The furious crowd went on the hunt for the de Rigny pair, making it all the way to the director’s office, where father and son had tried to hide. Amid total chaos, the rioters dragged them into the street, while the guy from

Foreign Affairs locked himself in a cell and both the minister and the prison director did a bunk. The rioters set upon cousin Philippe and his offspring with sticks and stones, then sprayed their mutilated bodies with petrol and set them alight.

In Africa, this sort of lightning execution has a name: instant justice.

It looks like a storm and suddenly, once the tension has dissipated again, it stops dead in its tracks and everybody goes back to doing what they were doing. They’re a little more analytical at the foreign office; they might mutter something along the lines of: ‘In the globalised economy, it is possible to make money in any number of ways, provided one implements certain minimum procedures and applies discretion. De Rigny was unable to do this, which is regrettable.’

The lame beetle followed on Facebook Live the butterfly effect she had set off, doubtless being filmed by one of the recipients of her letter, then, after closing her computer screen, she went back to her research on Auguste de Rigny and his replacement, Breval Botquelen, satisfied to have accomplished something worthwhile.

Saint-Germain-en-Laye

18 July 1870

‘Come now, lads, please . . . Could we not, just this once, have some pleasant, peaceful family time?’ said Casimir, tapping the edge of his plate with his knife.

And he raised his glass.

‘So . . . Here’s to Auguste!’

Ferdinand disregarded the toast as he continued to torment his brother.

‘What was it you wanted to do, take him in your arms? Did you see him, father, with his replacement? You would have sworn he was some unmarried mother having her child wrenched from her to be handed over to welfare. You were grotesque!’

‘To victory!’ proffered Auguste’s sister, Berthe, timidly, raising her glass in turn.

Auguste, for his part, had his head in his hands, scarcely able to contain his rage.

‘Believe it or not, I would have appreciated having the time to thank him. When the recruitment board officers signed him up just now, he hadn’t understood a single word of what he was being told. You and Jules could have given me just one day, one measly day – the day to which I was still entitled – and I might have telegraphed to have a Breton come to Saint-Germain . . .’

‘You would have telegraphed to have a Breton come,’ repeated Ferdinand ironically, emphasising each separate syllable.

‘Exactly so! A Breton. So his field orders might have been translated for him. But no, he had to be rushed off to the abattoir after twenty hours on the train like some common head of livestock.’

His brother-in-law, Jules, objected.