shadow of britain

Chapter 757 The Return of Louis Bonaparte
I have never trusted anyone easily, nor have I ever fully opened my heart to anyone. Yet even a man who seizes the throne through a coup inevitably has a few friends with whom he can have deep conversations late into the night without fear of being distorted by the newspapers the next day. Ultimately, neither of us truly belongs to any particular camp. I ascended the throne in the name of the republic, yet I was more like an emperor than many monarchs. He came to power in the name of reform, yet he was more like an old-school Tory than many conservatives.

—Charles-Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte, *The People's Emperor: My Fate and Empire*

When Louis set foot on the British Isles again, it was late autumn. The harbor of Southampton was shrouded in a gray fog, and the tide lapped against the wooden posts on the shore. The sound was not hurried, but rather like the gentle greeting of an old friend—you've returned.
Louis was filled with mixed emotions; he had indeed returned.

This time, however, he was no longer the "Napoleon's nephew" who drew whispers among the ladies in London salons, nor was he the mysterious successor who dreamed of speeding into Paris by train and letting the eagle flag fly again over the Tuileries Palace.

He was a loser, a political prisoner expelled from the fortresses of Strasbourg, a foreigner banned from entering the country by the July Monarchy government.

The fog in England remains the same, like a sullen old lady, enveloping everything in silence.

The bakery on the corner still opened at five in the morning, and the newsboys wearing felt hats still roamed the streets, shouting out the latest news. Louis couldn't hear the headlines the newsboys were hawking, because any news that reached his ears would automatically turn into words like "political scandal! exiles from the mainland!"

He stood on the Southampton dock, looking around at the passing carriages, the sailors unloading cargo, and the coachmen carrying luggage. He saw well-dressed travelers being greeted ashore by servants, and several fugitives with Eastern European accents arguing with customs officials, but no one was there for him.

The soles of his shoes were already chilled by the damp cobblestones, and his coat had been blown up by the wind for who knows how many times.

This coat was the one he wore during his hasty escape after the failed coup in Strasbourg, and the collar still bore a small tear from when he was arrested by the gendarmes. Although Louis Philippe's government had tried to give him a presentable new outfit when they deported him, Louis resolutely refused. He felt that leaving France in a glamorous image would only add to the shame of the failed coup.

The thought of this filled Louis with a belated sense of shame, and he felt utterly ashamed.

Perhaps... they no longer want anything to do with me.

After all, I am no longer the little Napoleon who could make Louis-Philippe nervous and excite all sorts of social salons.

I was just a... failed rebel.

He lowered his head, pretending to adjust the buttons of his cloak, but actually not wanting anyone to see the disappointment in his eyes.

He had even begun to consider whether he still needed to take the early morning stagecoach to London.

But just then, he heard a familiar voice behind him, calm but slightly sarcastic: "Louis, we thought you were supposed to arrive yesterday. You little rascal, you made us wait all night in Southampton for nothing."

Louis turned around abruptly and saw a plump but reassuring face with high cheekbones, a broad forehead, thick eyebrows, a robust build, broad shoulders, and a complexion like a roasted chestnut—Alexandre Dumas, his friend.

Dickens, who was following behind Dumas, walked up with a smile and offered to carry Louis's luggage: "Don't just stand there, Louis, let's go."

Louis glanced at the crowd behind them: "Is it just the two of you?"

"Just the two of us?" Upon hearing this, Dumas immediately became angry: "What kind of talk is that? His Excellency Alexandre Dumas personally received you, Charles Dickens carried your belongings, and two of the leading young writers of the French and British literary circles served you. Are you still not satisfied with this treatment?"

Louis realized his mistake and quickly apologized, "No, Alexandre, that's not what I meant. I meant, Arthur... I had a little disagreement with him in Paris, is he... still angry with me?"

Alexandre Dumas stroked his chin and pondered for a moment: "Him? Perhaps, after all, it's common knowledge that he's not very shrewish."

Dickens then defended himself, saying, "Don't listen to Alexander's nonsense. Arthur has no idea you're in England. He's staying at a hotel in Southampton with Mr. Disraeli right now. We lied to him and said we came to Hampshire to hunt."

"Hunting?" Louis blinked, not quite understanding. "You go all the way to Southampton to hunt? What are you hunting? Seagulls?"

"Never mind that, we've managed to trick them into coming." Alexandre Dumas tossed Louis's luggage onto the carriage with a smug grin. "Come on, get in. We've booked a good restaurant today; we must celebrate properly. To Charles-Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte, the revolutionary of Strasbourg!"

Louis's face turned bright red, and he quickly got into the car: "Come on, Alexander, I didn't succeed again."

Dickens closed the car door and then said, "I've seen the whole story in the French newspapers, Louis. I really didn't expect you to be so bold. But while courage is a commendable quality, your actions were still too reckless."

Compared to Dickens, who was concerned about Louis's personal safety, Dumas's dissatisfaction mainly focused on the fact that Louis hadn't informed him before the operation: "Why didn't you tell me about this? Do you think I'm a coward? That I'm afraid to participate in your operation? Please, Louis, I was already a political prisoner of the July Monarchy government long before you became a political prisoner! I can forgive you this time, but if there's a next time, you must remember to inform me in advance."

Louis was surprised that his friends would be so supportive of his actions. In the past year, he had been either imprisoned in Alsace and Paris or living in exile in the Americas, and the letters his relatives sent him were mostly admonitions and reprimands.

His uncles and paternal uncles, even his father, almost all of his elders did not support him.

At an internal family meeting, Bonaparte's uncle Joseph used this incident to give a stern warning to the rest of the unruly younger members.

Louis's uncle Lucien, who lived in Rome, hurled insults at him in a letter, while Louis's father canceled his son's pension and coldly told him to find a proper job.

Among his elders, only his mother, O'Danse, firmly stood by her son.

Although O'Dans was equally worried about her son's reckless actions, the mother immediately displayed the same energy she had shown in 1831 when she learned that Louis had participated in the Carbonari uprising and was deeply involved in the war zone.

She first wrote to King Louis-Philippe of France, requesting that her son be allowed to "leave Europe freely, so that he would no longer be a prisoner of emotional impulses, for at his age it is difficult for him to resist impulses." Seeing that Louis-Philippe did not reply, Odaunts immediately traveled from Switzerland to Paris, visiting several old friends, such as the Duchess of Laguize and the Foreign Minister and Privy Councillor, Monsieur Morret, requesting them to intercede with the King for her son's release. Odaunts stated that she would be willing to go into exile with her son to America if the French government released Louis.

It's unclear whether Madame Audans's efforts ultimately proved effective, or whether the July Monarchy government was intimidated by the collective protests from Republicans, Bonapartists, and even orthodox newspapers against Louis's imprisonment. In any case, they ultimately decided to exile Louis, not to the perilous French Guiana, but to the much more favorable conditions of the United States.

Louis himself was clearly dissatisfied with this arrangement. He insisted on appearing in court with his companions and prepared to deliver a Hastings-esque speech denouncing the July Monarchy government. At the same time, Louis declared that he would never condone deportation and would never guarantee the French government that he would not return to France in the future.

However, this was precisely what King Louis-Philippe of France feared. Therefore, even though Louis was unwilling to make any promises, he was soon taken to Lorient and boarded the warship Andromeda. Before boarding, Louis-Philippe sent the mayor of Lorient with 16000 francs. But Louis was unappreciative, as he felt that the amount confiscated during his arrest far exceeded this sum.

Louis then embarked on a long voyage at sea. He first encountered a storm at sea, then spent a period of peace at the anchorage of Rio de Janeiro with his warship, before leaving Brazilian waters for the American coast, where he disembarked.

Although his seafaring life was boring, Louis got along well with the sailors and officers on the Andromeda. Before disembarking in New York, he even treated them to a farewell dinner.

New York, America, a foreign land, Louis should have been all alone here.

Fortunately, Bonaparte's descendants also have a presence in America.

Murat's two sons, Achille Murat and Lucien Murat, and his uncle Lucien Bonaparte's son, Pierre Bonaparte, all lived in the United States.

With his cousins ​​by his side, Louis's life in America wasn't too miserable, though it wasn't exactly happy either.

This experience gave him an understanding of America, but he certainly didn't like the land. He even published an article criticizing Americans for being too focused on material interests, which contradicted his chivalrous spirit.

Since arriving in America, Louis had been planning to return to Europe.

The biggest obstacle in his path was the group of secret agents sent by the French government to monitor him.

For an average novice, it would be incredibly difficult to distinguish government spies from a sea of ​​people. But Louis was no novice. As the former secretary to the Chief of Police Intelligence Service of the Metropolitan Police, he was well-versed in the skills of identifying undercover agents.

So, after a month of careful planning, he successfully evaded the surveillance of the spies and boarded a ship bound for England.

To keep the operation secret, he sent letters with different contents to many friends before boarding the ship, in order to mislead the French government and circumvent potential correspondence censorship by the US government.

Judging from his safe disembarkation in Southampton today, the plan has clearly been quite successful.

The three of them rode in a carriage through the streets of Southampton, the wheels creaking on the cobblestones.

“That one.” Dumas pointed with his cigar to a three-story building around the corner. “The Hound and the Rose, that’s a much more respectable name than Liverpool’s Golden Lion.”

As they entered, the tavern was bustling with noise, but a private corner on the first floor was separated by a screen.

As Louis approached, he heard a low, angry commotion coming from the other side.

"That bastard Palmerston! How dare he try to fool Mr. Benjamin Disraeli with an old Forton! He even dared to say that this car is sturdy and durable, and is most suitable for gentlemen's travel. He's playing me for a fool!"

“What he said isn’t entirely wrong. To be honest, Benjamin, this carriage is indeed sturdy and durable. Owning an old Forton is a standard for gentlemen in our York countryside. My biggest dream when I was a child was to own a carriage like this.”

"Your dream is an old Furton? Are you crazy? That truck is usually used for hauling firewood and transporting goods!"

"Are they used for hauling firewood where you live? We usually use them to transport piglets. An old Foughton truck can carry eight or nine piglets."

Louis was stunned. His tense nerves relaxed during the conversation, which was neither a dispute nor a joke.

Before he could even distinguish who was who, Dickens had already lifted the screen and interrupted their conversation with a smile.

"It seems we've arrived just in time."

Sure enough, behind the screen, Arthur was reclining in a leather chair, holding a half-finished glass of red wine, while sitting opposite him, gesturing with half a chicken leg, was none other than Mr. Benjamin Disraeli, wearing a sky-blue tailcoat and an emerald brooch.

The two looked up at the visitors almost at the same time.

Disraeli recognized Dumas first, a hint of displeasure flashing across his face: "You've come at the right time, not early. You be the judge, does old Foughton, the pig-puller, deserve a gentleman of my caliber?"

“Benjamin, you can’t say that.” Louis stepped forward, took off his hat, and spoke in a gentle tone with a hint of unease: “You have to know that even if Old Foughton, who pulls the pig, isn’t very good-looking, he’s at least sturdy and durable. Besides, pigs are actually the most politically symbolic creatures of this era.”

(End of this chapter)