madame Prieur with a wine estate near the Palace of Fontainebleau, valued at over 100,000 livres—spoils squeezed from Bordeaux’s tax-farmers. Since leaving Paris for the south, and from the moment he began restructuring the Bordeaux customs house to block “human interference,” he had poured over 1,000,000 livres in political donations into Paris.

Even Danton—once at odds with the prosecutor—received a “political gift” from Bordeaux. In the by-elections to the Paris Commune’s General Council, thanks to the prosecutor’s earlier mediation, Bailly and Lafayette ceased to obstruct Danton’s candidacy, and he duly entered the council. In exchange, Danton pledged not to run in 1791 for Mayor of Paris or for Chief Public Prosecutor of Paris.

As for “L’Incorruptible,” the prosecutor, signing as a Jacobin Club member, donated to Robespierre’s Correspondence Committee for two new printing presses and a large stock of supplies. Robespierre soon wrote to thank Member André on behalf of the central Jacobin Club.

At the Tuileries, however, neither Comte de Montmorin, Minister of Finance, nor Comte de Tour du Pin, Minister of War, accepted political money from the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court. Not because ministers chosen by the King were paragons of virtue, but because the prosecutor’s demand for the regiment’s budget was simply too large to satisfy.

Each time the Champagne Composite Regiment—or the regiment’s independent status—came up, it was awkward. The War Ministry had promoted a slate of officers in the regiment, but denied the prosecutor’s request for a formal line designation and refused to place the unit on the frontier order of battle.

The Minister of War’s pretext was that the Marne and Reims region had ceased to be a frontier decades earlier; the kingdom’s field forces were unnecessary there. Deeper down, Tuileries-loyal ministers would not assume the costs of a force loyal to the Constituent Assembly rather than to the Bourbon crown. The War Ministry suggested classing the Champagne Composite Regiment as part of the Paris volunteers (National Guard) and stationing it in the Marne.

Lafayette, as commander, welcomed the new unit with both hands. He immediately announced the promotion of André Franck—Lieutenant-Colonel—to Colonel of the Paris volunteers. But when it came to pay and equipment, the great Marshal made it plain he could do nothing; the last appropriation had not even covered the arrears owed to the Paris volunteers.

President Prieur thus apologized to Colonel André on behalf of the Constituent Assembly and stated that, in the near term, all expenses of the Champagne Composite Regiment would have to be raised—or directly “levied”—by the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court in Gironde now and in the Marne later. With the burden came authority: all affairs of the regiment were placed under André’s sole decision.

Though they raised no objection on the floor, Pétion and Robespierre privately wrote to President Prieur questioning whether a serving prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court could simultaneously hold active military command under the laws of the kingdom. The Speaker—himself a King’s Counsel by training—replied flatly: no conflict existed, for the volunteers remained within the National Guard system.

He added, tactfully, that if the Assembly wished to appoint a chief of staff to the Champagne Composite Regiment, that would be acceptable—provided the Assembly soothed André, a benefactor of the chamber, so he would not feel the Assembly was sawing off the plank it sat on and walk away in anger.

After the Speaker’s remarks, Robespierre and others who had harbored minor doubts fell silent. To enjoy, one day, the funds the prosecutor had struggled to secure—and the next, to cut down Colonel André’s power—was excessive. Any such motion would be defeated in the chamber. Besides, what could an independent regiment of only 1,500 on paper (in fact about 1,100) truly overturn?

A few days later, as he sought a second 10-day extension in the chair, President Prieur floated a compromise to allay the ultra-left: let the Constituent Assembly appoint the regiment’s chief of staff—reassuring André while easing deputies’ concerns.

A few days after that, Lafayette personally delivered a candidate list for chief of staff of the Champagne Composite Regiment. Among the names was a veteran of the American War of Independence, the current commander of the Versailles National Guard, Louis-Alexandre Berthier, aged 37, with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel.

At this time, André knew nothing of the Assembly’s pains to “choose a wife” for him—so close is a chief of staff to a commanding officer. Through mid- to late September he poured his energy into forming and training the regiment. He even kept several dates with a Comtesse in her carriage, staging more than one “1790 car-ride romance.”

Today, however, the Comtesse was unwell. They only embraced and kissed for a while in the carriage, then stepped down. As usual, they walked arm-in-arm along the Garonne and admired the view.

“Will you take me to an opera tomorrow? The Marriage of Figaro. It’s the Royal Opera’s last performance in Bordeaux. You know I adore that heaven-sent music,” the Comtesse pleaded softly, stressing the last words.

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André’s first instinct was to refuse. In either life he had little taste for 18th-century opera with its arias—apart from 8–10 minute “divine” pieces like Carmen or The Nutcracker (both 19th-century works). His last visit to an opera house—half a year ago in Paris with Madame la Juge—ended with him fast asleep and snoring, to much tittering and complaint.

“You know I’m not at ease with such aristocratic socialities—not only the opera, but salons and balls as well,” André explained with a smile.

“I heard from friends in Paris that you oppose the King—in support of a republic?” the woman suddenly asked.

His face fell; his brows knotted. The Comtesse had crossed a line. This was dangerous ground. Lovers could trade affection—and money—but not politics.

“Oh no—you misunderstand me,” she blurted, seeing the change, “I’m sorry, I only meant—”

“You should go home,” André said, cold now. He would hear no more. He signaled for her carriage.

Military burdens weighed on him like a mountain range. Now even his pillow companion brought trouble. He cut the tie. The woman wept quietly in the coach; André turned away without a backward glance.

On the way back to camp, the Comtesse’s stricken face rose before him. His heart softened. He called Sergeant Penduvas, his escort from the gendarmerie, and drew from his breast a small brocade box: within lay a brooch carved from Bastille stone, the word “Liberty” picked out in tiny diamonds. He had bought the trinket at the Festival of the Federation, meaning to give it to his Bordeaux mistress today; anger had made him forget.

“Take this—deliver it to the Comtesse yourself,” the Colonel ordered.

Back at camp, he discovered nearly half the officers were absent. The duty officer reminded him: tonight was Captain Moncey’s dinner at home. André had promised to stop in for a glass, but his foul mood said otherwise.

Thirty minutes later Sergeant Penduvas returned with a note from the Comtesse—enough to change André’s mind. He would attend the Moncey dinner after all. A full-dress uniform would not do for a house party. He bathed, put on a long-neglected tailcoat, took a broad-brimmed top hat, and rode out in an open four-wheeler.

…

Captain Moncey’s wife, Charlotte Prospère Remillet, was born in Bordeaux to a wealthy family and, it was said, to low nobility. Her dowry included a fine baroque estate east of the city and 8 hectares of vines and tobacco.

On an evening in early October, the Charlotte estate—named for its mistress—was crowded with carriages and guests. Observant neighbors noticed many men in blue uniform—Captain Moncey’s young comrades from the Champagne Composite Regiment; and among the Remillet kin and friends, nearly half were pretty young women. Clearly the hostess’s idea.

Charlotte herself was not a famed beauty—fair skin, delicate features, nothing more. Moncey had courted her furiously for a simple reason: the dowry was ample—said to top 300,000 livres. Such alliances, dowry-rich, were an honor in 18th–19th-century Europe for husband and wife alike.

Since the cold buffet at the Villa Lafite had triumphed 2 months before, Bordeaux and all Gironde had adopted this economical yet grand “self-service” fashion. So it was tonight: the long tables offered elegant Mediterranean dishes and pastries, with light red and white wines—clearly meant to set guests at ease and talking.

Surveying the bevy of young ladies teasing his hot-blooded comrades, Moncey—host and half a superior—felt a headache coming. He scratched his numb scalp, found his wife in polite chatter, and whispered, “My dear, are you turning this into a matchmaking fair?”

“Why not?” Charlotte planted her hands on her hips, smiling. “It’s for your future, my dear Captain. Hey—why isn’t Colonel André here yet? He promised you, didn’t he?”

“He’s swamped. The regiment marches at month’s end—or early next month. Piles of work.” He scowled. “And for the record, I don’t want you turning up at Reims next year with a gaggle of expectant girls looking for the fathers.”

Charlotte glanced around, hid her lips behind a bamboo fan, and laughed softly. “All the better—your back guarded by kin. Oh, Doctor Robert told me in private that your brilliant Colonel André has already got the Comtesse 6 weeks along. And she’s not so distantly kin to our family.”

Moncey fell silent. It was poor form for a subordinate to gossip about the commanding officer, though he knew André did not mind chatter about his affairs.

Irritated, he suddenly spotted a familiar figure in the crowd and turned to his wife with a groan: “Charlotte, why did you invite that scapegrace fop? You know the Colonel—the lawyer—loathes men who won’t be bound by discipline.”

Now she was embarrassed. Finding no good answer, she slipped away to greet the guest with a fresh smile. Moncey shook his head and hurried after—her belly held their child, 4 months along.

The “scapegrace” was Étienne de Nansouty, Charlotte’s distant cousin. In person he looked anything but: warm-mannered, middle-height but athletic, impeccably dressed, a handsome young man. As a cavalryman he fancied a goatee—hardly the look of a strict disciplinarian.

Born in 1768 at the town of Saucats south of Bordeaux, Étienne’s father had 50 years in arms, fighting in the War of the Polish Succession, the War of the Austrian Succession, and the Seven Years’ War. Like Napoleon, Étienne’s thin noble blood got him into the Brienne military school at 12; his outstanding performance earned him a place at the Paris military school. In May 1783 he graduated top of his class and received a Second Lieutenant’s commission from Louis XVI himself—surpassing Napoleon’s cohort of 1784.

His father’s death in 1785 hit the family hard. The widowed mother struggled to support one son and two daughters. Help soon came from local notables—among them the Duchesse de Blanca; Madame la Maréchale de Beauvau even used her ties to Marshal Philippe Henri de Ségur, then Minister of War, to speed Étienne’s advancement. In 1788 he served as acting Captain in the Franche-Comté light cavalry, then transferred to the hussars of the Gironde.

A year later a regimental court stripped him of rank and posts and cashiered him from the hussars. He drifted for half a year and only in late September returned to Bordeaux. The stain made his name a byword for disgrace in Saucats.

He came to Captain Moncey’s house today at his sister Marie’s request, to await an important guest. The Remillet clan knew his history and pointed and whispered; their eyes showed disgust. Étienne was used to it. He took two bottles of red and kept watch at the door.

This small side-plot seemed unconnected to the gathering of Hoche, Augereau, Macdonald, and Chassé. After a week of induction training, Lieutenant Chassé and Second Lieutenant Macdonald duly took command of 2nd and 3rd Company and entered the Colonel’s Phase-2 officer course. Masséna and Suchet joined as well—newly made sergeants, serving as platoon leader and deputy in 2nd Company. On duty tonight, they only sipped a small glass of wine and nibbled pastries before leaving in haste with Quartermaster Lieutenant Petiet.

In a small salon downstairs, the four officers were reviewing Captain Moncey’s lesson on marching and battle formations. Absorbed, they did not notice when the young ladies drifted away.

Only the older Augereau lacked schooling and had never attended a formal academy. To pass the Colonel’s coming promotion board, he had to work twice as hard, stealing every minute to study and memorize. Spreading diagrams on an improvised table, the big Prussian pinched a pencil in shaking fingers and walked through the model formations.

“According to the doctrine of Comte de Guibert, a regimental or battalion commander should not be bound to classic column or line, but choose according to the situation, ground, and the quality of both armies. In most cases, Guibert recommended alternating column and line in a mixed formation.

“The classic form is this: in the advance, one battalion deploys in line to deliver strong fire; the other two remain in column to assault; companies within deploy in three ranks… This mixed order was Guibert’s winning method in Corsica.”

Only after the fifth run-through did Augereau complete it without omissions. “Guibert’s” tactical thought would soon be codified as the famous “1 August 1791 Ordinance on Infantry Maneuver Training.” It rescued France’s deteriorating armies in 1793–1794 and, under Napoleon, became a root of repeated victory and continental dominance.

Sadly, Comte de Guibert had died suddenly of illness in June 1790, 3 months earlier. The “1791 Ordinance” was compiled by colleagues from his ideas. France’s finances were so poor that officers could not train men to the full standard—ten live rounds per week was beyond reach. Even the famed Camp of Boulogne in the Napoleonic era never achieved it. When the army marched toward Austerlitz in the War of the Third Coalition, one-third of the soldiers had never fired a live round on the training ground.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep