And now I am approaching a chapter of my history whose adventures and chances are alone a story in themselves. The varied fortunes of a campaign in a strange land, with strange enemies, new scenes and climate, of course were not without incidents to diversify and interest them; and although I could probably select more passages of curious adventure from this than from any other portion of my life, I am forced to pass by all in silence; and for these reasons: first, the narrative would lead me to a greater length than I have any right to presume upon in this history, or to believe that my reader would be a willing party to; and, secondly, the recital would entail the acquaintance with a vast variety of characters, not one of whom ever again occurred to me in life, and of whom, when I quitted Africa, their very names never were heard by me more. And here I may be pardoned for saying that I have been sadly constrained, in these my Confessions, to avoid, upon the one hand, any mention of those persons who merely exercised a passing influence on my fortunes, and yet to show by what agencies of personal acquaintanceship my character became formed and moulded. In a novel, the world would seem to consist of only the very characters introduced, or, rather, the characters serve as abstractions to represent certain qualities and passions of mankind; but in real life is this the case? Nay, is it not precisely the reverse? Do not the chance intimacies we form in the steamboat or the diligence very frequently leave deep and lasting impressions behind them? Are not phrases remembered, and words treasured up as axioms, that we have heard passingly from those we are never to see again? Of how many of our strongest convictions the origin was mere accident,—ideas dropped like those seeds of distant plants that are borne for thousands of miles upon the wind, and let fall in some far-away land to take root and fructify? And are these the agencies to be omitted when a man would give a “confession” to the world? Why are the letters of an individual his best biography, save as recording his judgment upon passing events or people, with whom, in all likelihood, he has little subsequent connection? But enough of this; I have said sufficient for apology to those who see the difficulty of the case. To those who do not, I have been prolix without being profitable.
Of Africa, then, I must not speak. Three years of its burning sun and parched soil—the life of bivouac and battle—had done the work of ten upon my constitution and appearance. I was bronzed almost to a Moorish tint; a few straggling hairs of gray showed themselves in my dark beard and moustache; while emergencies and hazards of different kinds had imparted a sterner character to my features, that little resembled the careless gayety of my earlier days. In addition to this, I was wounded: a sabre cut received in defending the Prince from an attack of Arab horsemen had severed the muscles of my right arm; and although encouraged to believe that I should yet recover its use, I was for the time, at least, totally disabled, and as incompetent to wield a sword as a pen. A very flattering mention of me in “general orders,” my name recorded in a despatch, and the ribbon of the “Legion,” well rewarded me for these mishaps; and now, as a season of peace intervened, I was about to return to France with the rank of “Chef d'Escadron” and the fame of a distinguished officer. As the Prince, my master, was to make a tour in the provinces before his return to Paris, permission was given me to visit Italy, whither the physician advised me to repair to recruit my strength, before adventuring upon the trials of a more northern climate. The “Duc” overwhelmed me with kind protestations at parting, and gave me a letter to the French Minister at Naples, especially commending me to his friendship, and speaking of my services in terms that my modesty cannot permit me to repeat. Thus was Fortune once more my friend; and could I have but obliterated all memory of the past, and of those fatal riches,—the brief enjoyment of which had given an impulse to all my desires,—I might now have been well contented. High character as a soldier, a certain rank in the service, and the friendship of a Royal Prince, were not trifling advantages to one who had often sued destiny with success, even “in forma pauperis;” still, the “great game” I should have played, as the man of large fortune, was never out of my thoughts, and in secret I resolved to return to Mexico, and, as the phrase has it, “look after my affairs.”
This determination grew more fixed the longer I considered it; and here I may remark that the document to which the King had appended his signature and approval was a statement of my claims on Spain, drawn up by myself,—one of those hundred representations which I made, in idle hours, to while away time and amuse hope. If I was well aware that the signature was obtained by a mere accident, and without knowledge of the contents, I was not deterred from speculating as to what useful purpose it might be employed,—scruples of conscience being of all things in the world those I best knew how to dispose of.
On reaching Naples I discovered that the Envoy to whom my letter was addressed had just been recalled, and in his place a young Secretary of Embassy was officiating,—one of those admirably dressed and inimitably gloved young gentlemen whom France despatches to foreign countries as representatives of her skill in neckcloths and waistcoats, and her incomparable superiority in lacquered leather. Monsieur de Bussenaç was a veritable type of Paris dandyism,—vain, empty, and conceited, with considerable smartness in conversation, and unquestionable personal courage; his life was passed in abusing England and affecting the most ludicrous imitation of all that was English,—in dress, equipage, and livery.
Although my name was not unknown to him, he received me with the condescending courtesy the diplomatist usually assumes in his intercourse with the soldier: protested his regret that the gay season was over, that Naples was thinning every day, that he hardly knew where, or to whom, to present me.
I assured him that pleasure was not among the ambitions of an invalid like myself; but, next to the care of my health, one of my objects in Naples was to press a claim upon the Spanish Government, to which the residence of a Spanish Minister of high rank at that court gave a favorable opportunity; and with this preface I gave a brief history of my loss and imprisonment. The young Chargé d'Affaires looked horridly bored by my story, of which, it was clear, he only heard a very small part; and when I concluded, he made a few notes of my statement, and promised to see the Spanish Ambassador upon it that very day.
I believe that my experience is not a singular one; but from the moment that I announced myself as a person claiming the aid of the “Mission,” the doors of the Embassy were hermetically sealed against me. If I called, “His Excellency” (everything is Excellency to an embassy porter) was either in conference with a colleague, or replying to a despatch, or with the court. If I wrote, my answer was always a polite acknowledgment of my note, and no more. Even when we met passingly in the street, his salute was cold and markedly distant; so that I began to suspect that either he had heard something to my disadvantage among his colleagues, or that he had received some hint respecting me.
I knew if I were to address the Duc de St. Cloud on the subject, that my essenced friend would at once receive a check, and possibly a heavy reprimand; but I was too proud to descend to this, and resolved to right myself without calling in the aid of others. With this intention, I repaired one day to the Mission, and having waited for some time, till I saw a person leave the cabinet, from whom I learned that the Envoy was at home, I advanced to the door. “Out, sir,” said the porter, barring the way. I pushed him aside, with the air of one who was not to be trifled with, and, opening the door, walked in.