Today, I had to draw my name from the ballot, to draw my lot, as they say, and I was unlucky. My father has bought me a replacement. I shall forever see the face of that merchant of men, that trafficker in human flesh, as he and my father discussed the deal for my redemption in a little room in the town hall . . . They haggled a long while, franc for franc, sou for sou, growing animated, cursing one another, as if they were dealing with livestock, and not some man I did not know, and whom I love, some poor devil who will suffer for me, who will perhaps be killed for me, because he has no money. Twenty times I was at the point of halting this sickening, this torturous argument, and of shouting: ‘I will go!’ Cowardice held me back. In a flash, I envisaged the hideous existence of the barracks, the brutality of my superiors, the barbaric despotism of the discipline, the degradation of man reduced to the state of whipped beast. I left the room, ashamed of myself, leaving my father and the slave-trader to negotiate this abomination.

I wrote immediately to the notarial archives in Finistère to obtain a copy of that deed of sale dated 16 July 1870 referenced in the army records.

When I returned from Brittany, while still on sick leave, I wasn’t content just to throw myself into my family history research, I also did something worthwhile.

Let me say this clearly and unequivocally: I did something worthwhile!

In order to hand in my occupational health and safety documents and give some instructions to my friend Hildegarde, so she could fill in for me during my absence, I went back to that damned new Palais de Justice. I took the chance to grab a few drug squad CD-ROMs, not wanting to laze about too much, as well as pick up the Oilofina/de Rigny file, which I now had access to without having to ask my friend, since the financial crime department’s database had merged with ours. I had no plan. I just decided to do it out of curiosity, really. That evening, after putting Juliette to bed, I sat down on my bed with my computer on my lap. I inserted the disc into the drive with the primary thought of reading a good adventure tale before falling asleep.

At the start of 2013, cousin Philippe got wind of a stockpile of 30,000 tonnes of hydrocarbon originating from a failed crude oil refinement process. As it contained far too much sulphur, this naphtha – that’s what this distillate is called – could not be sold on the market unless it was processed again. It was taking up tanks at an oil terminal in the United States and its owner wanted to get rid of it at rock-bottom price.