My new generals offered me two paths to disaster: slow death by foreign invasion, or fast death by domestic tyranny.
Fournier's demand to seize the property of the fleeing nobles hung in the tavern air, thick and greasy. Lafayette recoiled as if he'd been slapped.
"That is theft! Banditry!" the Marquis declared, his face flushed with idealistic horror. "We are creating a National Guard to uphold the law, not to become a pack of thieves! We will lose all moral authority!"
Fournier leaned back, a sneer twisting his lips. He scraped a bit of grime from under his thumbnail with his knife. "Funny how it's always an aristocrat who worries about the 'moral authority' of taking back what was stolen from us for a thousand years." He shot a look at Lafayette. "Don't worry, Marquis. We'll leave your family's mansion alone. For now."
The insult was a physical blow. Lafayette went rigid, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. Robespierre, silent in his corner, watched them both, his eyes cold and calculating. He was waiting to see which definition of revolutionary justice I would endorse. The butcher's or the Marquis's.
I had to find a third way.
"You're both thinking like soldiers," I said, my voice cutting through their anger. "Start thinking like accountants."
I grabbed the piece of charcoal and the stained parchment again. "An émigré is not just a person. They are a financial entity. A walking, talking corporation of wealth and influence. When they flee, they don't just take their bodies. They take their capital."
I scrawled the words on the parchment, giving form to the threat. Gold. Jewels. Art. Bonds. Assets.
"This," I said, tapping the list, "is the seed money they will use to fund a war against us. They will use this capital to hire mercenaries and bribe foreign kings. Lafayette is right—we can't become simple thieves. But Fournier is also right—we can't let them walk away with the bullets they plan to shoot us with."
I looked them both in the eye. "So, we don't seize their property. We freeze their assets pending a national audit."
The modern financial term landed in the 18th-century tavern with a strange, powerful thud. Lafayette looked intrigued. Fournier looked confused, but interested.
"We can't legally stop them from leaving the country," I explained, my mind racing, building the plan as I spoke. "But we can legally stop them from exporting the nation's wealth during a national emergency. This isn't theft. It is a customs enforcement action."
I had reframed the entire problem. Now it was time to execute.
"This is a race against time," I said, my voice hardening. "We have hours, maybe less, before they get their carriages past the city gates and onto the open roads. Here is the plan."
I pointed the charcoal at Lafayette. "Marquis. Take your disciplined men, the ones who know how to follow an order. You are not to arrest anyone. Your sole mission is to establish checkpoints on every major road and at every gate leading out of Paris. You are to stop and search every noble's carriage for illegal capital flight. You are customs officers, not soldiers. Be polite, be firm, be unmovable."
Lafayette nodded, his eyes gleaming. It was a mission that fit his sense of order and law.
I turned to the butcher. "Fournier. You know the great houses in the city. You know where the real wealth is. Take your men. You are not looters; you are receivers in bankruptcy for the state. You will go to the mansions of the nobles we know are fleeing. You will post a guard, take a detailed inventory of all valuables, and seal the premises in the name of the National Assembly."
Fournier's brutish grin returned. It was the mission he had wanted, but wrapped in a cloak of legitimacy.
Finally, I looked to the corner. "Robespierre."
He straightened up, his full attention on me.
"I need you to get back to the Assembly. Now. Run if you have to. I need you to get them to pass an emergency decree, retroactively authorizing everything we are doing. Give it a powerful name. Something like 'The Decree Against Treasonous Capital Flight.' Make our revolution legal."
Robespierre gave a thin, wolfish smile. "It would be my absolute pleasure, Your Majesty." He turned and strode out of the tavern without another word.
Lafayette saw the flaw in the plan. "What about Versailles, Your Majesty?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "The wealthiest nobles, the biggest traitors, are there. Our authority doesn't extend beyond Paris."
"It does now," I said.
I pulled a fresh sheet of paper from a satchel and scribbled a quick, clear order. My handwriting was a modern, utilitarian scrawl, utterly unlike the flowery script of the era.
All units of the Royal Guard stationed at the Palace of Versailles are to cooperate fully with the National Guard in securing the assets of any noble personage attempting to flee the country. Confiscate all gold, silver, and negotiable instruments. Hold them in trust for the Nation. By direct order of the King.
I signed it—Louis—with a sharp, angry flourish. I had just ordered my own personal guards to help the revolutionaries raid my own court.
"Here," I said, handing the paper to one of Lafayette's lieutenants. "Ride to Versailles. Give this to the commander of the Swiss Guard. He will obey."
A sudden, vicious thought struck me. An opportunity. I turned to De La Tour, who had been standing silently by the door. "Captain. Get another message to Versailles, to the commander of my personal guard. My brother, the Comte de Provence. I want him placed under house arrest."
De La Tour's eyes widened slightly.
"Do not put him in a cell," I continued, my voice cold. "Confine him to his own opulent chambers. Double the guard on his doors. Tell him it's for his own protection from the Parisian mobs. He is too valuable a member of the Royal Council to be allowed to come to harm."
I was taking the leader of the opposition hostage, and I was doing it under the guise of protecting him.
The tavern, moments ago a den of arguments, was now a buzzing command center. The plan was in motion. Runners dashed in and out with messages. I could hear Fournier's bellowing voice in the streets, organizing his men. I saw Lafayette crisply giving orders to a group of former soldiers, pointing to a map of the city.
The first report came in an hour later. "A convoy of six carriages, belonging to the Polignac family, has been stopped at the eastern gate!" a breathless messenger reported. "They are refusing to be searched! They have a dozen private guards, all armed!"
Lafayette's men were in a standoff. They were disciplined, but they were outnumbered.
I looked at Fournier. "Go," I commanded. "Take fifty of your best men. Reinforce that checkpoint. I want that convoy secured, not slaughtered."
The butcher gave a grin that was all teeth. "With pleasure." He lumbered out, a giant leading his pack of wolves. For the first time, my two generals were going to work together.
The tension in the tavern was unbearable. We waited.
Then, a new runner arrived, his face beaming. He was from the Assembly. "Mr. Robespierre sends his compliments, Your Majesty! The Decree Against Treasonous Capital Flight has passed! Almost unanimously! Your actions are now the law of the land!"
A cheer went up in the tavern. Before it could die down, another report came from the eastern gate.
"The standoff is over!" the scout announced. "Fournier's men arrived. The Polignacs' guards saw them, took one look at the butcher, and threw down their weapons without a single shot fired! The carriages are being searched now."
Victory. Clean, efficient, and almost bloodless.
The scout handed me a hastily scrawled note. It was an initial inventory from the first carriage, written in Fournier's crude block letters. I read it aloud to the room.
"Twelve chests of gold coin. Three sacks of solid silver plate. One small, lead-lined box containing unmounted diamonds."
A low whistle went through the room. It was a king's ransom.
"The Butcher sends something else, Your Majesty," the scout said, stepping aside.
Two of Fournier's men pushed a prisoner into the room. He stumbled, his hands bound behind his back. His expensive coat was torn, his arm was still in a sling, and a fresh, ugly scar—my scar—was carved down his cheek.
It was the Chevalier de Sang-Froid.
He looked up, his eyes locking on mine. They were not filled with fear. They were filled with a pure, black, venomous hate.
"The King of Accountants," he spat, his voice dripping with aristocratic contempt. He gave a mocking look around the dirty tavern. "Come to count your spoils."