In November, 1775, I was attacked by an hemorrhoidal colic, which caused me such pain as to draw shrieks from me. The surgeon who attended me evidently thought my condition desperate. The pain grew less, however; I needed rest, and begged the sentry not to let any one enter. I was beginning to sleep, when the commandant arrived; he entered in defiance of my orders, woke me, and said that as I was on the point of death, I ought to make haste, and leave a will in his favour; I evaded this by answering him that I did not intend dying yet. He assured me again that I must believe him, because he was commandant: I made no answer, and he went off growling, and soon after made a frightful disturbance, alleging that an attempt was going to be made to carry me off, and that a boat had been noticed in the neighbourhood.
Early in 1776, the commandant of Munkholm was removed, and Major Colin took his place.
This new commandant, two days after his arrival, sent me a bottle of good water, bread, and fresh butter; this procured me the best meal I had yet had. Under this commandant I enjoyed great tranquility and greater ease. I relieved myself by writing these memoirs, and I fancied that I felt less resentment at the evil that had been done me, in proportion as I wrote the narrative of it.
It is certain that fate has been very contrary to me. I joined to the passion of arms a taste for meditation, study, and retirement. I eagerly desired to acquire glory, but an independence would have been sufficient for me: I could not hope for either now.
Some one once said to Count de St. Germain, that it was surprising he should resolve to quit the service of France, when he had 60,000 livres a year from the king's bounty; he answered, that 100 crowns a year composed his whole patrimony, but he would sooner live on that than endure affronts.
This answer struck me, and I resolved to save all I could, so as to acquire an independence. I possessed, in 1771, 8,000 crowns, which I had entrusted to Schimmelmann, while awaiting the opportunity to sink them in an annuity. If I did not succeed in a military career, I hoped with this resource to procure a retreat in an agreeable country, and in a warm climate.
Now, my money is lost, I have no longer a career to follow, and I am a prisoner for life on a rock in 64° of northern latitude: but how great was my folly in leaving the service of Russia to come to Denmark!
I was making these sad reflections when, on September 25, 1776, I was informed by a note from Lieutenant-General von der Osten, grand bailiff and commandant of Trondhjem, that I should receive a visit from him. I had not recovered from the surprise this note caused me, when Von der Osten himself appeared, followed by the commandant, a surgeon, and his valet. He hurriedly entered my room, shouting, Pardon, pardon, in the king's name! He held in his hand a portfolio full of papers, among which were—