Four o'clock in the afternoon. December 24th, 1800.
In a dimly lit room hidden away in a nondescript building. The royalists' conspirators gathered around a long wooden table.
François Carbon leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "We must ensure that the cart is perfectly positioned on Rue Saint-Nicaise. The explosion must be timed to occur just as Bonaparte's carriage passes by. It's our only chance at success."
Pierre Robinault de Saint-Régent, his eyes ablaze with fervor, added, "Cadoudal, you must make certain that our message reaches the British. We need their support if we are to restore the rightful monarchy to power."
Georges Cadoudal nodded solemnly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I will contact our allies across the channel. Once they received word that Napoleon is dead, they would inform the Austrians who are keeping our King."
As the conspirators continued their sinister discussion, they were suddenly interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
