As the carriage jolted over the paving stones, Deputy Prieur—now retired from the chair—climbed in and reproached André: “Aren’t you moving too fast? Even if your impeachment on behalf of the Paris Commune wins a majority in the Assembly, you won’t remain in the office of the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court for long. Retaliation from the Tuileries will follow immediately.”

André nodded, answering with perfect composure: “Yes, I know exactly what follows, but I must do it. So next month I will formally resign as the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court and accept the Marne Commune’s and Master Thuriot’s invitation to serve as Acting Deputy Prosecutor of that department.”

As the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, while also doubling as Colonel of the Champagne Composite Regiment, André would inevitably draw fierce censure from the court’s conservatives. He would not give up his military post; therefore he would shed the prosecutor’s title. As for the Marne, in its autonomous status the Paris court could not reach it.

Prieur, whose ties with André had grown close, was unwilling to see an ally—and fellow Champenois—quit the powerful Paris prosecutor’s post and retreat into a local judicial office in the Marne.

Prieur insisted: “With your present standing, entering the Electoral Assembly as a voter of a Paris district would be easy. Even running early next year for deputy to the Legislative Assembly from Paris should pose little difficulty. Besides, I, Robespierre, Pétion, Mirabeau—even Lafayette—can help build momentum for you.” Under the electoral law, deputies who sat in the Constituent Assembly were barred from standing for the next legislature.

Grateful for the goodwill, André still declined. Prieur shook his head; he knew he could not change André’s decision. He only patted his arm and cautioned him to take care. André understood clearly: though he had many allies in Paris, he had more enemies both open and hidden. Before he wore the protective mantle of “deputy,” he did not wish to stand out too boldly in Paris.

Voluntarily giving up the prosecutor’s office was also a major bargaining chip in André’s political trade with Constitutionalists among the nobility—Mirabeau, Lafayette, Barnave, the Lameths. Since August–September, when his tax campaign at the Port of Bordeaux succeeded, the previously slighted prosecutor’s post had suddenly become a prize of power.

Publicly and privately, including from Mirabeau, many urged André to “sell” the hot seat. Since resigning could be traded for a good return, André would not refuse. To a politician, everything is negotiable; better to put the chip on the table than wait for a knife in the dark.

In truth, his resignation concealed a design. The success in Bordeaux could not simply be replicated elsewhere. In Marseille, Lyon, Toulouse, Strasbourg—provincials disliked a Paris prosecutor intruding on local politics and commerce.

Why had André prospered in Bordeaux—without upheaval, even steering the city’s economy? Because he was André; because he held a “Bordeaux solution,” a killing instrument the wine merchants—whose world was vines and vintages—could not resist.

So when his successor as prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court made trouble in Lyon, Marseille, Toulouse, Strasbourg—stirring public wrath and leaving mess after mess—only then would the grandees in Paris remember André’s virtues. Without comparison, there is no sting.

…

Under the nearly finished constitution, cabinet ministers appointed by King Louis XVI had to appear in the Assembly chamber on the last day of each month to face questioning from deputies and the public. If a deputy moved no confidence against a minister and the motion won a simple majority, the minister had to resign within 48 hours to avoid a state action.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Friday, 10/31.

Many Parisians likely felt the day was black: the sky low and leaden, a knife of wind stripping what warmth remained.

Before entering the chamber of the Manège with his colleagues, the Minister of Foreign Affairs and Controller-General of Finance, Comte de Montmorin, was tugged aside by the Comte de Mirabeau in the colonnade. After a few seemingly casual words, the “prime minister” of France blanched.

“Do not worry—say nothing ahead of time. Let events take their course. By the way, a friend of mine is very interested in the War portfolio; I would be grateful for your strong recommendation to His Majesty,” Mirabeau said with an easy smile.

About this time last year, following the royal court from Versailles, the Constituent Assembly moved to Paris—first into the Archbishop’s Palace, then, after an accident, into the indoor riding school abutting the Tuileries gardens.

Even after 2 weeks of emergency work by over a hundred builders, the long-disused riding hall remained poorly lit; even by day, the 5 great chandeliers had to be lit. The debating floor, however, was much enlarged; both side walls had been opened up, giving the central rostrum a clear, commanding place.

There were 2 seats on the rostrum. The higher one, studded with red, white, and blue gems, was the French king’s throne—on which Louis XVI had sat only twice this year, for less than 60 minutes in all. The slightly lower chair belonged to the rotating president. On the wall beside the rostrum hung the original of the Declaration of the Rights of Man under glass; in time, the French Constitution of 1791

would be placed there too. Below the rostrum sat the line of secretaries—deputies elected to that function.

Opposite the rostrum stood the tribune, its height level with, or a shade beneath, the president’s chair. To either side stretched the benches for deputies and invited guests, seating over a thousand. The galleries above, where the public stood, were empty today—the chamber was closed to spectators.

The hall was usually a cauldron; the din could be suffocating, especially at votes, when shouts for and against merged into a single roar. The worst headache was counting ayes and noes swiftly.

Late last October, as a public-spirited citizen, André had submitted a practical suggestion: opponents should sit to the president’s left; supporters to his right; the neutral group opposite, flanking the tribune. Thus, when a final vote came, the president and secretaries had only to glance left and right to judge the balance and know at once whether a motion had passed.

Now, as André stepped from his carriage and walked unhurriedly into the Manège, he was no longer an obscure citizen, a minor lawyer, or a courier from the Palais de Justice, but the distinguished prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court—and the special delegate put forward by the Paris Commune’s General Council and by active citizens from 48 districts.

Last night, led by the Théâtre Français district, 40 of Paris’s 48 sections agreed to submit a joint petition to the Assembly, demanding punishment of every corrupt act in the royal cabinet. Georges Danton emerged as the chief promoter.

At the same time the Commune’s General Council met in emergency session. By 9 votes to 1, with 2 abstentions, it resolved to support the just action of the 40 districts, and appointed André Franck, the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, as special delegate of the Commune and the districts to address the Assembly.

The sitting opened at 08:30 sharp. André arrived at 08:10, but did not go straight in; he lingered in the corridor, bought 2 Mediterranean oranges from a woman vendor for a few sous, and split them with Robespierre, whom he met by chance.

“You know,” Robespierre said, tossing his peel and dabbing the juice from his lips with a handkerchief, “of all fruits, oranges are my favourite.”

André smiled; he knew the other nickname: the “orange-loving man from Arras.”

“All set—no second thoughts?” Robespierre asked.

André dropped the damp cloth in the bin and, with a shrug, said, “All set. Heh—just a prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court. Whoever wants it can have it.”

They went in shoulder to shoulder.

As the Commune’s special delegate and spokesman, André was seated among the guests—facing the rostrum, just below the tribune on the left.

He looked up and saw that the rotating president this week was the nearly 70-year-old Malesherbes. Puzzled, he glanced at his neighbour. Brissot murmured, “Duport caught a chill, so it fell to Malesherbes.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep