Charles Thelin’s prayer to those in authority was not for liberty, but for captivity with a master to whom he was not a valet, but a friend; to that level the prince had raised him.
The prince was simply lodged. He wrote: “I have a good bed, white curtains, a round table and six chairs.” He had also a looking glass measuring thirty-six inches. In after years, in looking into mirrors in palaces, he many times recalled this looking-glass. Upon two wooden shelves were placed his silver toilet articles marked with the imperial arms. After a time he was allowed another room to be used as a study, and in this were placed some of his family souvenirs. Some wooden shelves fastened on the wall held the books and papers allowed for his use; on one of these shelves he inscribed the letter “N,” and said it would bring him good luck. That plank was destined to be the plank of his salvation.
Everything intended for his personal service was daily subjected to the minutest examination. An allowance of seven francs apiece was made for the nourishment of the captives, and their cooking was done by the gate-keeper. The prince was allowed to cultivate a little garden of about a hundred feet on the rampart. “I am occupied a good deal just now gardening,” he writes. “The pleasure I find makes me think that our nature has many resources and consolations unknown to those who are happy.” The inhabitants of the town were always asking for flowers from his garden, and he took great pleasure in sending them.
He gave collations to the school children under an enormous lime tree which has become legendary, and he distributed medals among them, as well as alms among the poor. The curé of the town was the medium of his bounty and became sincerely attached to him. By his gentleness, affability, simplicity and great kindness he made friends even of his jailers; captivating all with whom he came in contact, beginning with the commandant of the fortress. The soldiers were forbidden to speak, stand or salute in his presence; but they contrived means of secretly showing their sympathy. On this account the garrison had often to be changed, and the sentry boxes to be washed to efface inscriptions of “Long live Napoleon!” “Long live the Emperor!”
Prince Louis Napoleon was a magnificent horseman. He was permitted to buy a horse and ride in the courtyard. He amused himself by galloping up the glacis at full speed and stopping suddenly on the summit of the ramparts, on the very edge of the precipice, the boldness of the rider never failing to arouse the admiration of all passers-by. Every detachment of troops passing through the city halted at the foot of the fortress to catch a glimpse of the prisoner. It would have been safer to have kept in captivity forever, on distant seas, this man so impassioned in feeling, so calm and unmoved in expression, so daring in action, so soft and gentle in manner. What wonder that none could understand him nor reconcile the rash temerity of his deeds and the impassive calmness of his attitude. The prisoner of Ham made his prison a place of meditation and study, silently preparing his political future. He wrote a great deal, and from these written words can be comprehended best his character, his ideas, his hopes, his illusions, his sadness and concentrated enthusiasm. These papers written in imprisonment show the most remarkably complex nature; the politician, the conspirator. The man determined to wield tremendous power looks upon his prison as a vestibule to the palace; the poetic, melancholy dreamer breathes forth in every word a sad, sentimental longing for love and happiness.
The great captive lived six years at St. Helena, converting his rock into a monument, of imperishable glory. Memory once more brought kings, as suppliants, into his presence. The mighty conqueror saw again all nations tremble at his approach. The captivity at St. Helena is an epilogue; that at Ham a prologue.
The sad, poetic prisoner, filled with dreams of a wonderful future, sustained by unshaken faith in the star of his destiny, had also passed six years in his dreary prison; so far as men could see, calmly accepting whatever fate might bring. He had said: “I prefer to be a captive on French soil rather than a free man in foreign land.”
In the year 1845 he received a letter which changed his mind and influenced his destiny. It was from his father, for whom he had a profound veneration, and towards whom he had ever been faithful in the discharge of filial duties. King Louis had not been sparing in his blame of the vain hopes which had led his son to the escapades of Strasbourg and Boulogne. With a gloomy memory, replete with bitterness, of all the tempestuous glory of his family, he looked with anger and compassion upon this audacious soul—his son who could throw himself into the stormy ocean of human greatness. A king against his will, an unhappy husband, a loving father deprived by fate of his children, his life had been one of sadness and disappointment.