On the 13th of August, a close carriage rolls rapidly away from
Brest—rapidly through France, guarded only by a few dragoons. Few
knew whom it contained, few remarked upon it; for such things were
common enough in Napoleon’s day, as they were before and have
been since. The Castle of Joux, in the high rocks which border
Switzerland, receives the prisoner. Alone with his servant, he passes
the weary days in inaction,—with crushed hopes, with lacerated
affections. He sees his wife, his children, no more—no more the
sunny hights of St. Domingo—no more the luxuriant valleys of Ennery.
He knows he is doomed; yet his soul is too strong for despair. His
letters to Napoleon are manly and simple; they meet with no reply
but a visit from Caffarelli, to discover where he had buried his
gold![68] Ten long months drag themselves away—the cold winds of the
mountains pierce the sensitive body of the prisoner—the trickling
water on the walls of his dungeon is turned to ice[69]—the single
servant is taken away.[70] For three days the governor of the castle
is absent, and none see the prisoner. When he returns, cold, hunger,
and disappointment have done their work. The kind angel, Death, has
carried the soul through the prison bars.