'"I'll take you round to Boulogne," he says. "Mother and the rest'll be glad to see you, and you can slip over to Newhaven with Uncle Aurette. Or you can ship with me, like most o' your men, and take a turn at King George's loose trade. There's plenty pickings," he says.
'Crazy as I was, I couldn't help laughing.
'"I've had my allowance of pickings and stealings," I says.
"Where are they taking my tobacco?" 'Twas being loaded on to a barge.
'"Up the Seine to be sold in Paris," he says. "Neither you nor I will ever touch a penny of that money."
'"Get me leave to go with it," I says. "I'll see if there's justice to be gotten out of our American Ambassador."
'"There's not much justice in this world," he says, "without a Navy." But he got me leave to go with the barge and he gave me some money. That tobacco was all I had, and I followed it like a hound follows a snatched bone. Going up the river I fiddled a little to keep my spirits up, as well as to make friends with the guard.
They was only doing their duty. Outside o' that they were the reasonablest o' God's creatures. They never even laughed at me.
So we come to Paris, by river, along in November, which the French had christened Brumaire. They'd given new names to all the months, and after such an outrageous silly piece o' business as that, they wasn't likely to trouble 'emselves with my rights and wrongs. They didn't. The barge was laid up below Notre Dame church in charge of a caretaker, and he let me sleep aboard after I'd run about all day from office to office, seeking justice and fair dealing, and getting speeches concerning liberty. None heeded me. Looking back on it I can't rightly blame 'em. I'd no money, my clothes was filthy mucked; I hadn't changed my linen in weeks, and I'd no proof of my claims except the ship's papers, which, they said, I might have stolen. The thieves! The door-keeper to the American Ambassador - for I never saw even the Secretary - he swore I spoke French a sight too well for an American citizen. Worse than that - I had spent my money, d'ye see, and I - I took to fiddling in the streets for my keep; and - and, a ship's captain with a fiddle under his arm - well, I don't blame 'em that they didn't believe me.
'I come back to the barge one day - late in this month Brumaire it was - fair beazled out. Old Maingon, the caretaker, he'd lit a fire in a bucket and was grilling a herring.
'"Courage, mon ami," he says. "Dinner is served."
'"I can't eat," I says. "I can't do any more. It's stronger than I am."
'"Bah!" he says. "Nothing's stronger than a man. Me, for example! Less than two years ago I was blown up in the Orient in Aboukir Bay, but I descended again and hit the water like a fairy.
Look at me now," he says. He wasn't much to look at, for he'd only one leg and one eye, but the cheerfullest soul that ever trod shoe-leather. "That's worse than a hundred and eleven hogshead of 'baccy," he goes on. "You're young, too! What wouldn't I give to be young in France at this hour! There's nothing you couldn't do," he says. "The ball's at your feet - kick it!" he says. He kicks the old fire-bucket with his peg-leg. "General Buonaparte, for example!" he goes on. "That man's a babe compared to me, and see what he's done already. He's conquered Egypt and Austria and Italy - oh! half Europe!" he says, "and now he sails back to Paris, and he sails out to St Cloud down the river here -don't stare at the river, you young fool! - and all in front of these pig-jobbing lawyers and citizens he makes himself Consul, which is as good as a King. He'll be King, too, in the next three turns of the capstan -
King of France, England, and the world! Think o' that!" he shouts, "and eat your herring."
'I says something about Boney. If he hadn't been fighting England I shouldn't have lost my 'baccy - should I?
'"Young fellow," says Maingon, "you don't understand."
'We heard cheering. A carriage passed over the bridge with two in it.
'"That's the man himself," says Maingon. "He'll give 'em something to cheer for soon." He stands at the salute.
'"Who's t'other in black beside him?" I asks, fairly shaking all over.
'"Ah! he's the clever one. You'll hear of him before long. He's that scoundrel-bishop, Talleyrand."
'"It is!" I said, and up the steps I went with my fiddle, and run after the carriage calling, "Abbe, Abbe!"
'A soldier knocked the wind out of me with the back of his sword, but I had sense to keep on following till the carriage stopped - and there just was a crowd round the house-door! I must have been half-crazy else I wouldn't have struck up "Si le Roi m'avait donne Paris la grande ville!" I thought it might remind him.
'"That is a good omen!" he says to Boney sitting all hunched up; and he looks straight at me.
'"Abbe - oh, Abbe!" I says. "Don't you remember Toby and Hundred and Eighteen Second Street?"
'He said not a word. He just crooked his long white finger to the guard at the door while the carriage steps were let down, and I skipped into the house, and they slammed the door in the crowd's face.
'"You go there," says a soldier, and shoves me into an empty room, where I catched my first breath since I'd left the barge.
Presently I heard plates rattling next door - there were only folding doors between - and a cork drawn. "I tell you," some one shouts with his mouth full, "it was all that sulky ass Sieyes' fault.
Only my speech to the Five Hundred saved the situation."
'"Did it save your coat?" says Talleyrand. "I hear they tore it when they threw you out. Don't gasconade to me. You may be in the road of victory, but you aren't there yet."
'Then I guessed t'other man was Boney. He stamped about and swore at Talleyrand.
'"You forget yourself, Consul," says Talleyrand, "or rather you remember yourself- Corsican."
'"Pig!" says Boney, and worse.
'"Emperor!" says Talleyrand, but, the way he spoke, it sounded worst of all. Some one must have backed against the folding doors, for they flew open and showed me in the middle of the room. Boney whipped out his pistol before I could stand up.
