Sandoval also noticed some of his more intellectual friends among them: a lawyer, a doctor and a writer.

A worrying thought suddenly struck him. It occurred to him that he had in fact received no instructions about what to do once they had broken into the palace. Delorme had said that they would work it out when they got there. At all events, Sandoval had brought his revolver.

“If this thing turns out badly,” he thought, “I’ll shoot myself. Or rather, I won’t shoot myself. Who can say?”

Sandoval was a great raconteur. He had already given thought to the adventure he would narrate once he was free to talk about it at leisure amongst his fellow painters, around the club’s dinner table at the Kina coffee house.

The door opened, and a respectful silence descended as the conspirators were joined by the imposing figure of Major Mawiras-Tendal.

“So, everyone’s here. Follow me in absolute silence. No one must know you are in the building.”

They made their way along a complicated and winding route through rooms and corridors, which the Major had carefully plotted to prevent them meeting a single soul—a feat made possible by the vast size of the palace, with its ancient, long-deserted wings and side-buildings.

Finally they arrived at the foot of a spiral staircase.

“Keep your wits about you,” the Major said in a hushed voice: “This leads directly to the King’s apartments.”

They went up the creaking staircase, stopping and starting, and glaring recriminations at one another. One of them, a man with a permanently startled expression on his face and very little hair, turned suddenly to Sandoval:

“Zizigan. Cardboard box manufacturer,” he announced, choosing his moment rather strangely.

“Torrer. Rubber heel salesman,” Sandoval returned instinctively, preferring not to tell the truth.

“Tell me,” the other whispered: “What are we actually supposed to do, if in fact the King … ?”

“Ssssh!” Sandoval hissed fiercely.

The winding stairway went on forever, leading them to higher and higher levels. Then an iron door swung open and they found themselves in a small room, barely able to contain their number.

Mawiras-Tendal disappeared through a tiny doorway. A second later he was back.

“Come this way.”

They stepped into a much larger room, brightly lit. The Major assigned each man to his place. They were standing in a semicircle before a finely wrought door that opened outwards from the room they were in. As men do in moments of crisis, Sandoval found himself nervously eyeing every detail, no longer able to account for any of them rationally: the imposing marble fireplace, the ornate Renaissance table that bore nothing but a cage, and inside that cage a canary, the King’s favourite …

Mawiras-Tendal opened the door, stood holding it wide, and announced in ringing tones:

“The Nameless Captain!”

In a silence haloed with mystery, a man entered the room. He might have been in uniform, but all that could be seen of it were the patent leather boots and high gold-braided collar: the rest could only be surmised under the large, white, theatrical cloak that covered it. His face was masked. For a few moments he looked at the conspirators in silence.

“I greet you, brave men,” he said at last, in a quiet, almost ceremonial voice. “You have, every one of you, taken an oath of allegiance to me without knowing who I am. For that you have my special thanks. The time has now come for us to convert our ideas into reality. Within the hour the general uprising will have begun. We have worked on every smallest detail, and events will unfold precisely according to plan. Gentlemen, you are the ones who stormed the Royal Palace.”

A frisson of delight ran down Sandoval’s spine. They had indeed ‘stormed’ the royal palace, as people would later read. It was a shame, perhaps, that the ‘storming’ had proved so much less romantic than he had imagined. But he had learnt to live with the fact that life was never as colourful as his fantasies. Zizigan, from the look of him, was almost overcome by the fact that he too was one of the ‘storming’ party.