of putting my name down, but they had not my Christian names properly, one of them had been forgotten, and my identity was not exact. Such was the ridiculous state of the law at that time,—a letter killed or saved a man,—but when they did have your name properly you were put down as a supposed émigré, even if you had been in prison all the time since 1792.
When I found that I was not on the list, I was not satisfied with my good luck, and was bold enough to demand an account of property. But my case remained unsettled, perhaps because I had selected for my attorney Jacques Deloges. I passed the 3rd Nivose quietly enough, I only heard the report of the explosion in the Rue Saint Nicaise, and I was not in the secret. My friend d'O—— assured me that Fouché would visit on the red caps all the wrath of Jupiter, the First Consul. But I saw taken to the Temple only a few days later, some persons who were certainly not "reds" but "whites," and I came to the conclusion that the air of Paris was not good for me, and I might find a purer
