“These vexations arise from the machinations of Minister Armstrong, who is indefatigable in his exertions to my prejudice, being goaded on by personal hatred, political rancor, and the native malevolence of his temper.”
Aaron waits on Savary, and finds that minister polite but helpless. He sees Fouché; the policeman is as polite and as helpless as Savary.
He calls upon Talleyrand. That ingrate and congenital traitor skulks out of an interview. Aaron smiles as he recalls the skulking, limping one fawning upon him aforetime at Richmond Hill.
Talleyrand puts Aaron in mind of Jerome Bonaparte, now King of Westphalia, made so by that kingmonger, his brother. His Royal Highness of Westphalia was, like Talleyrand, a guest at Richmond Hill. He, too, has nibbled American crusts, and was thankful for American crumbs in an hour when his official rating, had he been given one, could not have soared above that of a vagrant out of Corsica by way of France. Aaron applies for an interview.
“His Royal Highness is engaged; he cannot see Colonel Burr,” is the response.
“I am not surprised,” says Aaron. “He who will desert a wife will desert a friend, and I am not to suppose that one can remember friendship who forgets love.”
Official France shuts and bolts its doors in the face of Aaron to please the Man of Monticello. Thereupon Aaron demands his passports of the American minister.
Armstrong, minister, is out of Paris for the moment, and Aaron goes to Consul McRae. That official, feeling the pressure of the Monticello thumb, replies:
“My knowledge of the circumstances under which Colonel Burr left the United States, render it my duty to decline giving him a passport.”
Aaron, who intended remaining but a month in Paris, finds his money running out. He confides to his diary:
“Behold me, a prisoner of state, and almost without a sou.”
Aaron resolves to economize. He removes from his hotel, dismisses his servants, and takes up garret lodgings in a back street. He jokes with his poverty:
“How sedate and sage one is,” he writes, “on only three sous. Eating my bread and cheese, and seeing half a bottle of the twenty-five sous wine left, I thought it too extravagant to open a bottle of the good. I tried to get down the bad, constantly thinking on the other, which was in sight. I stuck to the bad and got it all down. Then to pay myself for this heroism, I treated myself to a large tumbler of the true Roussillon. I am of Santara’s opinion that though a man may be a little the poorer for drinking good wine, yet he is, under its influence, much more able to bear poverty.” Farther on he sets down: “It is now so cold that I should be glad of a fire, but to that there are financial objections. I was near going to bed without writing, for it is very cold, and I have but two stumps of wood left. By the way, I wear no surtout these days, for a great many philosophic reasons, the principal being that I have not got one. The old greatcoat, which I brought from America, will serve for traveling if I ever travel again.”