the night before, of such an individual, who gave himself up to smuggling with more success than others, of his beautiful residence, of the property which he possessed near the village,—­in short, of a number of particulars which it seemed impossible for any but an inhabitant of Cadaques to know.  My jest produced an unexpected effect.  Such circumstantial details, our guards said to themselves, cannot be known by a roving merchant; this personage, whom we have found here in such singular society, is certainly a native of Cadaques; and the son of the apothecary must be about his age.  He had gone to try his fortune in America; it is evidently he who fears to make himself known, having been found with all his riches in a vessel on its way to France.  The report spread, became more consistent, and reached the ears of a sister of the apothecary established at Rosas.  She runs to me, believes she recognizes me, and falls on my neck.  I protest against the identity.  “Well played!” said she to me; “the case is serious, as you have been found in a vessel coming to France; persist in your denial; circumstances may perhaps take a more favourable turn, and I shall profit by them to insure your deliverance.  In the mean time, my dear nephew, I will let you want for nothing.”  And truly every morning M. Berthemie and I received a comfortable repast.

The church having become necessary to the garrison to serve as a magazine, we were moved on the 25th of September, 1808, to a Trinity fort, called the Bouton de Rosas, a citadel situated on a little mountain at the entrance of the roads, and we were deposited deep under ground, where the light of day did not penetrate on any side.  We did not long remain in this infected place, not because they had pity upon us, but because it offered shelter for a part of the garrison attacked by the French.  They made us descend by night to the edge of the sea, and then transported us on the 17th of October to the port of Palamos.  We were shut up in a hulk; we enjoyed, however, a certain degree of liberty;—­they allowed us to go on land, and to parade our miseries and our rags in the town.  It was there that I made the acquaintance of the dowager Duchess of Orleans, mother of Louis Philippe.  She had left the town of Figueras, where she resided, because, she told me, thirty-two bombs sent from the fortress had fallen in her house.  She was then intending to take refuge in Algiers, and she asked me to bring the captain of the vessel to her, of whom, perhaps, she would have to implore protection.  I related to my “rais” the misfortunes of the Princess; he was moved by them, and I conducted him to her.  On entering, he took off his slippers from respect, as if he had entered within a mosque, and holding them in his hand, he went to kiss the front of the dress of Madame d’Orleans.  The Princess Was alarmed at the sight of this manly figure, wearing the longest beard I ever saw; she quickly recovered herself, and the interview proceeded with a mixture of French politeness and Oriental courtesy.