ABSTRACT
IF I only knew the Baron by his little book, published in 1823 at Paris, I should have been inclined to think that he had invented himself and his adventures. But there is no doubt that there was such a person—one runs upon him unexpectedly in quite serious state papers, and in contemporary memoirs of perfect authenticity. All the absurdities of his style, and his interminable testimonials to his own courage, magnanimity, disinterestedness, loyalty, and adroitness, must not drive us into a disbelief in his existence.
