However, early in the month of March, 1808--and d’Auerweck had now been nearly seven months in the Temple--Baron de Dalberg was informed that Fouché’s intervention was not enough by itself, and that a pardon for the prisoner had been submitted to the Emperor, who was about to leave Paris for a campaign in Spain, but he had refused to sign it. The situation became serious. Dalberg fully recognized the difficulty which he would experience in delivering the unfortunate Baron from prison; for he was looked upon as “an English Agent,” and, as such, infinitely more an object of suspicion than if he had been an emissary of any other Power. The hatred of England was then at its height, and Napoleon’s sentiment was that an English spy deserved to be taken care of, and, indeed, well taken care of. D’Auerweck could not deny that he had at one time been in the service of the hated nation; for all that, he laid claim to being a subject of Baden. The weeks rolled by, and d’Auerweck began to despair. He had, perhaps, a momentary glimmer of hope that his deliverance was at hand, when he became aware of an unexpected confusion and tumult in the Temple. What had happened? Was Paris once more agitated by a change of Government? Had the Emperor met with defeat? Alas! It was nothing of the kind. But Napoleon had ordered the Temple tower to be demolished, and the seventeen prisoners who were kept there had to be carted off to another lodging. They were taken to Vincennes, and d’Auerweck’s faint hope was blighted. He was more miserable than ever, and, as soon as he had settled down in his new quarters, despatched a vehement protest to Desmarets. “What is the reason, in the name of God, that I find myself dragged from one place to another six months after the arrival of written statements which ought to have proved my innocence? If my character had again been blackened by spite, at least give me the opportunity of fixing the lie. I cannot think that any one in this world has ever been placed in a more unhappy case than I. My eyesight is impaired, my health ruined, and my wits are worn out. I can only think of my unfortunate children, ruined and deprived of every necessity, and this in the case of a man who is absolutely innocent of all wrong-doing.” It never once occurred to him that his rigorous imprisonment might be due to some indiscretion connected with his past and with his conduct in 1795, or with the part which he had taken in the “Temple affair.” Why should these old times, which were wrapped in a mist of obscurity, be remembered? And, besides, there was no reason for suspecting anything of the kind.