He was yanked from his thoughts when the coachman halted the carriage on Rue de Belleville, any further progress along the carriageway proving impracticable. Auguste was forced to walk the rest of the way, but barely had he taken a few steps before he found himself gagging on the abominable stench of excrement and rotting carrion, causing him to stumble.

The address he had matched a grubby eating house: a regular there was known by everybody in the neighbourhood of whom he asked directions to be trading men.

Mister Anquetin received him into a cubbyhole of a room, where he was having his supper.

Small and thickset, his face cleanshaven and leaning more to purple than red, the hustler was busy devouring an enormous sausage with evident appetite and delight. A candle was burning next to him with a generous flame, as if it were being fed not just by its wax, but by the foetid, stale stench that emanated from the man and filled the room.

As Auguste, feeling nauseous, in a tremulous voice and with faltering words, explained his circumstances, the dealer would from time to time fix his feverish interlocutor with an amused, sausage-laden look.

‘For 15,000, I have a man, five foot eight inches, a fellow from Anjou. Magnificent, he is. Already served,’ he finished up, his mouth spattered with fat. ‘He suffered a wound to his leg which led to his discharge, but he’s perfectly recovered now.’

‘My brother-in-law, who’s in the military, has warned me off such types. Often, after appearing before the recruitment board, they have themselves declared unfit for service, asserting that in truth while their injury may well have healed, the limb in question remains weak, meaning they are no longer able to serve. Which means my family would lose their down payment and I would be given my marching orders.’

‘Well then . . . for the much cheaper sum of 11,000, I have a smaller fellow: four foot eleven inches, but if you tease up his quiff, that would do the trick. He has good feet, no varicose veins. I’d take 30 per cent. I need 500 francs to kit him out and pay for his tobacco and wine. You bear the cost of having the contract notarised. A third on signing which I keep. A second third on the day the substitute is accepted by the recruitment board. The last third a year after conscription on certification from his corps’ administrative officer confirming he’s fit for his post.’

‘11,000 for such a small man, but that’s an enormous amount . . .’

Anquetin lost his patience and raised his voice.

‘We’re well past the point when fancy fathers could keep us dangling before they settled the deal. We’ll be at war in a few weeks and parents of dandies like you will be begging me to sell them my midgets. For double the price.’