The king laughed, and the forlorn surgeon was left behind.
A few days afterwards the king was shot.
"I was blameless," the surgeon used to say when speaking of this matter. "Had not that damned De Besche been there—yes, I won't say anything more."
Everyone understood what he meant. The "if" in the way was also due to his birthday on the 15th of August.
Shortly afterwards Bäck represented his profession at a state execution. Here his free tongue got him into trouble, and he fled on board a Pomeranian yacht. Next we find him tramping like a wandering quack to Paris. He arrived at an opportune moment, and received a humble appointment in the army of Italy. One night, under the influence of his birthday, he left his hospital at Nissa, and hurried to Mantua to see Bonaparte; he wished to make of the 15th of August a ladder to eminence. He managed to see the General, and presented a petition for an appointment as army physician.
"But," sighed the surgeon, every time he spoke of this remarkable incident, "the General was very busy, and asked one of his staff what I wanted."
"Citizen General," answered the adjutant, "it is a surgeon, who requests the honour of sawing off your leg at the first opportunity."
"Just then," added the surgeon, "the Austrian cannon began to thunder, and General Bonaparte told me to go to the devil."
Thus the surgeon, who had preserved so many eminent personages, was deprived of the honour of saving Napoleon. He got camp fever instead, and lay sick for some time at Brescia.
When well he travelled to Zurich, and here fell in love with a rosy-cheeked Swiss girl; but before he could marry her, the city was overrun, first by the Russians, then French, and finally by Suvaroff. The surgeon's betrothed ran away, and never returned.