‘“Up the Seine to be sold in Paris,” he says. “Neither you nor I will ever touch a penny of that money.” ‘“Get me leave to go with it,” I says. “I’ll see if there’s justice to be gotten out of our American Ambassador.” ‘“There’s not much justice in this world,” he says, “without a Navy.” But he got me leave to go with the barge and he gave me some money. That tobacco was all I had, and I followed it like a hound follows a snatched bone. Going up the river I fiddled a little to keep my spirits up, as well as to make friends with the guard. They was only doing their duty. Outside o’ that they were the reasonablest o’ God’s creatures. They never even laughed at me. So we come to Paris, by river, along in November, which the French had christened Brumaire. They’d given new names to all the months, and after such an outrageous silly piece o’ business as that, they wasn’t likely to trouble ‘emselves with my rights and wrongs. They didn’t. The barge was laid up below Notre Dame church in charge of a caretaker, and he let me sleep aboard after I’d run about all day from office to office, seeking justice and fair dealing, and getting speeches concerning liberty. None heeded me. Looking back on it I can’t rightly blame ‘em. I’d no money, my clothes was filthy mucked; I hadn’t changed my linen in weeks, and I’d no proof of my claims except the ship’s papers, which, they said, I might have stolen. The thieves! The door-keeper to the American Ambassador--for I never saw even the Secretary--he swore I spoke French a sight too well for an American citizen. Worse than that--I had spent my money, d’ye see, and I--I took to fiddling in the streets for my keep; and--and, a ship’s captain with a fiddle under his arm--well, I don’t blame ‘em that they didn’t believe me. ‘I come back to the barge one day--late in this month Brumaire it was--fair beazled out. Old Maingon, the caretaker, he’d lit a fire in a bucket and was grilling a herring. ‘“Courage, mon ami,” he says. “Dinner is served.”