Although official France shuts its doors on Aaron, unofficial France does not. The excellent Volney, of a better memory than the King of Westphalia or the slily skulking Talleyrand, remembers Richmond Hill. Volney hunts out Aaron in his poor lodgings, laughs at his penury, and offers gold. Aaron also laughs, and puts back the kindly gold-filled hand.
“Very well,” says Volney. “Some other day, when you are a little more starved. Meanwhile, come with me; there are beautiful women and brave men who are dying to meet the renowned Colonel Burr.”
Again in salon and drawing-room is Aaron the lion--leaving the most splendid scenes to return to his poor, barren den in the back street. And yet he likes the contrast. He goes home from the Duchess d’Alberg’s and writes this:
“The night bad, and the wind blowing down my chimney into the room. After several experiments as to how to weather the gale, I discovered that I could exist by lying flat on the floor. Here, on the floor, reposing on my elbows, a candle by my side, I have been reading ‘L’Espion Anglos,’ and writing this. When I got up just now for pen and ink, I found myself buried in ashes and cinders. One might have thought I had lain a month at the foot of Vesuvius.”
Aaron, having leisure and a Yankee fancy for invention, decides to remedy the chimney. He calls in a chimney doctor, of whom there are many in chimney-smoking Paris, and assumes to direct the bricklaying energies of that scientist. The _fumiste_ rebels; he objects that to follow Aaron’s directions will spoil the chimney.
“Monsieur,” returns Aaron grandly, “that is my affair.”
The rebellious _fumiste_ is quelled, and lays bricks according to directions. The work is completed; the inmates of the house gather about, as a fire is lighted, to enjoy the discomfiture of the “insane American”; for the _fumiste_ has told. The fire is lighted; the chimney draws to perfection; the convinced _fumiste_ sheds tears, and tries to kiss Aaron, but is repelled.
“Monsieur,” cries the repentant _fumiste_, “if you will but announce yourself as a chimney doctor, your fortune is made.”
Aaron’s friend, Madam Fenwick, is told of his triumph, and straightway begs him to restore the health of her many chimneys--a forest of them, all sick! Aaron writes: