Swordpoint

By Bill Bryson

Eugene Francois Vidocq was a thief, an adventurer, and a duelist who searched for his place in life with wit, sword, and passionate love affairs. Hunted by the police agents of revolutionary France and later the agents of Napoleon, he is forced to make the most important decision in his life to survive and become a man of respect. To achieve that, he must transform himself into a new man, an outlaw hunting the outlaws in the name of justice. The road to salvation is hard, but for a man like Vidocq, failure is not an option.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foremost Press
• Release date: Jan 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781936154975

Bill Bryson

Bill Bryson's bestselling books include One Summer, A Short History of Nearly Everything, At Home, A Walk in the Woods, Neither Here nor There, Made in America, and The Mother Tongue. He lives in England with his wife.

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SWORDPOINT

David Crane

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 David Crane

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

PREFACE

Eugene Francois Vidocq (1775–1857) was no ordinary man. I first became interested in him after reading an article about him in one of the Russian newspapers published in the United States. It was a short article, only two pages long, but it started me thinking. As a writer, I have never attempted to write a historical fiction novel partly based on the life and deeds of a real person who actually existed. It was an ambitious project, but I enjoyed the challenge. Eugene Vidocq is known to most Frenchmen. In fact, many Europeans consider him the forerunner of modern science of criminology. It is also speculated that Vidocq’s character also influenced writer Victor Hugo, the author of world famous novels, Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Who was Eugene Vidocq? What made him so interesting?

Born in a city of Arras during the reign of King Louis XVI, Eugene Vidocq was the son of a baker. The green-eyed, brown-haired boy was a troublemaker, a thief and scoundrel, who dreamed of fortune and glory. Embarking on the voyage of discovery, Vidocq begins his journey to America, and on his way encounters the chaos, fury, and bloodshed of the French Revolution. His trek becomes a never-ending struggle for survival, as Vidocq employs every means at his disposal to survive and prevail. A naturally gifted swordsman, he finds himself as a soldier in the revolutionary army, a prisoner of war, and a master thief and a criminal who knows no equal. Pursued by revolutionary lawmen and later by police agents of Napoleon, Vidocq makes a decision that alters his life in a way he could never imagine.

Learning all I could learn about Eugene Vidocq, his life and times, I realized that the subject matter was too broad for one book. Instead, I tried to shape Vidocq’s character and in the process illustrate and describe the beginning of his remarkable career. Solving crimes is a fascinating challenge particularly in the past, where talented and brilliant detectives often had to rely only on logic, intuition, and powers of deduction. Vidocq is not Sherlock Holmes, but one could see certain similarities in their approach to crime solving. But while Sherlock Holmes was fictional, Vidocq was very real. I decided to write about him because I believe his story needs to be told. Using research material from books on the French Revolution and Vidocq’s own personal memoirs, I tried to create a story of adventure, love, passion, and thrills that made the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Era so fascinating.

I wish to thank my editor Mary Holzrichter for her invaluable assistance in making this book a reality and the artist Charles King who designed the cover. I wish to offer my gratitude to my mom for her inspiration, faith, and support. Strong handshake and kind words to my best friend Peter, who never tires in helping me with the wonderful peculiarities of the English language, his honesty, sense of humor, and optimism. God bless all of you and may you live long and happy.

PROLOGUE

La Forte Armory outside Arras, July 1793

Sergeant Michel Bagot sat at the rough wooden table inside the armory dining room, his whole attention concentrated on the card game of solitaire. The thirty-year-old sergeant was wide at the shoulders and slim at the waist. His face was unremarkable except for his big nose that curled over his upper lip like the beak of a parrot. His thick, black mustache was poised like twin black daggers over his strong chin, and his hair was tied into a ponytail that fell on the red collar of his old uniform.

Humming to himself, Bagot considered the cards in front of him and drew a card from the stack. It was the Jack of Spades. Bagot sighed and examined the cards on the table closely. The Jack of Spades could not complete the necessary combination. He reached for a glass of wine and took a slow and careful sip. The wine was a bit sour, but warmed his throat. The sergeant winced and placed the wineglass back on the table.

There was a knock at the door, and a soldier appeared. Bagot looked up in annoyance.

What is it, Duchamp?

There’s a boy at the gate who says he’s here for a fencing lesson, Sergeant.

Bagot’s eyes sparkled with delight. He stood, reached for his tricornered hat, and placed it on his head. The hat made him look even taller, and now he towered over Duchamp by at least half a head. The sergeant smiled, revealing strong, but crooked teeth.

This must be man-boy Vidocq, he said. He reached for his wineglass and finished its contents in one swallow. Come, Duchamp, he said patting his sword. You just arrived here yesterday so you do not know about this young man. I tell you, this boy is a natural with edged weapons. Every time he arrives, my men get jealous. Come!

Bagot walked across the inner courtyard of the armory and passed through the guarded gate into the outer courtyard. The guards at the gate snapped to attention. The soldiers busy with their chores of weapons cleaning and drill exercises paid no attention to the visitor who stepped through the main gate. The gate revealed a tall, wide-shouldered boy with long, wavy brown hair, sharp green eyes, and a confident grin splitting his ruggedly handsome face. The boy wore brown pants, leather boots, a canvas shirt, and an old leather jerkin. In one hand he carried a large straw basket. Another was wrapped around a long wooden stick.

Vidocq! Bagot exclaimed. What a pleasant surprise!

Well, you told me to come in every Tuesday, Sergeant, the boy replied. I haven’t missed a single lesson yet.

Today is Tuesday? Bagot scratched his head. Mon Dieu, time really moves fast around here, doesn’t it? The last time I saw you, Vidocq, you were a bit shorter. Must be all that healthy peasant food and fresh country air, eh?

I suppose peasants eat better than kings these days.

The comment made Bagot laugh. So you heard the news about our old King Louis.

I did, Vidocq replied. I read the proclamation.

I heard they might cut off his head now, Duchamp remarked. The English did it once to their king. Why can’t we?

That’s for the government in Paris to decide, Bagot said waving him off. Well, enough about King Louis. I see, Vidocq, that you brought something for us. Do not be bashful; show us what you have brought.

Vidocq opened the basket and everyone within range could see the assortment of breads, sausages, and cheeses neatly arranged beside two large bottles of homemade wine. Vidocq passed the basket to Duchamp, and the soldier nearly dropped it.

It’s very heavy, Vidocq warned.

You break the bottles, Duchamp, and you will do a week of extra chores, Bagot said good-naturedly. Carry the basket into the kitchen, will you? And you, Vidocq, come with me. Let’s see if you remember what I taught you last week.

A short time later, Bagot and Vidocq armed with foils faced one another. Off-duty soldiers gathered to watch. Some stood against the wall, others sat on the heaps of hay, smoking their pipes and making bets. Eugene Vidocq was well known to some of them as one of the biggest troublemakers in Arras. The fact that this troublemaker displayed incredible natural skill with edged weapons made the soldiers naturally jealous. Some of them had tried to teach the young upstart a lesson, but a few scars they received during practice earned Vidocq a grudging respect.

On guard! Bagot barked.

Vidocq saluted him with his foil and assumed a fighting stance, right foot forward, left hand on his hip. Bagot circled him like a cat and suddenly attacked using the wave technique designed to make Vidocq open his left side. Vidocq saw through the move and dodged, then parried a rapid repeating strike and counterattacked. The two blades struck and withdrew, and now it was Vidocq who circled the sergeant. The two fighters went at one another using combinations of high and low strikes and to everyone’s surprise Vidocq held his ground. He even managed to scratch Bagot’s shoulder with the tip of his foil and parry a series of cunning strikes known in fencing as the Spinning Mill.

Then suddenly Bagot did something unexpected. His own blade seemed to slide alongside that of Vidocq’s, and the next moment Viodcq’s foil flew out of his hand, turned twice in the air and buried itself into the ground. Vidocq stood rooted on the spot as the sergeant’s foil tapped his jerkin over his heart. Vidocq was speechless and stood there blinking his eyes while Bagot saluted him with his foil and pointed at Vidocq’s weapon sticking out of the soft ground.

Not bad, he said. Not bad at all.

How did you do it? Vidocq rubbed the spot where Bagot’s foil touched his chest. I almost had you.

Almost does not count. What you just saw is a simple technique of disarming your opponent. It works very well if you want to avoid killing a poor bastard in a duel over a trivial matter. Usually after you employ this technique, they will ask for an apology and everyone goes home alive and happy.

I want to know how it’s done. Vidocq walked up to his foil and pulled it out of the ground. Returning to his spot, he whipped the air with his weapon and said, Show me.

All right then, Vidocq, I will show you. But remember one thing well, my boy. Don’t get too cocky. There’s always someone who is better. Remember that.

I have yet to see a man better than you, Sergeant.

You will if you live long enough. On guard!

Vidocq saluted him, and the two blades clashed under the afternoon sun.

PART ONE

THE SWORDSMAN

Paris Gazette, June 1796

Victory in Italy

New Austrian Army is Sent to Stop Bonaparte

General Napoleon Bonaparte, commander of the Army of Italy has once again astonished the world. Repeating the feat of the legendary Carthaginian general Hannibal, who had crossed the Alps into Italy two thousand years ago, General Bonaparte’s appearance was a complete shock to the Austrians who did not expect such a rapid and bold maneuver. Advancing on Piedmont and Genoa, General Bonaparte destroyed the Austrian forces commanded by General Bollier and after capture of Genoa faced the Piedmont army at the battle of Millezimo.

The Piedmont army had suffered a total defeat. Among the trophies were counted war banners, chests full of coins, thirteen cannons, twenty captured officers and five enemy battalions with all their weapons and equipment. The Kingdom of Sardinia has renounced its loyalty to Austria and is now considered a supply base for the French forces. Piedmont has been forced to pay a sizable contribution, half of which will be sent to the Directory in Paris, with another half to be used as payment to the troops and creation of the Army of Italy’s financial reserve.

It only became known today that the Army of Italy commanded by Bonaparte has become the most formidable force in Europe. While the revolutionary armies commanded by older and more experienced commanders have remained on the defensive against the forces of Prussia, Bonaparte’s army seems to appear as if by magic in front and rear of the enemy formations. Victories at River Po and Lodi have forced the Austrian armies on the defensive. In battle of Lodi, where a strategically important bridge was defended by a powerful Austrian force ten thousand strong and supported by twenty cannons, General Bonaparte had personally led the charge and captured the bridge. French losses amounted to two hundred killed, while Austrians have suffered two thousand killed and three thousand captured, including six officers, battle colors and a field kitchen. . . .

Lombardy Now Belongs to the French Republic!

In a period of just a few months, the French army has conquered vast portions of Northern Italy. Among the French possessions are all Italian border towns, Duchy of Parma, City of Milan, Livorno, Bologna, Modena and Duchy of Tuscany. The largest war booty is expected to be captured at the fortress of Mantua, commanded by thirty thousand troops of Austrian General Wurmser. In a series of battles at Lonato, Sallo, and Brechia, the Austrians were beaten back and at the town of Castiglione, General Wurmser’s army was soundly defeated after French reserves attacked their rear. General Wurmser with the remnants of his army retreated to the fortress of Mantua, which has been totally surrounded and is now under siege. A new Austrian army under General Alvinci is sent to relieve Mantua. Will General Bonaparte triumph against the new threat?

HOMECOMING

Terror is nothing more than justice, pure, secure and inflexible.

—Maximilien Robespierre

Arras, July 1796

Vidocq reached Arras the next day. He did not immediately enter the town, spending several hours at the old abandoned house where he and his beloved Giselle had first made love. To his relief and comfort the place was deserted. Solitude gave him time to think over what had happened to him, and to come up with an exciting and believable story that would captivate his parents, who would then be willing to forgive him out of the sheer emotion of seeing their son alive. When the sun began its downward plunge toward the horizon, he adjusted his clothes and proceeded to meet his parents. Arras had changed little since he’d left, with the exception of the damned guillotine that now decorated the main square. The bloody hand of the revolution reached even here, and as he passed the dreadful instrument of revolutionary justice, he wondered how many guilty and innocent people ended their days on the damned wooden plank with attached leather restraints.

The guillotine sobered him a little, but he decided to ignore it and quickly made his way toward his parents’ house, avoiding the streets where he might be recognized. All he needed now was his parents’ forgiveness and a few days of rest. There wasn’t much entertainment in Arras these days, but before he reached his house, he saw a placard proclaiming the arrival of a puppet theatre featuring old plays, comedies, and tragedies. There were a few more placards and Vidocq read them out of curiosity. The last one, decorated with the revolutionary tricolored ribbon puzzled him with its message that just a little less than two years ago would have been unthinkable. Maximilien Robespierre had fallen.

Vidocq didn’t give a damn about Robespierre. Survival took priority over everything else, and all the revolutions be damned if they did not allow man to live the way he wanted and speak his mind. The guillotine at the main square disgusted him. He was tired, sick, and wanted only to reach his home, confess his sins to his parents and earn their forgiveness for being such a fool. He carefully considered what to tell them and drank a cup of wine at the nearby tavern, quickly paying for his drink and departing just as quickly out of fear of being recognized.

Mother was home when he knocked on the door. Vidocq felt a momentary sense of weakness and upon entering fell on his knees and cried. His mother stood speechless for a moment, unable to believe her son had returned safe and unharmed. She embraced him fiercely as only a mother could and rocked him gently saying over and over, My Eugene, my dear boy, you are alive. You are alive. Thank you, Jesus, Joseph and Mary! Oh my son, how we missed you. We thought you were dead. . . .

When he was finally released from his mother’s embrace, she looked him over and her eyes widened at her son’s sorry state. His clothes were tattered and coming apart at the seams. He had lost weight and looked as if he were recovering from a long illness. His long brown hair was dirty, unkempt, and falling on the collar of his dusty jacket. Only his green eyes glowed with life and defiance, but in her affection she believed her son was in desperate need of help. That help consisted of a full meal of vegetable soup, black bread, smoked ham and eggs, and a glass of strong homemade wine. She made her son take a bath and put on clean clothes. At her insistence, he was tucked into bed and told to rest until his father returned.

Father came home just after sundown. Just like his wife, he was surprised to see his son alive, and lying in bed smelling of milk and soap. But unlike the loving mother, the elder Vidocq sat near the bed and delivered a long monologue about how he really felt about his son’s leaving home. Vidocq was used to his father’s complaints, but this time they were stronger as he pointed out that children should not steal from their parents and then make stupid excuses to leave home for some godforsaken place. Vidocq was surprised when his father produced the very piece of paper he had left behind almost two years earlier, explaining his actions and his desire to go to America. Why his father kept the note, Vidocq did not know. But what he did know was that his parents did not believe what he had written.

America, Mother said, shaking her head. Do you even know where America is, son?

It’s just across the Atlantic Ocean. I wanted to become rich to make you proud.

We were worried sick, Father said, crumbling the note in his big baker’s fist. Your mother cried for several days, you ungrateful brat. I wondered if you were killed by bandits, who would really make a fortune taking the money you stole from us. I’d really like to know how you spent the money, Eugene. What did you gain by this foolish stunt?

Surprisingly a lot, Vidocq answered and closed his eyes. Father, Mother, I am really tired. I will explain everything tomorrow. I will tell you everything, and maybe you can understand and forgive me for what I did. I am so very sorry. . . .

You better be, Father said, getting up from his stool. Tomorrow we will hear what you have to say. I am sure it will be interesting, he added with sarcasm. Just remember one thing, Eugene. You will go to church to see Father Goddard, and you will make your confession. Then you will work back the money you stole by not only delivering bread but making it with me. As soon as your strength is restored, you will help me bake bread and behave like a proper citizen. I have been elected to serve on the city council. I expect you to act like an honest man, do you understand?

Yes, Father.

I want to make certain that you understand, Eugene. I want no more complaints from our neighbors. No more broken windows, stolen clothes, and beating up boys just because you are bored. You have seen the guillotine at the main square? Good. We have a new government now, and they are deadly serious about law and order. Do you understand me, Eugene?

Yes, Father.

Good. Maybe your own experience has taught you something. Sleep, my son. We will talk tomorrow. Mother planted a kiss on her son’s brow and left the room following her husband.

Left alone with his thoughts, Vidocq breathed a sigh of relief. The whole thing didn’t turn out to be as bad as he had feared. He was home, he was safe, and his parents had forgiven him. It felt good to sleep in a clean bed again, and he stretched with delight on the fresh sheets like a big cat. He still felt weak and hadn’t fully recovered from his ordeal. He wondered if his parents would believe that he had to swallow pebbles and eat raw meat to make money during his time at Dr. Comus’s Theatre of Amusing Varieties. The doctor was a master charlatan and even now he was probably scheming something, making another naïve and desperate fool dance to his tune at the price of his own health.

Vidocq sighed. He missed Andre and La Mark, the clown philosopher and the magician, he had become friends with. Most of all he missed the lovely acrobat Colette, who had taught him the art of love and whose passion and sweetness he could never forget. But his friends were gone now, living their own lives as best they could. Colette had probably found a new lover. Vidocq felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of Colette sharing her bed with someone else. But then, when he allowed himself to drift into sleep, he remembered Giselle.

She would be surprised and delighted to see him. They would reunite and love each other again. Their marriage had to be postponed until he managed to make more money somehow. There had to be a way to make good money without sweating near the hot oven, kneading dough to make bread for people who despised him. He fell asleep. In his dream he again stood at the shoreline gazing out at the distant horizon. He could see ships there, great clipper ships going to America. But none of them were coming to take him there. Like the clouds above the sea, they were permanently out of reach.

HOT HEADS AND COLD HEADS

Speech was given to man to disguise his thoughts.

—Charles Maurice Talleyrand

Arras, House of the Revolutionary Court, September 1796

Vidocq had no reason to complain about the way higher forces were treating him after his return to Arras. What he had to complain about, and mostly to himself, was his temper that resulted in him being arrested for striking an officer. And not just any officer, but a lieutenant of the Revolutionary Corps of Military Engineers, a fellow only a few years older than himself, but with enough youthful arrogance that resulted in his dislocated jaw. The prison room in which he now sat had featureless gray walls and bars on the windows strong enough to hold anyone. His bed consisted of a heap of smelly old hay, a blanket, and a straw pillow. Bread and water was given once in the morning and once in the evening. In one week’s time he began to appreciate the things he took for granted while he recovered from his condition at his parents’ home.

Sitting on the floor and closing his eyes, he could envision a clay bowl of steaming vegetable soup, a juicy hen, and a sweet honey cake served for dessert. The good food and freedom were not the only things he missed after a quartet of gendarmes had arrested him. His beloved Giselle was the person he had missed terribly and not just because he had been away. During his absence, Giselle, being a spirited young woman, chose not to wait for him. Her reasoning in this matter was solid and pragmatic. Vidocq was an adventurer and attracted to danger. Giselle was a town girl who wanted a good measure of certainty in her life. That certainty came in the form of a military officer of the Engineering Corps, a young man who had money to spend. His charm, youth, and manners took Giselle over, and when Vidocq had seen them together walking arm in arm on the street, jealous rage overcame all reason.

The conversation had been short and bitter. The officer, whose name Vidocq already forgot after a brief trial, had reached for his saber to teach the young upstart a lesson in manners. Vidocq didn’t have his sword cane with him that day, and the only weapon available to him were his big fists. The officer’s saber was halfway out of its scabbard when Vidocq sent him crashing to the ground. Giselle, disgusted and terrified, ran away. Vidocq attempted to follow, but slipped and fell, hitting his knee on the cobblestone road. Furious, he started limping back home, but the gendarmes caught up with him. There was no point in resisting them. The gendarmes could just as easily have stabbed him or shot him in the head claiming he had resisted arrest. He went quietly and soon found himself in front of the town’s Chief Commissar Joseph Lebon.

Lebon, who was known to his fellow citizens as the headhunter since the days of Robespierre, was convinced the guillotine was the only tool that could wisen the unwise. In Vidocq’s case, it was a matter of principle. Many people in Arras hated him for being a troublemaker and a thief, and only a miracle could save him now. Vidocq was not very religious, but now he could surely use God’s help to rediscover his faith. Faith in his own abilities was something he never lacked even in the worst situations. Again, Vidocq was thinking of escaping and again rejected the idea. If he escaped and they caught him again, the guillotine would be quick and merciful in comparison to the forced labor at some godforsaken place with brutal guards. France had plenty of distant colonies to send her hopeless cases and riffraff. Vidocq did not want to be one of them. The boredom of the prison was soon relieved by the arrival of a fat gendarme named Nicholas.

Get ready to say goodbye to your stupid head, Nicholas said with a grin. He had a face that looked like a pillow made out of flesh, and Vidocq would have gladly flattened the man’s nose and made him eat his teeth. Nicholas’s peculiar sense of humor was known well in this wretched place that stank of human sweat, piss, and lost hopes. Of course, not all hopes were lost here, and Vidocq only shrugged his shoulders as he followed the gendarme out of his cell and down the corridor toward the sentencing room. The sentencing room was large and could comfortably sit more than one hundred people. Its furnishings consisted of wooden benches for the witnesses and a large desk for the chief judge and his assistants. A special chair near the raised dais under the two revolutionary tricolors was reserved for Chief Commissar Lebon.

Vidocq looked around. The place was filled with curious onlookers, and there were a dozen gendarmes and soldiers milling around. The judge and his clerks were busy preparing their papers. Vidocq was escorted toward a bench upon which sat six men and two women accused of various crimes. He felt a certain sense of dread when the last of the visitors began to take their seats. There was not a friendly face among them, and many looked at him with sneers. He cursed under his breath and suddenly noticed Jerome Poyant in the crowd. Vidocq waved, and after several desperate attempts, finally gained Poyant’s attention. Poyant’s eyes were wide with astonishment. Clearly he had not expected his best friend to get in trouble so soon after his return. Vidocq had searched for Poyant since the first days of his return to Arras, but the young man seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. Now he was back, and Vidocq hoped against hope that he would not be sent to the guillotine for a simple case of a dislocated jaw.

All rise! barked the commander of the gendarmes, an enormous man twice as wide and tall as Vidocq. His voice boomed across the room silencing voices and whispers. Someone sneezed and someone passed wind, but otherwise the crowd quieted down as the chief judge adjusted his wig, then his spectacles. Commissar Joseph Lebon sat to his right holding a cavalry saber in his lap. There was nothing human in his cold gray eyes. His face was sharp and angular, and his chin jutted forward like a shoe that somehow sprouted graying stubble. The headhunter was in a good mood today judging by the fact that his customary saber was sheathed. Vidocq sat and waited. The first case belonged to one of the men who had killed his neighbor over a pound of beef. The judge listened to the defendant and then to the prosecutor. Then he signed the paper presented to him by the chief of the gendarmes and stared at the defendant.

Emile Carbon, he said, the revolutionary court sentences you to death. Next case, please.

But, Your Honor, protested the tearful Carbon, I didn’t know what I was doing! I wasn’t myself then, I swear to God—

There’s no God and the revolution has proved that, the judge snapped. Are you yourself now, Citizen Carbon? Do you know what you did was wrong?

Yes, yes, Your Honor, I do.

Good. You have admitted your guilt. The sentence is death. Take him away!

The two gendarmes took hold of Emile Carbon and walked him out. His exit was followed by shouts, applause, and whistles from the crowd in the court room.

Next case, the judge said looking through his spectacles at the paper in front of him. Henri Dufur, charged with beating his pregnant mistress, thereby causing her miscarriage. Citizen Dufur, you are an animal and animals belong in a cage. Ten years of hard labor. Next case, please.

A young woman was brought before the judge. Vidocq studied her closely. He did not remember seeing her in town, and her clean features marked her as someone much higher in blood and stature than an ordinary peasant. Her black hair was cut short, and even in her peasant dress she looked noble and far above the smelly wretches who shared the bench with her. Her face reminded him of Giselle, only with a deeper tan. Intelligent brown eyes looked at the judge with a spark of defiance and insolence.

Catherine German, the judge began.

Germaine, the young woman corrected boldly. My name is Catherine Germaine.

Silence! the judge barked. You will speak when you have permission to speak. Catherine Germaine, you are accused of pretending to be a peasant by hiding your aristocratic nature. You arrived in Arras to find safe haven from revolutionary judgment. Your neighbors also swear they heard royalist songs coming from your room where you play your mandolin. The search of your room revealed a chest with five thousand gold coins. There was also a letter from Marquis Cartier, in which he expresses hope that the madness will soon be over and that the Austrian armies will soon liberate our ‘poor France’. You have been conspiring with the traitors, Citizeness Germaine. And you are a traitor yourself. The punishment for treason can be only one. What have you to say in your defense?

Lies, Germaine said. They are all lies.

The courtroom erupted. Shouts, whistles, and insults were thrown at the young woman who stood tall and proud like a lonely rock attacked by a stormy sea.

Your men are good at reading other people’s letters, Germaine continued. You confiscated my money and my property. I want it returned, and I want these ridiculous charges dropped.

The judge banged his gavel until the crowd quieted down. Vidocq saw the man compose himself for a biting retort when Commissar Joseph Lebon stood up from his seat and the room grew quiet as if by magic. Silence reigned for several heartbeats as the dreaded headhunter gathered his thoughts. Vidocq watched him closely, shifting his gaze between Lebon and the young woman. Her courage impressed him, but the fact that Lebon chose this moment to interfere promised nothing good.

Why did we start this revolution? Lebon addressed the crowd. We started this revolution because the King and his cursed nobles have raped and abused us for fifteen hundred years. Fifteen hundred years! Just think of this number, my fellow citizens. Centuries of poverty so the few could abuse many, and many break their backs for the benefit of the few. This woman is an aristocrat, who put on a peasant dress trying to hide from the revolutionary justice. Our justice is simple: we kill aristocrats. We will shake their dust from our feet! Let us not forget an aristocrat who puts on a peasant dress is still an aristocrat at heart and an aristocrat by blood. Blood does not change, and blood does not lie. I believe our honorable judge is too kind. Just the fact of being an aristocrat is enough to warrant the sentence of death. What say you?

Kill the bitch! yelled someone from the crowd. Cut off her head!

The storm of angry voices that followed was interrupted only by the judge’s gavel banging to restore order. Order! the judge barked. Order or I will have you all thrown out of the courtroom!

Vidocq rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. After what he had witnessed, he had developed a deeply rooted disgust for the revolution and its utopian ideas. Arras was no different from Paris, Lille, Caen, Reims, and other cities. The death of Robespierre changed nothing. His vengeful spirit seemed to be present in this very room demanding sacrifice. And Joseph Lebon, the head priest, was ready to deliver.

Catherine Germaine, the judge said, the court finds you guilty and sentences you to death. Take her away.

Vidocq watched the young woman being escorted out of the courtroom with her head held high. She remained a true aristocrat and would die as one. He wondered whose name they would call next. At that very moment, the curtain covering the door to the judge’s left parted, and Vidocq’s eyes opened wide. His father strode into the courtroom, his hat in one hand. As the nearest gendarme sought where to place him in the crowded room, their eyes met. Vidocq wanted to turn away, but his father’s heavy gaze held him rooted on the spot. The elder Vidocq finally found a place to stand and crossed his hands on his broad baker’s chest observing the proceedings.

Eugene Francois Vidocq!

Your Honor, Vidocq said, standing up from the bench.

Citizen Vidocq, you are accused of assaulting a military officer of the Revolutionary forces. The details of the case are as follows: you attacked Lieutenant Christian Jorbet in broad daylight on the street and beat him senseless with your fists. Are the charges true or false?

Vidocq cleared his throat and replied, Yes, Your Honor. The charge is true.

And is it also true you are known as the troublemaker here in Arras?

True, Your Honor, Vidocq answered, casting a quick glance at Commissar Joseph Lebon, who sat observing the proceedings with great interest. Vidocq already understood that this man held the true power in