I never readily trusted anyone, nor did I ever completely open my heart to anyone. But even a person who ascends to the throne through a coup inevitably has a few friends with whom he can talk openly deep into the night without fear of being twisted by the newspapers the next day. After all, none of us truly belong to any faction. I ascended the throne in the na of a republic but am more emperor-like than many monarchs. He took power in the na of reform but is more like an old-school Tory than many Conservative Party mbers.
—Charles-Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte, "The People’s Emperor: My Destiny and the Empire"
When Louis set foot on Britain Island again, it was late autumn, and the port of Southampton was shrouded in a gray mist, with the tides lapping against the wooden piers, not urgently, but rather like a gentle greeting from an old friend—Are you back?
Louis felt a mix of emotions; he indeed was back again.
Only this ti, he was no longer the "nephew of Napoleon" who incited whispers among the ladies in the London salons, nor was he the mysterious heir fantasizing about speeding into Paris by train to raise the eagle flag once more over the Tuileries Palace.
He was a failure, a political exile expelled from the Strasbourg barracks, a foreigner banned by the July Monarchy Governnt from entering the country.
England’s fog remained the sa, like a gentle old lady, wrapping everything in silence.
The corner bakery still opened at five each morning, and the cap-wearing newsboys continued to hawk the latest news along the streets. Louis couldn’t make out what news headlines they were shouting since any news that reached his ears automatically transford into the words "political scandal! Continental exile!"
He stood on the docks of Southampton, searching around, his gaze sweeping over passing carriages, sailors unloading goods, and coachn busy moving luggage. He saw so well-dressed travelers ushered ashore by attendants, and a few Eastern European-accented refugees bickering with customs officers, but no one was there for him.
The damp cobblestones had already seeped cold into his soles, and the wind had lifted his coat again for who knew how many tis.
This coat was the greatcoat he wore in his hasty escape after the failed Strasbourg coup, with a small tear at the collar from being seized by the constitutional soldiers at the ti. Although the governnt of Louis Philippe wanted to provide him with a new respectable outfit when expelling him from France, Louis adamantly refused their offer. He always felt that leaving France in a splendid image would only add to the sha of the coup’s failure.
At the thought of this, a belated sense of sha arose in Louis’s heart, leaving him feeling utterly embarrassed.
Perhaps... they no longer wish to be involved with .
After all, I’m no longer that young Napoleon capable of making Louis Philippe nervous or exciting the social salons.
I’m just a... failed insurgent.
He bowed his head, pretending to adjust the coat buttons, but really to hide the disappointnt in his eyes from others.
He even began contemplating whether there was any point in taking the early coach to London.
However, at that mont, he heard a familiar voice behind him, calm yet slightly teasing: "Louis, we thought you were supposed to arrive yesterday. You rascal, kept us waiting a whole night in Southampton for nothing."
Louis turned around abruptly; it was a reassuringly familiar face, plump, with high cheekbones and a broad forehead, thick eyebrows, a sturdy build with wide shoulders, his skin toasted like roasted chestnuts—Alexander Dumas, his friend.
Following behind Great Dumas, Dickens approached with a cheerful smile, taking Louis’s luggage: "Don’t just stand there, Louis, let’s go."
Louis glanced beyond them at the crowd: "Just you two?"
"Just the two of us?" Great Dumas seed a bit upset by this: "What kind of talk is that? His Excellency Alexander Dumas personally hosting you, Charles Dickens handling the luggage, two young leaders of the French and British literary worlds serving you alone, and you’re not satisfied with the treatnt?"
Realizing his misstep, Louis quickly apologized: "No, Alexander, that’s not what I ant. I an Arthur... I had so unpleasantness with him in Paris before. Is he... still mad at ?"
Great Dumas pondered for a mont, chin in hand: "Him? Perhaps, it’s well known that guy holds grudges."
Dickens interjected to defend: "Don’t listen to Alexander’s nonsense, Arthur doesn’t even know you ca to Britain. He’s currently staying at a hotel with Mr. Disraeli in Southampton; we tricked him into thinking this trip to Hampshire was for hunting."
"Hunting?" Louis blinked in surprise, montarily caught off guard: "You ca to Southampton for hunting? Hunting what? Seagulls?"
"That’s none of your concern; in any case, we got the man here," Great Dumas said proudly, tossing Louis’s luggage into the carriage: "Co on, hop in. We’ve got a reservation at a good restaurant today, and we’re going to celebrate properly. Cheers to Charles-Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte, the revolutionary of Strasbourg!"
Louis’s face flushed red, and he quickly got into the carriage: "Oh, co on, Alexander, I didn’t succeed."
Dickens closed the door, then chid in: "I’ve read all about it in the French newspapers, Louis. I honestly didn’t expect it from you; you’re truly bold. Although bravery is a comndable spirit, acting so rashly wasn’t wise."
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