The sixty francs from Rosas were expended.  Madame D’Orleans would have liked much to assist us, but she was herself without money.  All that she could gratify us with was a piece of sugarbread.  The evening of our visit I was richer than the Princess.  To avoid the fury of the people the Spanish Government sent those French who had escaped the first massacres back to France in slight boats.  One of the cartels came and cast anchor by the side of our hulk.  One of the unhappy emigrants offered me a pinch of snuff.  On opening the snuff-box I found there “una onza de oro,” (an ounce of gold,) the sole remains of his fortune.  I returned the snuff-box to him, with warm thanks, after having shut up in it a paper containing these words:—­“My fellow-countryman who carries this note has rendered me a great service;—­treat him as one of your children.”  My petition was naturally favourably received; it was by this bit of paper, the size of the onza de oro, that my family learnt that I was still in existence, and it enabled my mother—­a model of piety—­to cease saying masses for the repose of my soul.

Five days afterwards, one of my hardy compatriots arrived at Palamos, after having traversed the line of posts both French and Spanish, carrying to a merchant who had friends at Perpignan the proposal to furnish me with all I was in need of.  The Spaniard showed a great inclination to agree to the proposal; but I did not profit by his good will, because of the occurrence of events which I shall relate presently.

The Observatory at Paris is very near the barrier.  In my youth, curious to study the manners of the people, I used to walk in sight of the public-houses which the desire of escaping payment of the duty has multiplied outside the walls of the capital; on these excursions I was often humiliated to see men disputing for a piece of bread, just as animals might have done.  My feelings on this subject have very much altered since I have been personally exposed to the tortures of hunger.  I have discovered, in fact, that a man, whatever may have been his origin, his education, and his habits, is governed, under certain circumstances, much more by his stomach than by his intelligence and his heart.  Here is the fact which suggested these reflections to me.

To celebrate the unhoped-for arrival of una onza de oro, M. Berthemie and I had procured an immense dish of potatoes.  The ordnance officer of the Emperor was already devouring it with his eyes, when a Moroccan, who was making his ablutions near us with one of his companions, accidentally filled it with dirt.  M. Berthemie could not control his anger; he darted upon the clumsy Mussulman, and inflicted upon him a rough punishment.

I remained a passive spectator of the combat, until the second Moroccan came to the aid of his compatriot.  The party no longer being equal, I also took part in the conflict by seizing the new assailant by the beard.  The combat ceased at once, because the Moroccan would not raise his hand against a man who could write a petition so rapidly.  This conflict, like the struggles of which I had often been a witness outside the barriers of Paris, had originated in a dish of potatoes.