Jules was the sort of man who considered war to be the most handsome manifestation of human intelligence. War and the army. They were the only two things that managed to corral and guide men, to provide them with action, rules, a purpose. Consequently, he found the notion of seeking a substitute for Auguste a detestable one, when military service would do him the world of good. He said he loved the people, did he? Well then, let him have to put up with them for nine years in the army and let’s see how much he loved them then! But he was nonetheless prompted to make an effort because of his dear, sweet, poor Berthe. Were she to lose her brother in the war, she would equally lose her mind, given her already somewhat weakened state after her third miscarriage. What’s more, his father-in-law had given him 11,000 francs; having already spent 1000 on various orgies, were he by some miracle able to find a man, he would offer him 8000 and could then pocket the difference himself. All he had to do was bring the substitute straight to the recruitment board so he could be approved and nobody would think of asking him for a record of account. And as for payment of the balance in respect of said replacement, well, let’s see in a year from now; in war, anything could happen.

So he set his convictions to one side and made for the doorman of his hotel, a fellow with a mind like an archive of crime who had proved himself more than helpful in the matter of prostitutes. He would surely have some advice for him on the subject of the sale of men, being a somewhat similar matter.

‘I need a handsome type by the 16th, somebody with good teeth and of irreproachable moral fibre. I’m aware there’s not much time, but my young brother-in-law’s recruitment board meets shortly and there must be no risk of his being turned down. There’ll be no further options at that point except to find a man of his height in the week following his enlistment. He’s 1 metre 77 centimetres tall, you can imagine the problem . . .’

‘But, Monsieur, the war is almost upon us, they’re talking of calling up the reserves.’

‘Yes, and? This blasted war, it’s just a formality! Did you read what Leboeuf has been trumpeting: we’re more than ready, our army is prepared down to the last pair of boots and britches. And the chassepot rifle – I’ve tried it myself: an extraordinary breech-loading weapon – and what a range! 1700 metres! A marvel. Those Prussians will be shot down like guinea fowl! Find me a man and I shall pay well.’

‘You won’t find anybody. The touts from the replacement agencies have emptied out the whole Finistère region.’

‘Any other ideas, then . . .’

‘The islands.’

‘What do you mean, the islands?’