Chapter 1: The Secret Meeting

It was an ordinary midsummer’s evening in the year 1847, and Paris, as was her wont in the high season, lay sweltering under a blanket of oppressive warmth. This grand dame of European cities, already teeming with a vast and restless populace, seemed to hold its breath against the suffocating heat that each returning summer brought in its train.

The drawing rooms of the affluent and the titled stood largely empty, their occupants having long since sought the cooler climes of country villas or the bracing breezes of the Calais coast. For those of lesser means, the burgeoning lower classes, there remained little choice but the shaded, dusty paths of the Bois de Boulogne – for this Paris had yet to witness the sweeping transformations of Baron Haussmann, those grand boulevards and airy parks of the Second Empire still but a distant dream. Places for public leisure, for a moment’s respite from the heat, were thus astonishingly few and far between.

Yet, in this very hour, so ill-suited to congregation, a select company of men had gathered. They were assembled around a rough-hewn table in a chamber lit by the mean flicker of a few tallow candles, their faces shadowed, their purpose veiled.

Were they merely engaged in the desultory conversation of an evening idly spent? Any astute observer, chancing upon this clandestine assembly, would have swiftly dismissed such a benign interpretation. For there, upon the scarred wood, lay a considerable mound of gambling chips, stark against the dark surface, and beside them, a not insignificant sum in French franc notes. The scene was artfully set – the very tableau of an illicit game of chance.

“The air in this place is positively stifling,” Charles de Tréville remarked, a faint frown creasing his brow. He ran a hand across his forehead, damp despite the removal of his outer coat, his fine linen shirt clinging uncomfortably. His gaze, however, seemed to look past the oppressive room, perhaps towards a remembered smile or a promised meeting elsewhere that this tedious affair was delaying. “Can we truly not find a more… agreeable venue?”

“Ah, my dear Charles, a little fortitude,” a young man beside him, possessed of an easy charm and a quick wit, responded with a knowing glance. “I, too, would find Frascati’s a more congenial setting. But one must, alas, first be able to cross its threshold, must one not?”

His jest, though it touched upon the raw nerve of their shared constraints, elicited a ripple of subdued, almost hollow, laughter.

Frascati’s Casino. The name itself conjured visions of a lost era of dazzling opulence. Once, it had been the most distinguished, the most luxurious temple of fortune in Paris, indeed, in all of Europe. Gamblers of renown, men of deep pockets and daring spirits, had flocked there from every corner of the continent. But then, towards the close of 1837, the French government, in its august wisdom and with the declared intention of “rescuing the French people from the abyss of irredeemable vice,” had issued a decree. All casinos, in Paris and throughout the realm, were to be shuttered. Consequently, the once-bustling Rue de Richelieu, a river of gleaming carriages and eager patrons, had fallen into a noticeable quietude. Now, only in hushed whispers and nostalgic sighs did people recall those scenes of extravagant, intoxicating profligacy.

However, as is the fate of many laws born of idealistic fervor, this one too proved spectacularly ineffective. The human appetite for that which is forbidden, it seemed, was an indomitable current. The ban merely served to spawn a shadowy multitude of underground gambling dens, scattered like hidden sores across the face of Paris. These establishments, for the most part, were squalid affairs, lacking in even basic comforts, and frequently the stage for heinous incidents – fires, thefts, and even murders were not uncommon spectres in their ill-lit corners. Not that such grim realities appeared to unduly trouble the French government; rather, it was the lamented cessation of the substantial tax revenue, which had once flowed so generously from the casinos into the state’s coffers, that caused a more palpable heartache.

Such, invariably, is the harvest reaped when idealistic pronouncements are sown upon the stubborn soil of human nature.

“What does it signify?” Charles retorted, his impatience now more pronounced, perhaps fueled by more than just the room's oppressive atmosphere. “In any event, we are not truly here to court Dame Fortune. Very well, shall we not proceed to the business that has brought us to this… charming locale? The sooner it is concluded, the sooner we may depart. Every supernumerary moment spent in this wretched place is an added torment.”

As he spoke, his words cutting through the lethargy, the very air in the room seemed to shift, to grow taut and charged. Every man straightened in his seat, his features composing themselves into an attitude of gravity and keen attention, awaiting the true commencement of the night’s affair.

Indeed, this gathering was not about gambling at all.

Observing the fervent, almost youthful anticipation that now gleamed in the eyes of the younger men, a faint, knowing smile touched the lips of the middle-aged man seated at the head of the table. His features were sharply etched, bearing the imprint of years and experience, yet the spirit within them remained undimmed, keen and resolute. He was of a robust build, exuding an undeniable air of quiet strength, of unwavering purpose and remarkable fortitude. From his ramrod-straight posture, the disciplined set of his shoulders, it was evident he had known military service.

“Well, it appears our young gentlemen can scarcely bridle their impatience. Very well, I shall not prolong your anticipation…” He then reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a folded paper, its creases speaking of careful concealment. “This is a message conveyed from Monsieur Rouher…”

A palpable current, a jolt of shared energy, passed through every man present. The oppressive heat, the gnawing irritation of moments before, seemed to instantly dissipate, forgotten in the sudden surge of purpose. In the dim, flickering candlelight, their faces, hitherto shadowed and discontented, now shone with a peculiar, almost fervent luminescence.

Eugène Rouher. A name that resonated with hope and unwavering loyalty for those assembled. A staunch Bonapartist, he was, for the French adherents of that cause, their undisputed spiritual leader, the lodestar of their aspirations.

Thus, the true purpose of this clandestine meeting, so carefully disguised beneath the mundane trappings of a game of chance, was laid bare. Bonapartists, united by a shared dream and a common enemy, were weaving their intricate web in the very heart of Paris. Whether this constituted a righteous assembly dedicated to a noble cause or a nefarious conspiracy hatched in the shadows, was a judgment that would depend entirely upon the particular allegiance, the individual conscience, of any who might pass sentence.

“The current French government’s measures,” the middle-aged man, whose name was Armand, began to read, his voice low and steady, his eyes scanning the document in the faint candlelight, “find themselves increasingly bereft of popular favour. The citizens of Paris voice their discontent with growing boldness, and even those who once numbered amongst its staunchest supporters now find their hearts heavy with disillusionment. Based upon the present configuration of events, we judge Louis-Philippe’s reign to be tottering upon the very brink of its collapse. It requires but one final, concerted push, and his ludicrous dynasty shall crumble into the dust of ignominy… And this moment, gentlemen, is not relegated to some distant horizon; it draws nigh with every passing hour. All signs and portents indicate that the cause for which we have so tirelessly striven, a cause as dear to some as the very blood in their veins, will soon see its glorious fruition… And to hasten the arrival of that longed-for day, I entreat you, each and every one, to lend your unwavering obedience to the temporary directives of the bearer of this letter, Monsieur Carillon…”

Having read thus far, his voice resonant despite its low pitch, he paused and passed the letter to the man seated beside him. It made its circuit of the table, each man poring over its contents with an almost reverent attention, before the secret message returned to Armand’s steady hand.

Beautiful words, stirring sentiments. Yet, in the cold calculus of revolution, utterly meaningless without action.

“Monsieur Armand,” an attendee inquired, his brow furrowed with a pragmatist’s doubt, “what of the specific measures? Surely, we cannot hope to prevail armed only with these fine phrases, however inspiring?”

The middle-aged man, with a calm deliberation that brooked no argument, held the secret message to the flickering candle flame. He watched, his expression unreadable, as the paper curled, blackened, and was consumed, its potent secrets now entrusted solely to the memories of those present. Only then did he speak.

“The specific measures, my friends, are not of a nature to be committed to paper. You need only follow my instructions, and all shall be made clear in due course.”

In the perilous art of conspiracy, it was naturally wisest that as few as possible were privy to the entire design. Others were to be responsible only for the execution of their assigned tasks; thus, even if misfortune should strike, if a part of their grand enterprise were to be exposed, the whole would not be jeopardized.

The other attendees exchanged brief, significant glances, a silent communion of understanding passing between them. Then, one by one, they inclined their heads in solemn assent.

“Very well. We await your directives.”

“Monsieur Sylvain,” Armand began, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men as he began to issue his directives, “you will continue your able stewardship of the newspaper. Persist in your efforts to stir the passions of the populace, to fan the embers of discontent into a righteous flame. And hold yourself in readiness; when the appointed time comes, we shall require a veritable deluge of printed leaflets.”

“It shall be done,” an attendee responded, his voice firm with conviction.

“Monsieur Perrot.” Armand called another name, his tone even and commanding.

An attendee acknowledged with a curt nod.

“The Paris garrison. How many men, true and loyal, can you rally to our standard when the signal is given?”

The attendee, a man of thoughtful mien, pondered for a moment. “I can, with absolute certainty, vouch only for the unwavering loyalty of a portion of my own subordinates.”

“Then, my friend, you must redouble your efforts, and swiftly,” Armand replied, a subtle urgency underscoring his calm demeanor. “Time, as you well know, waits for no man, and tides, once missed, may not return.”

Armand then proceeded to call out names, one by one, assigning tasks with precision and clarity, and the other attendees readily affirmed their commitment, their voices low but resolute.

“Monsieur Tréville,” Armand then uttered, the alias ‘Carillon’ now discarded, his gaze settling on Charles.

“Monsieur de Tréville,” interjected the same young man who had earlier bantered with Charles, a playful glint in his eye as he emphasized the noble particule of his surname, drawing another ripple of muted, knowing chuckles.

Charles de Tréville, far from being discomposed by this gentle raillery, offered a slight, almost indulgent smile. “Pray, continue, Monsieur Armand.” His thoughts, for a fleeting instant, might have strayed to how such distinctions of address mattered little to a certain captivating gaze he knew.

Charles-Léonce-Victor de Tréville. His full name, rarely used in such company, resonated with the echoes of a storied past. The “de,” that small but potent prefix, proclaimed his lineage, a thread woven into the ancient tapestry of French nobility. And Tréville – that was a name of even greater renown, its origins traceable to the chivalric days of the Valois dynasty, long before the Bourbons had laid claim to the throne of France.

By all the accepted conventions of his class, such an origin should have marked him as a steadfast pillar of the reactionary, perhaps even decadent, establishment; a villain in the grand narrative of revolution, a born nemesis to those who sought to overturn the existing order. Yet, here was Charles, a scion of ancient nobility, brazenly participating in a Bonapartist conspiracy – a circumstance less attributable to some peculiar caprice of fate, and more to one of those exquisitely malicious ironies that France’s convoluted and ever-surprising history seemed to delight in perpetrating.

“Monsieur de Tréville,” Armand, readily accepting the correction, amended his address with a slight inclination of his head. “Your task is one of exceeding simplicity, yet of profound significance. We merely require that your esteemed grandfather, upon receiving our carefully timed missive, declares himself openly at the critical juncture. Of course,” he added, a hopeful inflection in his tone, “it would prove an even more momentous advantage if he could persuade his elder brother, the Duke, to cast his considerable influence into our scales.”

“You may rest entirely assured regarding my grandfather’s commitment; indeed, were it not for his… shall we say, sympathetic understanding, I should not have the privilege of being seated in this room with you all tonight,” Charles replied, his voice calm and measured, though a careful observer might have detected a flicker of something more personal in his eyes, a hint that his grandfather's support was valued for reasons beyond mere politics. “However, as for my great-uncle, the Duke de Tréville, I believe we ought not to entertain excessive hopes. As you are doubtless aware, he enjoys the most intimate terms with the Duke of Dalmatia and the Duke de Broglie. I fear he would derive considerably more satisfaction from seeing us all securely lodged within the formidable walls of La Grande Roquette prison.”

The incumbent Prime Minister of France, the Duke of Dalmatia – once the celebrated Marshal Soult of the Empire, upon whom Emperor Napoleon himself had bestowed his marshal’s baton, his ducal title, and immense wealth. Yet, after the downfall of his erstwhile sovereign, this paragon of martial glory had, with an almost breathtaking ease, pledged his allegiance to the restored Bourbon monarchy, thereby deftly evading the purges that befell many of his former Imperial comrades. Then, when the winds of revolution had shifted once more in July of 1830, he had, with equal smoothness, aligned himself with the Duke of Orléans, steadily ascending the rungs of power to eventually become Prime Minister – and now, a die-hard, implacable adversary of the very Bonapartists who sought to restore the Imperial dream. It was, one had to concede with a wry smile, another of those malicious, almost theatrical jests so characteristic of France’s perplexing and dramatic history.

And Victor de Broglie, who had himself served as Prime Minister in 1835, was an even more staunchly entrenched opponent. His own father, Charles-Louis de Broglie, had met his tragic end upon the guillotine during the Great Revolution. Although Victor had later bowed to Emperor Napoleon to secure his return to France, the Restoration had seen him emerge as a man harbouring a profound and unshakeable aversion to all things Bonapartist.

As for La Grande Roquette prison, completed in 1837 and grimly designated for the condemned and those sentenced to the living death of hard labour, its very name was a chilling whisper that struck terror into the hearts of conspirators, a stark reminder of the ultimate price of failure.

“Very well, in that case, we shall proceed according to our original design,” Armand responded swiftly, his expression betraying no surprise. It was evident he had harboured little genuine expectation of successfully swaying the allegiance of the formidable Duke de Tréville.

He then continued to impart further verbal instructions to the remaining few individuals, his voice a low murmur in the dim room. Once he had finished, and each man understood his part, the conspirators reverted to the slightly more relaxed, though still charged, atmosphere of before, their heads drawn together, conversing in hushed, earnest whispers.

“Gentlemen,” said Monsieur Armand, his voice taking on a note of finality as he prepared to adjourn this council of shadows, “since we all comprehend our duties, and the path before us, however fraught, is clear, let us not delay our departure…”

“Bang!” “Bang!”

Suddenly, the sharp, brutal cracks of several gunshots ripped through the night air, violating the fragile sanctity of their secret chamber.

“Is someone upon us?!” The question was a collective gasp, fear instantly electrifying the room.

Everyone present was instantly seized with alarm, a cold dread gripping their hearts. Almost to a man, they thrust their hands inside their coats, seeking the grim reassurance of concealed steel; Charles, his romantic reveries shattered, was no exception.

Only Armand, the veteran of countless campaigns, retained a semblance of outward composure. He tilted his head, listening with an almost preternatural intensity to the direction and cadence of the shots, his face a mask of concentration. Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised a hand, a gesture that instantly commanded silence and quelled the rising panic among the men. “The shots are receding, gentlemen,” he announced, his voice a steady, reassuring anchor in the sudden tempest. “It would appear they were not directed at us. Calm yourselves.”

The palpable agitation slowly began to subside, the taut fear in the room easing as the men regained a measure of their composure, their hands withdrawing, empty, from their coats.

“Very well,” he declared, lowering his hand with a decisive air. “I declare this meeting adjourned!”

At his words, the conspirators, like phantoms in the night, slipped away through a concealed passage, melting swiftly and silently into the labyrinthine embrace of the Parisian darkness. The room, moments before alive with whispered plots and fervent hopes, returned to its customary, brooding silence, the only lingering evidence of their presence the faint scent of burnt paper and the guttering flame of a forgotten candle.