Waldmünchen, at which I arrived on the morning of Tuesday the 21st of May, is the last village in Bavaria this side of Bohemia. I congratulated myself on being able to fulfil my mission promptly; I was no more than a hundred and fifty miles from Prague. I plunged myself into icy water, I washed at a spring, like an Ambassador preparing for a triumphal entry; I left and a few miles from Waldmünchen I approached the Austrian Customs, full of confidence. A lowered barrier closed off the road; I clamber down with Hyacinthe whose red ribbon blazes. A young customs officer, armed with a rifle, leads us to the ground floor of a house, and into a vaulted chamber. There a fat old German customs officer-in-chief sits at his desk as though at a tribunal; with red hair, red moustache, thick slanted eyebrows over two half-open greenish eyes, and a nasty look about him; a blend of Viennese police spy and Bohemian smuggler.

He takes our passports without saying a word; the young customs officer timidly brings me a chair, while his chief, before whom he trembles, examines the passports. I do not sit down and I go and look at the pistols hanging on a wall and a carbine placed in a corner of the room; it recalls the rifle which the Agha of the Isthmus of Corinth fires at the Greek peasant. After a five minute silence, the Austrian barks out a few words which my interpreter from Basle translates thus: ‘You cannot enter.’ What, I cannot enter, and why?

An explanation commences:

‘Your signature is not on the passport – My passport is a Foreign Office passport. – Your passport is out of date. – It has no year on it; it is legally valid. – It has not been stamped by the Austrian Ambassador in Paris. – You are wrong, it has. – The stamp is not embossed. – A lapse on the part of the Embassy; you can see elsewhere the visas issued by other foreign legations. I have just traversed the Canton of Basle, the Grand-Duchy of Baden, the Kingdom of Württemberg, and the whole of Bavaria, without the slightest difficulty. At the simple declaration of my name, no one even opened my passport. – Are you a public person? – I have been a Minister of France, Ambassador to His Very Christian Majesty to Berlin, London and Rome. I am known personally to your sovereign and Prince von Metternich. – You cannot enter. – Do you wish me to deposit a guarantee? Do you wish to grant me an escort who will answer for me? – You cannot enter. – May I send a courier to the Government of Bohemia? – As you wish.’

Patience failed me; I began to wish the customs officer to the devil. As ambassador of a reigning king, it would have mattered little if I had lost a few hours; but as ambassador of a Princess in chains, I considered myself disloyal to misfortune, a traitor to my captive sovereign.

The man kept writing: the interpreter from Basel had not translated my monologue, but there are a few French words that our soldiers have taught the Austrians that they have not forgotten. I said to the interpreter: ‘Explain to him that I am going to Prague to offer my homage to the King of France.’ The customs man, without interrupting his scribbling, replied: ‘To Austria Charles X is not King of France.’ I replied: ‘He is to me.’ These words spoken to Cerberus appeared to have some effect; he looked me up and down. I thought that the lengthy script might finally result in a satisfactory visa. He scribbled something else on Hyacinthe’s passport, and gave the lot to the interpreter. It transpired that the visa was an explanation of the reasons why I was not allowed to continue my journey, such that not only was it impossible for me to proceed to Prague, but my passport was marked invalid for anywhere else I might present myself. I climbed back into the calash, and told the coachman: ‘To Waldmünchen.’