The trial of Babeuf was scheduled to begin at nine o’clock.

  By eight thirty, the courtroom—built to hold 300 spectators—had already been packed with nearly 500. The overflow spilled into aisles and corridors; even the window sills were crowded with onlookers craning for a view. Outside, hundreds more struggled to squeeze in, but the gendarmes on duty held firm, forming a wall of pikes and sabres. Only the late-arriving journalists were admitted; all others were kept beyond the doors.

  The courtroom was laid out much like the criminal courts André had known in another life. The presiding judge sat upon a high dais; below him, clerks and stenographers; to his right, the witness stand; to his left, the twelve-member jury. Facing the bench stood the opposing tables: the Prosecutor on the left, the Defense Counsel on the right. Between them, behind a waist-high bar, was the dock—the prisoner’s pen.

  At eight fifty, all were present except Judge Faria and the accused himself. The great doors closed. A few reckless reporters tried to rush the bar, but two court guards drove them back with their sword scabbards, drawing laughter from the spectators. The air itself seemed to hum with excitement.

  At nine sharp, the senior clerk called out:

  “All rise for the Honourable Judge Faria!”

  Every head turned as the black-robed magistrate entered through the private door, square cap upon his wig. Only when the clerk cried “Be seated” did the crowd sink back into its benches. Upon the judge’s assent, the clerk announced the session open and ordered the bailiffs to bring forth the prisoner.

  Moments later, Babeuf, fettered hand and foot, was led between two guards to the dock. As he passed, André raised two fingers in the shape of a V—his private sign of victory. The defendant smiled faintly and returned the gesture.

  When the clerk rose again to read the rules of procedure, André noticed something amiss: the bailiffs had not removed the irons from Babeuf’s wrists and ankles. He looked to Judge Faria—no reaction; then to Prosecutor Pratty, who was grinning with smug satisfaction.

  André almost laughed aloud.

  “What an utter fool,” he thought. “He’s just handed me a weapon—and I’d be a fool not to use it.”

  He glanced at Counsel Séchelles, who caught the cue instantly, stood up, and cut the clerk short.

  “Your Honour,” he declared, “according to court protocol, once the accused is seated under lawful supervision, all restraints must be removed. Yet my client remains bound hand and foot. I lodge a formal objection and demand this violation of procedure be rectified at once!”

  Before the judge could answer, Prosecutor Pratty leapt up:

  “Your Honour, the man stands accused of murder. The restraints are merely precautionary—protection for the court.”

  Séchelles’ voice dropped to a dangerous calm:

  “You are certain, sir, that my client is a murderer?”

  “Of course!” Pratty blurted. “Babeuf is a murderer—a monster, a butcher, a fiend!”

  His clerk’s frantic hand signals went ignored. The prosecutor had plunged straight into the trap.

  “Then,” cried Séchelles, “let the record show my formal accusation against Prosecutor Pratty, a public official who has violated the nation’s laws and trampled the Declaration of the Rights of Man. By Article 9, all men are presumed innocent until proven guilty, and every unnecessary act of severity used to detain an accused shall be strictly punished by law!”

  The chamber exploded—shouts, stamping feet, cries of outrage. The gallery echoed with “Shame!” and “Down with tyranny!” Judge Faria rang his bell again and again, muttering curses under his breath.

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  “Absolute imbecile,” he thought, glaring furiously at Pratty.

  Finally, he signalled for the irons to be removed, though he dismissed the complaint against the prosecutor. Séchelles merely shrugged, basking in the applause as he returned to his seat. The portly Pratty, crimson with embarrassment, seemed ready to vanish into his own bulk.

  When order was restored, the clerk resumed his interrupted announcement.

  Several streets away, the Tuileries Palace offered a serene contrast—or seemed to. King Louis XVI sat in his study, playing draughts with the little Dauphin, while the Madame Royale (Princess Royal) read by the window. The Queen was likely in the gardens with her sister.

  Then came the noise—distant at first, swelling from the riverside square. Chants, cheers, angry slogans. The King froze. For a heartbeat he thought the mob had come for him again, as at Versailles. He bolted to the window, peered out, and then, relieved that the shouts were not against the crown, hastily drew the curtains.

  Moments later, Lieutenant Lefebvre of the King’s Guard burst in, saluting.

  “Sire, the crowd outside supports Citizen Babeuf and demands punishment for the tax-farmers. They have just read aloud the speech delivered this morning by Defense Counsel André.”

  The King exhaled. As long as the fury was not directed at himself, all was well. He had no idea who Babeuf was—and cared less—but the name André rang a faint bell.

  When he murmured it aloud, Lefebvre explained: from the stabbing incident at the Palais de Justice, to the miraculous recovery, to André’s rise as a lawyer and his growing influence in Parisian politics. Rumour held he was soon to be appointed Chief Prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court.

  Louis listened only half-heartedly. What intrigued him was the “miracle” of resurrection; the devout King’s interest ended where theology began.

  “Lieutenant,” he said finally, “if ever you invite this André to the palace, be sure to tell me. I should like to meet him.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Lefebvre replied, saluting again.

  Meanwhile, terror had seized the world of the fermiers-généraux. In the lavish house on the ?le Saint-Louis, Paulze was shouting at his daughter.

  “Marie, why did you alter the sum? We all agreed on 200,000 livres for André—yet you told him only 30!”

  “Because we gave the Duc d'Orléans a mere 100,000,” Madame Lavoisier snapped. “Why should a petty lawyer claim twice as much?”

  Her father’s fury brought her husband from his study. Antoine Lavoisier, spectacles removed, spoke gently but firmly:

  “Marie, your father is right. The Special Fiscal Court is only the first step. If we fail to appease the public—or the politicians—the Criminal Court will follow. What André offers is not mercy, but warning.”

  “But our contracts were lawful, sanctioned by the King and the Council!” she cried.

  Lavoisier sighed. His legal training from the Sorbonne told him how hopeless that defense now sounded. Paris overflowed with pamphlets denouncing the tax-farmers; wagons could scarcely carry the slanderous “evidence.” No one cared what was true. The fermiers-généraux had become vermin; tales of their boiling infants and devouring hearts now passed as common belief.

  “The tax-farming existed before 1789,” he said softly. “But under the August Decrees, every law contrary to the new order is void. Until now the factions were divided. André has united them. My dear, we are lambs for slaughter, waiting for the butcher to call our names.”

  He turned to Paulze.

  “The letter of appointment will come before the month’s end. André Franck will soon be Prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court.”

  “Can we not use our guards, our men—?” his wife began.

  “Silence!” cried both men at once.

  To lay hands on so celebrated a lawyer—one favoured by the judiciary, the Assembly, and the Paris Commune—would be suicide.

  “Then I will act,” said Lavoisier quietly. “If reason still holds any sway in Paris, I must defend it myself.”

  Back at the Chatelet Court, the proceedings resumed.

  The prosecution called its witnesses—three listed, though one had withdrawn. Two remained. The first to take the stand was a burly man with his arm in a sling: Fide. One glance, and André almost laughed aloud.

  “Thick neck, heavy brow,” he thought. “Either a banker or a cook.”

  Given the man’s shabby clothes and anxious fidgeting, the latter seemed more likely. The cook claimed that on the night of the murder, he had been walking home with the victim when Babeuf and his accomplices attacked. Only by feigning death, he said, had he escaped.

  Prosecutor Pratty, chastened by his earlier blunder, stuck to the script. He read the written deposition—allowed when a witness could not write his own statement—and then asked:

  “Do you confirm this testimony as true?”

  “Absolutely true, sir!” Fide nodded vigorously.

  “You are certain every word reflects the facts?”

  “I am certain, sir!”

  “And you swear to it before God?” Pratty pressed, casting a glance at André, who appeared to be resting his eyes.

  “I swear it, sir!” cried the witness, raising his left hand solemnly—eager to prove his own lie.

  Note: Special Fiscal Court — Temporary revolutionary court to try tax-farmers for crimes against the state.