Here was a hot shot dangling over the magazines of the mighty man, and the "little corporal" jumped into his boots, and began to set the wheels of his great "expediency" in motion. A message flew here, and another there; a dispatch to this one, and a royal order to that one. A dozen secretaries, and a score of _amanuensises_ were instantly at work, and the alarmed "Emperor of all the French" fairly beat the _reveille_ upon his diamond-cased snuff box; while, with the rapidity of the clapper of an alarm bell, he issued to each the oral order to which they were to lend enchantment by their rapid quills. Herr Beethoven was surprised in his very closet! Papers were found scattered all over his little sanctum--the spies had him and his effects, most promptly; but what was the rage and disappointment of the emissaries of the wily monarch, to find neither hair nor hide of the dreaded _fiat!_ Had it gone forth? Was it secreted? Was it written? They had the _man_, but his flesh and blood were as valueless as a pebble to a diamond, contrasted with the witchery of the _words_ he had invested a few sheets of simple paper with! They searched his clothes--tore up his bed, broke up his furniture, powdered his few pieces of statuary, but all in vain--the sought for, dreaded, and hated documents, for which his _Imperial highness_ would have secretly given ten--twenty--fifty thousand _louis_--was not to be found! The rage of the inquisitors was terrific--showing how well they were chosen or paid, to serve in their atrocious capacities. The poor scribe was promised all manner of unpleasant _finales_, cursed, menaced, and finally coaxed. "I have written nothing--published nothing, nor do I intend to write or publish anything," was Beethoven's reply. "Speak fearlessly," said the chief of the inquisitors, "and rely upon a generous monarch's benevolence. My commission, sir, is limited to ascertain whether poverty has not compelled you to write; if that be the case, speak out; place any price upon your work--the price is nothing--I will pay you at once and destroy your documents." "Your offers, sir," responded the poor author, "are most kind and liberal, and I regret extremely that it is _not_ in my power to avail myself of them. I again declare, sir, that I have never written anything against the French government--your information to the contrary is false and wicked." The spies, finding they could not gain any information of the author, by threat or bribe, carried him to France, where his doom was supposed to be sealed in torture and death, in the _Bastile_ of the Emperor.