‘The poor man! Does it have anything to do with that story of the army surgeon that all the papers are talking about?’ asked Auguste.

‘Certainly does! The fellow wrote bogus certificates for brokers certifying sixty substitutes who didn’t qualify on medical grounds. They found 70,000 francs at his place! Fat lot of good that does for my neighbour, I hear you say; it was too late for him, he was given his marching orders on the spot.’

Perrachon hesitated for a moment, then proceeded with a conspiratorial air.

‘Well, lads, I’m going to tell you a good one, but you’re not to repeat it to anybody because it involves members of my family . . . do you promise?’

‘Promise,’ muttered the other two.

Perrachon hauled himself upright on his chair, adopting the pose of somebody about to deliver some tasty revelations.

‘Having hunted for months for somebody to replace my cousin Camille, whom of course you know, my Uncle Henry finally unearthed a man. Before submitting him to the recruitment board for admission, he had to notarise the sale. In the time it took him to hail a carriage to take him to the notary, the man was snatched from under his nose. By some kind of miracle, he located another a few days later; a superb recruit, five foot eleven inches, a magnificent cavalryman. The whole family came to admire him, he was that handsome! He signs him up and has the man stay at his place until it’s recruitment time so as not to risk going through the same drama. This fellow lives it up for two months, wanders around my aunt’s salon in his undergarments when she’s holding her Friday afternoon tea parties, scorches the tapestry work on the chairs with his tobacco, refuses to dine with the servants, snaffles the tastiest morsels, belches and farts away at the dining table as he regales them with appalling stories in his gutter language . . . And . . .’

And here Perrachon paused for effect.

‘. . . and makes my cousin pregnant.’

‘Your cousin? Which cousin?’ asked Trousselier, enthralled.

‘My cousin Pauline.’

‘No!’

‘Yes, indeed! The sublime Pauline. The very one! And . . . he gives her syphilis. Wait, that’s not even the end of the story . . . it continues! After making life hellish for the whole family, our man – when he finds himself before the recruitment officer – nonchalantly pulls down his coat to show off his superb tattoo from Toulon prison. Then off he goes, hands in his pockets, happy with his first down payment, and his board and lodging, on the hunt for another family of dupes.’

‘And?’

‘Well, my cousin left yesterday!’

‘But that’s awful!’ said Auguste, horrified, his effeminate hands pressed to his lips.

‘Have you tried Rue Piat?’ suggested Perrachon.

‘What’s on Rue Piat?’

‘There are these mysterious advertisements. Take a look . . .’

And the young man pulled two newspapers from the pile of dailies lying around.