The final preparations for the King's entry to Paris brought plenty of men to the place de Grève in search of day labour, but only men for the road crews were selected. Laforêt ended up getting some work updating the shops along the planned cortège route in this final week, while Feuilly spent a couple of days with Manoury refreshing their façades. But neither earned much money, nor did any future work seem forthcoming once the king was firmly installed.

The king was to return to Paris on Monday, when hardly anyone worked anyway, and an additional day of leisure was ordered for the following day. All workshops were to be closed, and even the markets were to have restricted hours. The great public festival was not to take place until Wednesday, to Feuilly and Laforêt's chagrin.

"We'll be out of work all week," Laforêt predicted in astonishment as Feuilly read the Journal des Débats' schedule of events aloud.

"At least you can take Ada to the theatre on Tuesday."

"We'll see. You going to check out the cortège?"

Feuilly shrugged. He was admittedly curious, but he had no desire to be confused with a supporter of the regime. "I prefer the bread and circuses to the parade of captives, myself." Though he immediately looked around to see if anyone had overheard him. The entire city had felt as though it were crawling with spies all week.

Still, he found he could not sleep, and early Monday morning, he went out into the streets. "Try not to get yourself arrested," Laforêt told him as he left.

The sun was barely up, and the streets were still empty except for the market carts. The road closures were not to begin until after noon. Feuilly headed for the river, curious as to what preparations would be in train for the place Notre-Dame, as the king was to attend a Te Deum to cap off his sacred procession. Supplies to barricade in the spectators were carefully piled in a couple of places, but it was still too early for any work. Perhaps the students had done something in the Latin Quarter overnight, he thought, and turned to cross the river.

A movement of the overcast sky, perhaps, caught his eye, or perhaps a sound had carried across the water. He had no real reason to look downstream, but there, scrawled on the final arch of the pont Saint-Michel, was a bright white scrawl. The students had been out the night before, it seemed, for the grammar and spelling were both correct. Above the Morgue, in a frighteningly apt placement, had been chalked, "En t'ait fait sacré, tu sera massacré" [In having yourself consecrated, you will be massacred]. Two policemen stood on the bridge above the graffiti, arguing animatedly, their voices too low for Feuilly to hear. Whoever had so cleverly defaced the bridge had been a great climber, for neither a ladder from the quai nor a tall man leaning over the parapet could have so perfectly centered that statement. And the effort had to have been done overnight, in near-complete darkness and silence, to avoid notice from the Morgue or the Prefecture of Police. Feuilly hurried across the bridge, hiding a smile until he was well-past the view of the two policemen who must have been tasked with obliterating the message by some means they had yet to devise. A gamin on a rope might be their best chance, Feuilly thought.

The students had mostly behaved themselves at home, it seemed, but he wished he could congratulate the men who had played such a successful joke, supposing they were not so stupid as to be signaling an actual assassination plot. But no, anyone who went to the effort to hang over the side of a bridge was not going to destroy all the work put into another plot. Could it have been any of Bahorel's friends? Certainly not Combeferre. It was impossible to picture Combeferre hanging over the side of a bridge. But Feuilly had been avoiding the others, and he could picture Bahorel providing the tension on the rope, possibly dangling one of the small ones over the edge. He would have to remember to ask, if such things became safe to ask before he entirely forgot the excellent pun.

A queue had begun to form behind Saint-Sulpice at the mairie, waiting for the promised distribution of food, wine, and money to those registered for public assistance. All were women, many clutching their children to them. The rest were probably the mothers of the boys who had begun to raise a clamour in the otherwise silent street. The old games of role playing had never been abandoned; here, boys were about to come to blows over who would get to be the king in their mock procession. Feuilly had never had the doubtful honour of playing the emperor at their age; he had volunteered to be one of the marshals every time. It was not that he preferred being a follower; he simply did not want to be a leader. He looked out for his own skin, and anyone strong enough to frequently lead the games would prove to have other responsibilities laid on him at some point – leadership in a plot, boys horning in on his territory hoping that having been an acolyte in fun might translate into sharing a sleeping place, that sort of thing. Life was hard enough looking out for one; he did not need followers.

He settled down with a bowl of coffee at a café catering to the market vendors nearby. Everything would be closed in Paris within the next few hours, shuttered at the dictates of a man no one particularly cared to follow. Louis had never had a grand coronation. He had respected that the world had changed, that he had to work with those in his country who did not wish to see him return. And his circumspection had seemed to work. Charles was making it damned difficult to forget that he was taking over the world that had moved on without him, dragging everyone back. The only way to avoid the disgusting spectacle was to walk out into the country southwest of the city, in the opposite direction of the road to Rheims.

It seemed like a plan as far as the Observatory, but curiosity about the crowds, and knowing none of the papers would dare convey anything but enthusiasm in their Wednesday editions, drew him back. He set aside the momentary temptation to spy on Combeferre – not knowing how long "rounds" might take, he elected to see the entry at la Villette over watching the abasement at the cathedral.

He found a spot on the boulevard Saint-Martin and decided to go no further. There was no great crowd preventing him from going further, but he had no taste for the toadying speeches to be given at the barrière itself. Windows had begun to open and a few white banners flew, likely from rooms rented for the occasion, he thought, as the unfashionable women at the undecorated windows called to their neighbours and gave a general appearance of belonging to the neighbourhood. The merchants were decorating their shopfronts with what appeared the entire contents of their shops, eagerly appropriating the day for advertising their own businesses rather than celebrating the monarchy.

"How's business?" he asked a little girl selling barley sugar from a deep box balanced around her neck.

"Lousy," she pouted. Her mother – or employer, it was hard to tell – was dragging a tell-tale coffee barrel several paces behind. He bought a bowl from her and chatted briefly about how few people had come so far north. "We'll be back for the plays," she told him. "Who can say no to a free play? They'll have to spend a little then, won't they?"

Enough people gathered by the time the carriage traffic ended that there would be something for the king to see. The street was not crowded, no one had to jostle for a view, but it was fully lined on each side with plenty of women and a few men at the windows. Feuilly stepped back so a working class family with small children could have the better view. He did not mind watching over the top of the mother's head. She was barely Lydie's height, though her three children had left her thick in the stomach. One of the children had a handkerchief tied to a stick as a white banner; a white flag of surrender it seemed without the telltale fleur-de-lys.

Mounted soldiers cleared the road. Gendarmes took up positions along the route, ready to control the crowd. Then the rest of the gendarmerie, in full dress uniform, began to march down the boulevard, followed by various squadrons of the National Guard, on horse and on foot. These were not cheered but were viewed with boredom. Soldiers marching into Paris had been seen so often that they were a spectacle only to the children too young to remember Louis' return to Paris ten years before. The boy in front of Feuilly waved his white flag at first, then grew restless as the National Guard seemed never to end. At last, the carriages of the Duc d'Angoulême and the princesses came in much too quick succession, hailed with cheers that paled as the contents betrayed the coats of arms: only old men, advisers and officials, were seated inside. And then the interminable line of soldiers recommenced.

"It's not much of a pageant, is it?" Feuilly asked the father.

"I expected something a little more like Carnival. Now that would have been a thing, wouldn't it? Not that I'm complaining for myself, mind you. But the kids need something more than this."

"Last time I saw so many soldiers, we'd lost a war. Again."

"At least my kids will have better memories than that."

"It'll have to improve once the royal coach actually goes by, won't it?"

Carnival would have been a better model, Feuilly agreed. There were banquets to be given for the surviving workers corporations, but none of them participated in the cortège. Why was this spectacle padded out with yet more military, when this succession had taken place naturally rather than by conquest? It might as well have been another conqueror taking possession of Paris. A few ranks of workers with traditional signs of their occupations would break up the uniforms, would represent the rest of the country. A few wagons presenting events from the king's life would at least be more interesting than endless rows of armed men.

The elaborate coronation coach finally appeared, the king and his family waving to the cheering multitudes in their minds. The gathered people cheered then, loud and sustained, but to Feuilly's ear, it was not full-throated. He doubted it could be heard even two streets away, for the assembled people were hardly the choking crowd the king must have expected. He added his voice for the benefit of the gendarmes guarding the parade route, not for the royal family. After more soldiers passed, dressed in the magnificent uniforms of the Royal Guard, the procession was finally over.

"You'll remember this all your lives, won't you?" Feuilly asked the children.

"Maybe."

He laughed. "Honest kid. You're raising them well, I see." He bid good day to the family and split off down a side street to slip home.

Laforêt greeted him from outside Ada's doorway. "See anything?"

"Soldiers, soldiers, and more soldiers. I could be forgiven for having missed the king, in among so damned many soldiers."

Ada poked her head out. "You really did see the king?" she asked skeptically.

"The king, the duchess, the whole royal family. You should have gone. It wasn't exactly crowded."

"Some of us are lucky enough to have work."

"You won't be working tomorrow, though," Laforêt pleaded.

"Of course not, silly. I'm not missing the festival. Just the parade. Doesn't sound like I missed much."

"Come to the theatre with us," Laforêt offered.

"Only if he can find a girl."

"And if I can?"

"Then I have to see it for myself," she laughed sharply.

"Where are you planning on going?"

Laforêt looked to Ada for confirmation. "The Variétés or the Gymnase."

"Not the Variétés. I've already been there. The Gymnase or maybe the Ambigu. Depends on the queues."

"The queues will be insane."

She shrugged. "It's the only way Thierry is ever taking me to the theatre. If we get there at 8, I can't imagine we won't get in. Do come with us. I'm dying to see the sort of girl you'll be able pick up."

Feuilly refrained from rolling his eyes. "I'm off to the Robillard. See you there if you like."

Where was he going to find a suitable girl on such short notice? Sophie was entirely out: he could not bring her when chaperoned by her father. He needed a girl. If desperate, he could always ask Viv if she'd be willing to sneak out, but she was not at all the sort of girl who could ever be brought anywhere near Ada. She was somewhere between a receiver of stolen goods and a whore, even if she was attractive in her own way and really quite a sweet girl if anyone would have given her the time of day. But he had a reputation to build, one that could never have any place for a ruined woman like Viv.

"Where's today's Constitutionnel?" he asked the café owner after poking at all the tables. "Or yesterday's, for that matter?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, it's hardly appropriate for the day's festivities."

"They were allowed to print it, so I'd think I'd be allowed to read it," Feuilly snapped. "I hadn't even finished with yesterday's!" The Sunday edition had had a long editorial on the meaning of the coronation which he had set aside for later.

"You may not want to play it safe, but I do."

"You haven't dropped the subscription, have you?"

"I won't say."

Feuilly took that as a "no". It was safer to drop the subscription than to keep it. "A glass of wine and whatever you can find for me to read."

The wine was sour and the newspaper proved to be the latest issue of L'Ami du religion et du Roi. "Are you kidding me?"

"It's what I've got today."

Feuilly rolled his eyes at the proprietor and settled in to anger himself in lieu of any other entertainment. At least this issue began with an article "On the Multiplication of Evil Books", so some loathing was guaranteed. Not that he had been permitted to indulge in the dark fantasies true acquaintance with these complete editions of Voltaire and Rousseau must surely bring about, but he could be angry that the rate of multiplication had not yet been high enough to include him in the growing number of readers.

He was unfamiliar with half the books they deemed evil. Of course the Friend of Religion and the King could hardly approve of a book titled "Common Sense", but what in particular made it evil? It was not a very interesting article without knowing at least something about everything they cited. The whole article might be laughable, but he was too ignorant to laugh at it properly. He was annoyed enough to toss the paper aside.

Where was he going to find a girl? Could he really just flirt his way through the illuminations and fireworks that evening, try on the idea of the would-be artist from the provinces again, and introduce Ada and Laforêt as his neighbours? But then he would have to trust that Ada would not say anything that would undermine what was really a confidence trick. And he would feel rather sorry to have played a trick on a stranger, particularly when it was likely to blow up in his face in front of a very long queue of theatregoers or the entire population of the gods. But how was an unemployed, scrawny, slightly effeminate boy like himself, who only ever attracted motherly prostitutes, going to find a girl he could present to Ada? There were Lydie's mates, but they would have nothing to do with him. It was much too late to press Sophie about any of the girls she worked with.

But there was Mme Mirès. She had said not to visit her again, but she had seemed sorry to say it. She was nothing like Sophie, for Sophie would never have come with him unchaperoned in the first place. Ada had already met her, so it would hardly be a surprise, but it would prove that some woman found him worthy enough to see again. Yet the greatest consideration had to be whether he would offend, rather than pleasantly surprise, Mme Mirès by seeking her out and making such an invitation.

It was worth a chance, he decided abruptly. He would do it now, and if necessary, go to the illuminations that night seeking to repair his broken pride. "When I come back, I hope you'll have something better than this rubbish," he told Robillard, brandishing the Ami.

"Next week, give or take."

"I hold you to it."

"Says the man who owes me three francs," he muttered just loud enough for Feuilly to hear as the door closed behind him.

That in itself was a strong argument against the whole project, Feuilly realised, his heart sinking. What was he really offering her? Six hours in a queue for a free play, then crammed in with possibly hundreds more than usual, unable to treat her to anything more than a piece of barley sugar. And the moment she met Laforêt, any sense she might have still had about his place in the world would be utterly destroyed. Unless he was such a poor confidence man that she had never really believed him anyway. She had been surprised when he paid her, after all. But if she had gone along with an obvious lie, then she was less virtuous than he had thought her, for she had gone with him to his flat, and he could not bring himself to believe so ill of her. She was not the ordinary Jewess. So why would she come along with him again, publicly, at all?

But then, she had liked him, he thought, and she had put up an appropriate fuss, and he had been very glad when she had finally taken his hand, even if it was when speaking to the gendarme on night duty at the prefecture. He had done nothing illegal in her presence – it was not illegal to not admit to a girl that you had no money in your family when admitting you had no money in your pockets. She came from a poor family, too, if she was in such straits, and her late husband could not have been one of the rich Jews, either, so perhaps his own lack of rank would not be so shameful to her. She was poor but honest enough in keeping the door open, even if she had agreed that the gossips might as well talk about something real rather than invented. Could she condemn him for a position so close to her own?

The concierge who opened to him was a middle aged man of sagging belly and faded blond hair. The old woman who had opened to him in January was gone, either retired to the country with her meagre share of the take or removed after her corruption became obvious. "Is Mme Mirès in?" Feuilly asked.

"Hell if I know. But I bet you know the way," he leered.

If he keeps that up, he won't have an honest female lodger left, Feuilly thought as he climbed the stairs. Nothing else about the house had changed since winter, but the place now felt tawdry rather than merely poor.

"Monsieur!" she greeted him in surprise. He had not intended to shock her, and he was suddenly sorry he had come. She looked more tired than he had remembered.

"Madame." He made a quick half bow. "I know you said not to come again, but – are you well? Have you been well?"

"Yes, thank you." She peered out the door for a moment, rapidly taking in the whole hall. "Come in. Keep your voice down."

"I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry."

"No!" she hastened to stop him from going. "I ought not be seen with you, but I am glad to see you. Paris is not treating you well."

"Paris is fueled by luck, and someday the wheel of fortune will turn again in my favour. I was much lower when I met you, though I may not have looked it. So I cannot complain. I came to ask – I mean, I was curious if -" Why was it suddenly so hard to ask a simple question? "Are you going to see any of the illuminations tonight?"

"No. I cannot. Perhaps if my husband's family are interested, we might take a look another night."

"Are they taking you to the theatre tomorrow?"

"Of course not. We must work."

"We've all been ordered not to work."

"The markets and shops will not be closed."

"The plays don't start until two."

"My mother-in-law also has a poor opinion of playacting, so I shall miss them all the same," she finally admitted ruefully.

"Come with me, then."

"You know I cannot, monsieur."

"I haven't come to court you or ruin your reputation. I just thought you might like to see a play. Do you remember my neighbour, Mlle Chollet? It's her party. I'll be a perfect gentleman, just like before, and you could sit between us, and no one would have a chance to trouble you."

"I really ought not." But the hesitation in her voice proclaimed "yes" more loudly than her lips probably could.

"If your husband were alive, would he take you?"

"Of course." She gave the broadest smile he had ever seen from her, and his heart rose at the sight. "We went twice to the Vaudeville, and I thought it the most wonderful thing in the world."

"Would he want you to miss it, then?"

"Albert is neither here nor there. Had he lived, I might finally have had children, and with a couple of babies, I would still have to miss it."

"Women always bring the babies. You will come, won't you?"

"Can we even get in?"

"Ada thinks if we queue at eight, we won't have a problem."

"Six hours!"

"It's not much of an offer, is it?"

"If anyone finds out, they won't think you trying to woo me."

"Would you rather go to the fêtes on Wednesday?"

"No, that I cannot do," she said firmly. "It would be far too much like courtship, I think, and I must not be seen to think of any such thing with a Christian. I ought not go tomorrow. But to see a play again!"

"I'll see you there and back. You wouldn't be in a bit of danger."

"You mustn't. The danger is from women's eyes and tongues, not men's hands. That gruesome man downstairs will make enough of this visit as it is that it will surely get around from the first person who overhears. Let me think. I do want to go, though I know I ought not." After a moment, her face screwed in thought, she finally decided, "I'll do my marketing early. Meet me behind the synagogue in the rue St-Avoie at half past seven. Where are we going?"

"Maybe the Ambigu, but probably the Gymnase. Ada had better decide tonight so we don't track her across half of Paris." He grinned. "I'm so happy you'll come."

"You are not courting me," she warned.

"On my honour before God," he swore solemnly. "I hold your reputation secondary only to your happiness, and I do not think you a light woman who could be happy despite a ruined name."

She bid him good day, checking again that the hall was empty before permitting him to go.

"So you're the one," the concierge sneered as Feuilly tried to leave the house unobserved.

"I don't know what you mean," he answered evenly.

"Thought she'd have better taste if you ain't got money. But you never can tell with Jewesses, can you?"

"Does the landlord pay you to insult your tenants' guests?" Feuilly asked coldly. "I won't hear another word." He stalked off without even an icy courtesy, telling himself that a bourgeois would never lower himself to false pleasantries with an odious little man who lacked any real authority.

Laforêt was waiting for him at Robillard's. "I thought you said you'd be here."

"I was. Just had to run an errand."

"Anything you want to admit to?"

"Ada."

"You don't have to go scouring Paris for a girl just because she forgot her manners."

"She didn't forget her manners. I've been deemed unworthy of the effort."

"It's really not as bad as you think."

"She doesn't think I'm a fancy boy and want to hold that over me?"

"But you don't have to take her seriously, is all I mean. She doesn't expect you to."

"So when I show up tomorrow with a pretty girl on my arm, does that call her bluff or play right into her little joke?"

"You found someone?" Laforêt asked incredulously.

"Of course I found someone. I know girls," Feuilly lied.

"Mlle Sophie doesn't count because her father will be in tow."

"Which is why I never even considered asking her. It's my Jewess," he admitted.

Laforêt looked unimpressed. "You don't know any girls."

"I know girls, but I won't bring them anywhere near Ada." Laforêt thanked him, but Feuilly brushed it off. "She's a very young widow. She looks exactly like my drawings of her," he tried to protest, though he knew it was futile.

"Will she actually come?"

"She promised."

"She doesn't know about -"

"No," Feuilly cut him off firmly. "And don't breathe a word to her or to Ada about it."

Laforêt raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not a snitch. Can I admit to seeing the drawings?"

"You can admit to your entire part in the enterprise. She already knows I was working with you. Ada saw to that. Running away from home to be an artist is expensive, I think I told her. Which is probably true enough. I'm not sure what she believes, to be honest."

"Your girl; your call."