station had been fired, that when I called a few days later there was no
trace of it left. So I was never sent to Cayenne or any other penal
settlement.

On the contrary, Prince Napoleon had saved France, and he could not do
without me to consolidate it. Achille Fould was his Chancellor of the
Exchequer, his right hand, and as Madame Achille and her sister were old
friends of my parents, and had been amongst the first to welcome me into
this big world, it was but natural they should now take me in hand and
wish to introduce me into their particular world. So wherever golden
dust was to be thrown into the eyes of the pleasure-seeking Parisian,
my presence was politely requested. On my side I accepted favours with
princely condescension, and got into the Tuileries, when there was a
ball or a fete on, hours before other poor mortals of inferior clay. The
coachman of our ministerial carriage holding a card with the injunction,
"Laisser passer, s'il n'y a pas empechement de force majeure," we had
not to wait our turn in the interminable queue that stretched through
Paris for miles. I might be dancing at the Tuileries one night in the
same room with the Prince President, who would perhaps be walking a
quadrille with the wife of the British ambassador, and the next
night--there comes the other side of my life--I was accoutred in a
blouse and a workman's cap, and was diving into the haunts of
destitution and misery, into those privileged places where unpoetical
license reigns supreme. I learnt French argot, the thieves' language, at
the fountain-source, and studied political economy under
Communists--some of them philosophers, some firebrands. All that, to be
sure, I could not have done alone, but I had some trusty friends amongst
my studio comrades who initiated me and taught me French, as according
to them she should be spoke. I had to learn a poetical effusion by heart
of which I just recollect the two lines--

"Le jour viendra ou le pere eclaire
Donnera sa fille au forcat libere."

One of the highest officials I met at the Tuileries, the type of a
perfect gentleman, was the biggest scoundrel I ever came across; whilst
on the other hand, the man who more than any other taught me to love
humanity, was a scoundrel whom I met in a low wineshop in the Belleville
quarter, the hotbed of irresponsible revolution.

Memories are rather troublesome friends to deal with. They will not form
into line after the example of t