On a typical evening in the midsummer of 1847, Paris was, as usual, oppressively hot. As one of Europe's largest metropolises, it was already home to a massive population, and every summer brought with it a stifling, breathless heat.
The wealthy and powerful, the nobles and the bourgeoisie, had all chosen to escape to their country villas or the shores of Calais for the season. The less fortunate lower classes had to content themselves with strolling through the Bois de Boulogne—for this was a Paris that had not yet undergone the massive renovations of the later Second Empire, directed by Baron Haussmann. The places available for public leisure and relief from the heat were surprisingly few.
Yet, at this moment, a time ill-suited for any gathering, a group of men were huddled around a table in a dimly lit room.
Were they merely chatting? Any observer who drew close to the table would have reached the opposite conclusion—piled upon it was a thick stack of chips and franc banknotes.
Faced with such obvious evidence, an observer could easily conclude that these men were taking part in an illicit gambling game.
"God, it's hot in here," Charles-de-Tréville complained, wiping sweat from his brow. Though he had already removed his outer coat and was down to his shirt, he still felt unbearably warm. "Can't we find another place?"
"Oh, my friend, you'll have to bear it. I'd love to be at Frascati's myself," a young man chimed in from the side. "But one has to be able to get in, don't they?"
His jest drew a round of muffled chuckles.
The Frascati Casino had once been the most distinguished and luxurious casino in Paris, and indeed, in all of Europe. High rollers from across the continent had flocked to its tables. However, at the end of 1837, in order to "save the French people from sinking into irredeemable vices," the respectable French government had issued a decree banning all casinos in Paris and throughout the nation. As a result, the Rue de Richelieu, once bustling with traffic and lined with gambling houses, had grown quiet. Now, people could only recall the extravagant scenes of fortunes won and lost through second-hand stories.
However, like all other idealistically motivated laws passed by the government, this one was utterly ineffective—the people's desire for vice is often an unstoppable force. It merely spawned a host of underground casinos across Paris, most of which lacked proper facilities and were frequently the scene of fires, thefts, murders, and other grim affairs. To be fair, the French government cared little about that; what was truly painful was the loss of the substantial tax revenue the casinos had once provided.
Such is always the result when idealistic laws are put into practice.
"What does it matter? It's not as if we're actually gambling," Charles retorted impatiently. "Alright, can we get to the point? The sooner we finish, the sooner we can leave this hellhole. Every extra moment here is another moment of misery."
As he spoke, the atmosphere in the room abruptly turned serious. Every man sat up straight, waiting for the main event to begin.
He was right. This group of men was not gambling.
Watching the eager, passionate gleam in the young men's eyes, a middle-aged man seated in the center couldn't help but smile. Time had etched a few lines onto his chiseled face but had failed to wear away the vitality within. He had a strong, robust frame, exuding an air of power and unwavering resolve. From his ramrod-straight posture, it was clear he had a military past.
"Well, it seems our young men can't wait. Fine, I won't waste any more time..." He then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "This is a message from Monsieur Rouher..."
A jolt of energy shot through the room. The oppressive heat that had been so irritating just moments before seemed to vanish completely. In the dim candlelight, the men's faces shone with a peculiar brilliance.
Eugène Rouher, a staunch Bonapartist, was the undisputed spiritual leader of the Bonaparte faction in France.
And so, the true purpose of the meeting became clear—Bonapartists, using a card game as a front for a clandestine meeting. Whether it was a righteous assembly or a wicked conspiracy depended entirely on one's point of view.
"The current French government's policies are growing more unpopular by the day. The citizens of Paris oppose it, and its former supporters are becoming increasingly disillusioned. Based on the current situation, we judge that Louis-Philippe's rule is already tottering. It needs only one more push, and his ridiculous dynasty will collapse..." the middle-aged man read slowly by the dim candlelight. "And that time is fast approaching. All signs indicate that the cause for which we have tirelessly fought will soon be accomplished... And to ensure that day comes as soon as possible, I implore you to follow the temporary command of the letter-bearer, Monsieur Carillon..."
He paused after reading that line, then passed the letter to the man beside him. After it had made a full circle around the table, the secret message returned to his hand.
Beautiful words, but utterly meaningless.
"Monsieur Marier, what are the specific measures? Surely we can't succeed with a few pretty phrases," one of the attendees asked, his voice laced with doubt.
The middle-aged man unhurriedly held the secret message to the candle's flame until it was nothing but ash, then he finally spoke.
"The specific measures, of course, are not written down. You need only follow my orders."
It went without saying that in a conspiracy, the fewer people who knew the full picture, the better. The others were only responsible for carrying out their individual tasks. That way, even if they failed or were exposed, the entire plan would not be compromised.
The other attendees exchanged glances for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
"Very well. Please assign our tasks."
"Monsieur Séreon," the middle-aged man began, "you will continue to handle the newspaper, to keep inciting the populace, and be prepared. We will need to print a large number of leaflets when the time is right."
"Understood," an attendee replied.
"Monsieur Perrot," the man called another name.
An attendee nodded.
"How many men can you count on in the Paris Garrison?"
The attendee pondered for a moment. "I can only guarantee the loyalty of a portion of my own subordinates."
"Then you'd best redouble your efforts," the middle-aged man replied. "Time waits for no one."
One by one, the middle-aged man, Marier, called out names and assigned tasks, and each of the attendees affirmed their commitment.
"Monsieur Tréville," Marier said another name.
"Monsieur de Tréville," the young man who had joked with Charles earlier interjected suddenly, emphasizing Charles's full surname. It drew another round of low, muffled laughter.
Charles-de-Tréville took no offense at the awkward moment, smiling easily. "Alright. Please, go on."
Charles-de-Tréville, full name Charles-Léonce-Victor-de-Tréville. The "de" in his name marked him as a descendant of French nobility. The Tréville name was even more famous, with ancestors tracing back to the House of Valois, which preceded the Bourbons.
By rights, someone of his background should have been a dyed-in-the-wool member of the reactionary, decadent class—a standard villain, a natural-born executioner of revolutionaries. And yet, here was Charles, taking part in a Bonapartist plot. To call it a strange twist of fate would be less accurate than calling it one of the viciously cruel jokes that France's peculiar history so often enjoyed playing.
"Monsieur de Tréville," the middle-aged man, Marier, graciously corrected himself. "Your task is very simple. We only need your grandfather to stand with us when he receives our message at the critical moment. Of course, it would be even better if he could bring his elder brother over to our side as well."
"You can rest assured about my grandfather. Without him, I wouldn't be sitting in this room with you all today," Charles answered calmly. "But as for my great-uncle, the Duke de Tréville, I don't think we should hold out much hope. As you know, he is a close associate of the Duke of Dalmatia and the Duke de Broglie. I imagine he would be far more interested in sending us to the Grande Roquette prison."
The current Prime Minister of France was the Duke of Dalmatia, better known as Marshal Soult from the old Imperial era. Although it was Emperor Napoleon who had granted him his marshal's baton, his ducal title, and his vast wealth, Soult had effortlessly switched his allegiance to the restored Bourbon monarchy after his former master's fall, thus avoiding the purges of the old Imperial elite. Then, during the July Revolution of 1830, he just as effortlessly sided with the Duke of Orléans, rising through the ranks to eventually become Prime Minister—and now, a die-hard opponent of the Bonapartists. It was, one had to admit, yet another of those cruel jokes French history was so fond of.
As for Victor, Duke de Broglie, who had served as Prime Minister in 1835, his case was even clearer. His father had been sent to the guillotine during the Revolution. Although he had later bowed his head to Emperor Napoleon to be allowed to return to France, he had harbored a deep resentment for Bonapartists ever since the Restoration.
And the Grande Roquette prison, built in 1837 specifically for death row inmates and convicts sentenced to hard labor, was a name that struck fear into the hearts of all conspirators.
"Very well. In that case, we will proceed according to the original plan," Marier responded swiftly, indicating he hadn't placed much hope in winning over the Duke de Tréville either.
He continued, giving verbal instructions to the few remaining men. When he had finished, the slightly relaxed atmosphere returned to the room, and the conspirators began to whisper amongst themselves again.
"Gentlemen, now that we all understand what we must do, there is no time to waste..." Seeing that his messages had been delivered, Monsieur Marier, the host of the secret meeting, prepared to dismiss them.
BANG! BANG!
Several gunshots suddenly echoed into the room.
"Someone's coming?!"
A wave of shock washed over the room. Almost every man's hand flew to his coat, Charles included.
Only Marier maintained a degree of composure. He listened intently to the gunfire, then slowly raised a hand to calm the panicked men. "The shots are getting farther away. It seems they aren't for us. Gentlemen, compose yourselves."
Slowly, the panic subsided. Calm was restored, and the men pulled their hands from their coats.
"Alright. I declare this meeting adjourned!" he announced, lowering his hand.
At his words, the conspirators slipped away through a secret passage, dispersing into the night. The room returned to its usual silence.