PETTINESS OF THE MASTER ­ABJECTNESS OF THE SITUATION

CHAPTER I

Never fear, History has him in its grip.

If perchance it flatters the self-love of M. Bonaparte to be seized by history, if perchance, and truly one would imagine so, he cherishes any illusion as to his value as a political miscreant, let him divest himself of it.

Let him not imagine, because he has piled up horror on horror, that he will ever raise himself to the elevation of the great historical bandits.  We have been wrong, perhaps, in some pages of this book, here and there, to couple him with those men.  No, although he has committed enormous crimes, he will remain paltry.  He will never be other than the nocturnal strangler of liberty; he will never be other than the man who intoxicated his soldiers, not with glory, like the first Napoleon, but with wine; he will never be other than the pygmy tyrant of a great people.  Grandeur, even in infamy, is utterly inconsistent with the calibre of the man.  As dictator, he is a buffoon; let him make himself emperor, he will be grotesque.  That will finish him.  His destiny is to make mankind shrug their shoulders.  Will he be less severely punished for that reason?  Not at all.  Contempt does not, in his case, mitigate anger; he will be hideous, and he will remain ridiculous.  That is all.  History laughs and crushes.

Even the most indignant chroniclers will not help him there.  Great thinkers take satisfaction in castigating the great despots, and, in some instances, even exalt them somewhat, in order to make them worthy of their rage; but what would you have the historian do with this fellow?

The historian can only lead him to posterity by the ear.

The man once stripped of success, the pedestal removed, the dust fallen, the tinsel and spangles and the great sabre taken away, the poor little skeleton laid bare and shivering, ­can one imagine anything meaner and more pitiful?

History has its tigers.  The historians, immortal keepers of wild beasts, exhibit this imperial menagerie to the nations.  Tacitus alone, that great showman, captured and confined eight or ten of these tigers in the iron cage of his style.  Look at them:  they are terrifying and superb; their spots are an element in their beauty.  This is Nimrod, the hunter of men; this, Busiris, the tyrant of Egypt; this, Phalaris, who baked living men in a brazen bull, to make the bull roar; this, Ahasuerus, who flayed the heads of the seven Maccabees, and had them roasted alive; this, Nero, the burner of Rome, who smeared Christians with wax and pitch, and then set them alight as torches; this, Tiberius, the man of Capraea; this, Domitian; this, Caracalla; this, Heliogabalus; that other is Commodus, who possesses an additional claim to our respect in the horrible fact that he was the son of Marcus Aurelius; these are Czars; these, Sultans; these, Popes, among whom remark the tiger Borgia; here is Philip, called the Good, as the Furies were called the Eumenides; here is Richard III, sinister and deformed; here, with his broad face and his great paunch, Henry VIII, who, of five wives that he had, killed three, one of whom he disemboweled; here is Christiern II, the Nero of the North; here Philip II, the Demon of the South.  They are terrifying:  hear them roar, consider them, one after the other; the historian brings them to you; the historian drags them, raging and terrible, to the side of the cage, opens their jaws for you, shows you their teeth and their claws; you can say of every one of them:  “That is a royal tiger.”  In fact, they are taken from all the thrones of the earth.  History parades them through the ages.  She prevents them from dying; she takes care of them.  They are her tigers.

She does not mingle jackals with them.

She puts and keeps apart the disgusting beasts.  M. Bonaparte will be with Claudius, with Ferdinand VII of Spain, with Ferdinand II of Naples, in the hyena cage.

He is a bit of a brigand, and a great deal of a knave.  One is always conscious of the poor prince of industry, who lived from hand to mouth in England; his present prosperity, his triumph, his empire, and his inflation amount to nothing; the purple mantle trails over shoes down at heel.  Napoleon the Little, nothing more, nothing less.  The title of this book is well chosen.

The meanness of his vices prejudices the grandeur of his crimes.  What would you have?  Peter the Cruel massacred, but he did not steal; Henry III assassinated, but he did not swindle; Timour crushed children under horses’ hoofs, much as M. Bonaparte exterminated women and old men on the boulevard, but he did not lie.  Hear the Arabian historian:  “Timour-Beg, Sahib-Keran (master of the world and of the age, master of the planetary conjunctions), was born at Kesch, in 1336; he slaughtered a hundred thousand captives; as he was besieging Siwas, the inhabitants, to mollify him, sent him a thousand little children, bearing each a Koran on its head, and crying, ‘Allah!  Allah!’ He caused the sacred books to be removed with respect, and the children to be crushed beneath the hoofs of wild horses.  He used seventy thousand human heads, with cement, stone, and brick, in building towers at Herat, Sebzvar, Tekrit, Aleppo, and Bagdad; he detested lying; when he had given his word, men could rely upon it.”

M. Bonaparte is not of this stature.  He has not that dignity which the great despots of the East and of the West mingle with ferocity.  The amplitude of the Caesars is wanting in him.  To bear one’s self worthily and make a fair appearance among all the illustrious executioners who have tortured mankind in the course of four thousand years, one must not have any mental hesitation between a general of division and a bass-drummer on the Champs-Elysees; one must not have been a constable in London; one must not have undergone, with lowered eyes, in the Court of Peers, the haughty scorn of M. Magnan; one must not have been called “pickpocket” by the English newspapers; one must not have been menaced with Clichy; in a word, there must have been nothing of the sneak in the man.

Monsieur Louis Napoleon, you are ambitious, you aim high, but you must have the truth told you.  Well, what would you have us do in the matter?  In vain have you, by overturning the tribune of France, realized, after your fashion, the wish of Caligula:  “I would that mankind had but one head, so that I might cut it off with a blow;” in vain have you banished the republicans by thousands, as Philip III expelled the Moors, and as Torquemada drove out the Jews; in vain have you dungeons like Peter the Cruel, hulks like Hariadan, dragonnades like Pere Letellier, and oubliettes like Ezzelino III; in vain have you perjured yourself like Ludovic Sforza; in vain have you massacred and assassinated en masse like Charles IX; in vain have you done all this, in vain have you recalled all these names to men’s minds when they think of your name, ­you are nothing but a rogue.  A man is not a monster for the wishing.

CHAPTER II

From every agglomeration of men, from every city, from every nation, there inevitably arises a collective force.

Place this collective force at the service of liberty, let it rule by universal suffrage, the city becomes a commune, the nation becomes a republic.

This collective force is not, of its nature, intelligent.  Belonging to all, it belongs to no one; it floats about, so to speak, outside of the people.

Until the day comes when, according to the true social formula, ­as little government as possible, ­this force may be reduced to a mere street and road police, paving the streets, lighting the lamps, and looking after malefactors; until that day comes, this collective force, being at the mercy of many chances and many ambitions, needs to be guarded and protected by jealous, clear-sighted, well-armed institutions.

It may be subjugated by tradition, it may be surprised by stratagem.

A man may rush upon it, seize it, bridle it, quell it, and cause it to trample upon the citizens.

The tyrant is the man, who, born of tradition, like Nicholas of Russia, or of stratagem, like Louis Bonaparte, seizes for his own profit, and according to his caprice disposes of the collective force of a people.

This man, if he be by birth what Nicholas is, is the enemy of society; if he have done what Louis Bonaparte has done, he is a public robber.

The former has no account to settle with regular legal justice, with the articles of codes.  He has behind him, spying upon and watching him, hatred in their hearts, and vengeance in their hands, Orloff in his palace, and Mouravieff among the people; he may be assassinated by one of his army, or poisoned by one of his family; he runs the risk of barrack conspiracies, of revolts of regiments, of secret military societies, of domestic plots, of sudden, mysterious maladies, of terrible blows, of great catastrophes.  The other ought simply to go to Poissy.

The former has the wherewithal to die in the purple, and to end his life with pomp and royally, as monarchs end and tragedies.  The other must live; live between four walls behind bars, through which the people can look at him, sweeping courtyards, making horse-hair brushes or list shoes, emptying buckets, with a green cap on his head, wooden shoes on his feet, and straw in his shoes.

Ah! ye leaders of the old parties, ye men of absolutism, in France you voted en masse among 7,500,000; outside of France you applauded, taking this Cartouche for the hero of order.  He is ferocious enough for it, I admit; but look at his size.  Don’t be ungrateful to your real colossi; you have cashiered your Haynaus and your Radetzkys too precipitately.  Above all, weigh this comparison, which so naturally presents itself to the mind.  What is this Mandrin of Lilliput beside Nicholas, Czar, Emperor, and Pope, a power half-Bible, half-knout, who damns and condemns, drills eight hundred thousand soldiers and two hundred thousand priests, holds in his right hand the keys of paradise, and in his left hand the keys of Siberia, and possesses, as his chattel, sixty millions of men ­their souls as if he were God, their bodies as if he were the tomb!

CHAPTER III

If there should not be ere long a sudden, imposing, and overwhelming catastrophe, if the present situation of the nation should be prolonged and endure, the grand injury, the fearful injury, would be the moral injury.

The boulevards of Paris, the streets of Paris, the rural districts and the towns of twenty departments of France, were strewn on the 2nd of December with dead and dying citizens; there were seen, before their thresholds, fathers and mothers slaughtered, children sabred, dishevelled women in pools of blood, disemboweled by grape-shot; there were seen, in the houses, suppliants massacred, some shot in heaps in their cellars, others despatched by the bayonet under their beds, others struck down by a bullet on their own hearths.  The impress of bloodstained hands of all sizes may be seen at this moment, here on a wall, there on a door, there in a recess; for three days after the victory of Louis Bonaparte, Paris walked in ruddy mire; a cap full of human brains was hung on a tree on Boulevard des Italiens.  I, who write these lines, saw, among other victims, on the night of the 4th, near the Mauconseil barricade, an aged white-haired man, stretched on the pavement, his bosom pierced with a bayonet, his collar-bone broken; the gutter that ran beneath him bore away his blood.  I saw, I touched with my hands, I helped to undress, a poor child seven years old, killed, they told me, on Rue Tiquetonne; he was pale, his head rolled from one shoulder to the other while they were taking off his clothes; his half-closed eyes were fixed and staring, and as I leaned over his half-opened mouth, it seemed that I could still hear him murmur faintly, “Mother!”

Well, there is something more heart-rending than murdered child, more lamentable than that old man shot dead, more horrible than that cap full of human brains, more frightful than those pavements red with carnage, more irreparable than those men and women, those fathers and those mothers, stabbed and murdered, ­it is the vanishing honour of a great people!

Assuredly those pyramids of dead bodies which one saw in the cemeteries, after the wagons from the Champ-de-Mars had emptied their contents; those immense open trenches, which they filled in the morning with human bodies, making speed because of the increasing light of day, ­all this was frightful; but what is still more frightful is to think that, at this hour, the nations are in doubt; and that in their eyes France, that great moral splendour, has disappeared!

That which is more heart-rending than skulls cleft by the sword, than breasts riddled by bullets, more disastrous than houses pillaged, than murder filling the streets, than blood shed in rivers, is to think that now, among all the peoples of the earth, men are saying to one another:  “Do you know that that nation of nations, that people of the 14th of July, that people of the 10th of August, that people of 1830, that people of 1848, that race of giants which razed bastiles, that race of men whose faces cast a bright light, that fatherland of the human race which produced heroes and thinkers, those heroes who made all the revolutions and gave birth to all births, that France whose name meant liberty, that soul of the world, so to say, which shone resplendent in Europe, that light....  Well! some one has stepped upon it, and put it out.  There is no longer a France.  It is at an end.  Look! everywhere darkness.  The world is feeling its way.”

Ah! it was so grand.  Where are those times, those glorious times, interspersed with storms, but glorious, when all was life, when all was liberty, when all was glory? those times when the French people, awake before all others, and up before the light, their brows illumined by the dawn of the future already risen for them, said to the other nations, still drowsy and overborne, and scarcely able to shake their chains in their sleep:  “Fear naught, I work for all, I dig the earth for all, ­I am the workman of the Almighty!”

What profound grief!  Regard that torpor where formerly there was such power! that shame, where formerly there was such pride! that noble people, whose heads were once held erect and are now lowered!

Alas!  Louis Bonaparte has done more than kill persons, he has caused men’s minds to dwindle, he has withered the heart of the citizen.  One must belong to the race of the invincible and the indomitable, to persevere now in the rugged path of renunciation and of duty.  An indescribable gangrene of material prosperity threatens to cause public honesty to degenerate into rottenness.  Oh! what happiness to be banished, to be disgraced, to be ruined, ­is it not, brave workmen?  Is it not, worthy peasants, driven from France, who have no roof to shelter you, and no shoes to your feet?  What happiness to eat black bread, to lie on a mattress thrown on the ground, to be out at elbows, to be away from all this, and to those who say to you:  “You are French!” to answer, “I am proscribed!”

What a pitiful thing is this delight of self-interest and cupidity, wallowing in the slough of the 2nd of December!  Faith! let us live, let us go into business, let us speculate in zinc and railway shares, let us make money; it is degrading but it is an excellent thing; a scruple less, a louis more; let us sell our whole soul at that rate.  One runs to and fro, one rushes about, one cools his heels in anterooms, one drinks deep of every kind of shame, and if one cannot get a concession of railways in France or of lands in Africa, one asks for an office.  A host of intrepid devotions besiege the Elysee, and collect about the man.  Junot, beside the first Bonaparte, defied the splashing of shells, these fellows beside the second, defy the splashing of mud.  What care they about sharing his ignominy, provided they share his fortune?  The competition is to see who shall carry on this traffic in himself most cynically; and among these creatures there are young men with pure limpid eyes, and all the appearance of generous youth; and there are old men, who have but one fear, which is, that the office solicited may not reach them in time, and that they may not succeed in dishonouring themselves before they die.  One would sell himself for a prefecture, another for a collectorship, another for a consulate; one wants a tobacco license, another an embassy.  All want money, some more, some less; for it is of the salary they think, not of the duties.  Every one has his hand out.  All offer themselves.  One of these days we shall have to appoint an assayer of consciences at the Mint.

What! this is what we have come to!  What! those very men who supported the coup d’etat, those very men who recoiled from the red croquemitaine and the twaddle about Jacquerie in 1852; those very men to whom that crime seemed a good thing, because, according to them, it rescued from peril their consols, their ledgers, their money-boxes, their bill-books, ­even they do not comprehend that material interest, surviving alone, would, after all, be only a melancholy waif in an immense moral shipwreck, and that it is a fearful and monstrous situation, when men say:  “All is saved, save honour!”

The words independence, enfranchisement, progress, popular pride, national pride, French greatness, may no longer be pronounced in France.  Hush! these words make too much noise; let us walk on tiptoe, and speak low; we are in a sick man’s chamber.

Who is this man? ­He is the chief, the master.  Every one obeys him. ­Ah! every one respects him, then? ­No, every one despises him. ­Oh! what a plight!

And military honour, where is it?  Let us say no more, if you please, of what the army did in December, but of what it is undergoing at this moment, of that which is at its head, of that which is on its head.  Do you think of that?  Does it think of that?  O army of the republic! army that had for captains, generals paid with four francs a day; army that had for leaders, Carnot, austerity, Marceau, unselfishness, Hoche, honour, Kleber, devotion, Joubert, probity, Desaix, valour, Bonaparte, genius!  O, French army, poor, unfortunate, heroic army, gone astray in the train of these men!  What will they do with it? whither will they lead it? how will they occupy it? what parodies are we destined to see and hear?  Alas! what are these men who command our regiments, and who govern us?  The master ­we know him.  This fellow, who had been a minister, was going to be “seized” on the 3rd of December; it was for that reason he made the 2nd.  That other is the “borrower” of the twenty-five millions from the Bank.  That other is the man of the gold ingots.  To that other, before he was made minister, “a friend” said: ­“I say! you are humbugging us about the shares in that affair; that won’t go down with me.  If there’s any swindling going on, let me at least have a finger in it.” That other, who wears épaulettes, has just been convicted of selling mortgaged property; that other, who also wears épaulettes, received, on the morning of the 2nd of December, 100,000 francs, for “emergencies.”  He was only a colonel; if he had been a general he would have had more.  This man, who is a general, when he was a body-guard of Louis XVIII, being on duty behind the king’s chair during mass, cut a gold tassel from the throne and put it in his pocket; he was expelled from the guards for that.  Surely, to these men, also, we might rear a column, ex aère capto, with the money they stole.  This other, who is a general of division, “converted” 52,000 francs, to the knowledge of Colonel Caharras, in the construction of the villages of Saint Andre and Saint Hippolyte, near Mascara.  This one, who is general-in-chief, was christened at Ghent, where he is known, lé general Cinq-cents-francs.  This one, who is Minister of War, has only General Rulhiere’s clemency to thank that he was not sent before a court-martial.  Such are the men.  No matter; forward! beat, drums, sound, trumpets, wave, flags!  Soldiers, from the top of yon pyramids the forty thieves look down upon you!

Let us go farther into this mournful subject, and survey it in all its aspects.

The mere spectacle of fortune like that of M. Bonaparte, placed at the head of the state, would suffice to demoralize a people.

There is always, and it is the fault of our social institutions, that ought, above all, to enlighten and civilize, there is always, in a large population like that of France, a class which is ignorant, which suffers, covets, and struggles, placed between the brutish instinct which impels it to take, and the moral law which invites it to labour.  In the grievous and oppressed condition in which it still is, this class, in order to maintain itself in probity and well-doing, requires all the pure and holy light that emanates from the Gospel; it requires that, on the one hand, the spirit of Jesus Christ, and, on the other, the spirit of the French Revolution, should address to it the same manly words, and should never cease to point out to it, as the only lights worthy of the eyes of man, the exalted and mysterious laws of human destiny, ­self-denial, devotion, sacrifice, the labour which leads to material well-being, the probity which leads to inward well-being; even with this perennial instruction, at once divine and human, this class, so worthy of sympathy and fraternity, often succumbs.  Suffering and temptation are stronger than virtue.  Now do you comprehend the infamous counsel which the success of M. Bonaparte gives to this class?

A poor man, in rags, without money, without work, is there in the shadow, at the corner of the street, seated on a stone; he is meditating, and at the same time repelling, a bad action; now he wavers, now he recovers himself; he is starving, and feels a desire to rob; to rob he must make a false key, he must scale a wall; then, the key made and the wall scaled, he will stand before the strong box; if any one wakes, if any one resists, he must kill.  His hair stands on end, his eyes become haggard, his conscience, the voice of God, revolts within him, and cries to him:  “Stop! this is evil! these are crimes!” At that moment the head of the state passes by; the man sees M. Bonaparte in his uniform of a general, with the cordon rouge, and with footmen in gold-laced liveries, dashing towards his palace in a carriage drawn by four horses; the unhappy wretch, hesitating before his crime, greedily gazes on this splendid vision; and the serenity of M. Bonaparte, and his gold épaulettes, and his cordon rouge, and the liveries, and the palace, and the four-horse carriage, say to him:  “Succeed.”

He attaches himself to this apparition, he follows it, he runs to the Elysee; a gilded mob rushes in after the prince.  All sorts of carriages pass under that portal, and he has glimpses of happy, radiant men!  This one is an ambassador; the ambassador looks at him, and says:  “Succeed.”  This is a bishop; the bishop looks at him and says:  “Succeed.”  This is a judge; the judge looks at him, and smiles on him, and says:  “Succeed.”

Thus, to escape the gendarmes, ­therein consists henceforth the whole moral law.  To rob, to pillage, to poignard, to assassinate, all this is criminal only when one is fool enough to allow himself to be caught.  Every man who meditates a crime has a constitution to violate, an oath to break, an obstacle to destroy.  In a word, take your measures well.  Be adroit.  Succeed.  The only guilty actions are the coups that fail.

You put your hand in the pocket of a passer-by, in the evening, at nightfall, in a lonely place; he seizes you; you let go; he arrests you, and takes you to the guard-house.  You are guilty; to the galleys!  You do not let go:  you have a knife about you, you bury it in the man’s throat; he falls; he is dead; now take his purse, and make off.  Bravo! capitally done!  You have shut the victim’s mouth, the only witness who could speak.  Nobody has anything to say to you.

If you had only robbed the man, you would have been in the wrong; kill him, and you are right.

Succeed, that is the point.

Ah! this is indeed alarming!

On the day when the human conscience shall lose its bearings, on the day when success shall carry the day before that forum, all will be at an end.  The last moral gleam will reascend to heaven.  Darkness will be in the mind of man.  You will have nothing to do but to devour one another, wild beasts that you are!

With moral degradation goes political degradation.  M. Bonaparte treats the people of France like a conquered country.  He effaces the republican inscriptions; he cut down the trees of liberty, and makes firewood of them.  There was on Place Bourgogne a statue of the Republic; he puts the pickaxe to it; there was on our coinage a figure of the Republic, crowned with ears of corn; M. Bonaparte replaces it by the profile of M. Bonaparte.  He has his bust crowned and harangued in the market-places, just as the tyrant Gessler made the people salute his cap.  The rustics in the faubourgs were in the habit of singing in chorus, in the evening, as they returned from work; they used to sing the great republican songs, the Marseillaise, the Chant du Depart; they were ordered to keep silent; the faubourgers will sing no more; there is amnesty only for obscenities and drunken songs.  The triumph is so complete, that they no longer keep within bounds.  Only yesterday they kept in hiding, they did their shooting at night; it was shocking, but there was still some shame; there was a remnant of respect for the people; they seemed to think that it had still enough life in it to revolt, if it saw such things.  Now they show themselves, they fear nothing, they guillotine in broad day.  Whom do they guillotine?  Whom? the men of the law, and the law is there!  Whom? the men of the people! and the people is there!  Nor is this all.  There is a man in Europe, who horrifies Europe:  that man sacked Lombardy, he set up the gibbets of Hungary; he had a woman whipped under the gibbet upon which hung her husband and her son; we still remember the terrible letter in which that woman recounts the deed, and says:  “My heart has turned to stone.”

Last year this man took it into his head to visit England as a tourist, and, while in London, he took it into his head to visit a brewery, that of Barclay and Perkins.  There he was recognized; a voice whispered:  “It is Haynau!” ­“It is Haynau!” repeated the workmen! ­It was a fearful cry; the crowd rushed upon the wretch, tore out his infamous white hair by handfuls, spat in his face, and thrust him out.  Well, this old bandit in épaulettes, this Haynau, this man who still bears on his cheek the immense buffet of the English people, it is announced that “Monseigneur the Prince-President invites him to visit France.”  It is quite right; London put an affront on him, Paris owes him an ovation.  It is a reparation.  Be it so.  We will be there to see.  Haynau was cursed and hooted at the brewery of Barclay and Perkins, he will receive bouquets at the brewery of Saint-Antoine.  The Faubourg Saint-Antoine will receive an order to conduct itself properly.  The Faubourg Saint-Antoine, mute, motionless, impassive, will see them pass, triumphant and conversing together, like two friends, through its old revolutionary streets, one in French, the other in Austrian uniform, ­Louis Bonaparte, the murderer of the boulevard, arm-in-arm with Haynau, the whipper of women!  Go on, add insult to insult, disfigure this France of ours, fallen flat on the pavement! make her unrecognizable! crush the faces of the people with your heels!

Oh! inspire me, seek for me, give me, invent for me a means, whatever it may be, short of a poignard, which I repudiate, ­a Brutus for that man! bah! he is not worthy of even a Louvel! ­find me some means of laying that man low, and of delivering my country! of laying that man low, that man of craft, that man of lies, that man of success, that man of evil!  Some means, the first that offers, ­pen, sword, paving-stone, émeute, ­by the people, by the soldier; yes, whatever it be, so it be honourable, and in open day, I take it, we all take it, we proscribed, if it can re-establish liberty, set free the republic, deliver our country from shame, and drive back to his dust, to his oblivion, to his cloaca, this imperial ruffian, this prince pick-pocket, this gypsy king, this traitor, this master, this groom of Franconi’s! this radiant, imperturbable, self-satisfied governor, crowned with his successful crime, who goes and comes, and peacefully parades trembling Paris, and who has everything on his side, ­the Bourse, the shopkeepers, the magistracy, all influences, all guarantees, all invocations, from the Nom de Dieu of the soldier to the Te Deum of the priest!

Really, when one has fixed one’s eyes too long on certain aspects of this spectacle, even the strongest minds are attacked with vertigo.

But does he, at least, do himself justice, this Bonaparte?  Has he a glimmering, an idea, a suspicion, the slightest perception, of his infamy?  Really, one is driven to doubt it.

Yes, sometimes, from the lofty words he uses, when one hears him make incredible appeals to posterity, to that posterity which will shudder with horror and wrath at him; when one hears him speak coolly of his “legitimacy,” and his “mission,” one is almost tempted to think that he has come to take himself into high consideration, and that his head is turned to such a degree that he no longer perceives what he is, nor what he does.  He believes in the adhesion of the poor, he believes in the good-will of kings, he believes in the fête of eagles, he believes in the harangues of the Council of State, he believes in the benedictions of the bishops, he believes in the oath that he has forced people to take, he believes in the 7,500,000 votes!

He is talking now, feeling in the humour of Augustus, of granting amnesty to the proscribed.  Usurpation granting amnesty to right! treason to honour! cowardice to courage! crime to virtue!  He is to that degree embruted by his success that he thinks this all very simple.

Singular effect of intoxication!  Optical illusion!  In his eyes that thing of the 14th of January appears all golden and glorious and radiant, that constitution defiled with mud, stained with blood, laden with chains, dragged amid the hooting of Europe by the police, the Senate, the Corps Legislatif and the Council of State, all newly shod.  He takes as a triumphal car, and would drive under the Arc de l’Etoile, that sledge, standing on which, hideous, with whip in hand, he parades the ensanguined corpse of the republic!