‘Who designed this thing?’ he muttered, hefting the coiled rope on to his shoulder. ‘Tall towers and short ladders. Just goes to show, there are idiots everywhere.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked a member of the fire brigade. ‘Who said you could take that?’

Vigny jerked a thumb skywards. ‘Him.’

The fireman frowned. ‘God?’

The Frenchman winced. Idiots everywhere. ‘Not quite so lofty, mon ami.’

The fireman glanced upwards, catching sight of the king in the window.

‘Do what he says,’ roared Nicholas. ‘That man has saved my life in the past, and I trust him to do it again.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty. I am at your… at his service.’

Victor pointed at the ladder. ‘Lean that against the wall, below the window.’

‘It won’t reach,’ said the fireman, eager to say something intelligent.

‘Just do it, monsieur. Your king is getting a little hot under the collar.’

The fireman grabbed a comrade and together they propped the ladder against the tower. Victor Vigny was halfway up before the stiles hit the wall.

The tower transmitted its vibrations into the rungs, and Victor knew that it wouldn’t be long before it blew its top, like a plugged cannon. The king’s apartment and everything above it would soon be no more than dust and memories.

He quickly reached the top of the ladder and, threading his legs through the rungs, he slid the rope off his shoulder and down his arm.

‘Nimble, ain’t he?’ commented the fireman to his partner. ‘But as I intelligently said, that there ladder don’t reach.’

The debris was showering down now, lumps, shards and entire granite blocks. There was no avoiding it for the three men working at the ladder. They bore the blows with hunched shoulders and grunts.

‘Lean it back,’ Victor called down, sweat dripping from his face. He tore his feathered cap off as it caught fire, revealing the shock of spiked hair that had earned him the nickname La Brosse. ‘You owe me a hat, Nicholas. I’ve had that one since New Orleans.’