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with black, all three masked.“Keep on your masks,” said Javert.And passing them in review with a glance of aFrederick II. at a Potsdam parade, he said to thethree “chimney-builders”:—“Good day, Bigrenaille! good day, Brujon! goodday, Deuxmilliards!”Then turning to the three masked men, he said tothe man with the meat-axe:—“Good day, Gueulemer!”And to the man with the cudgel:—“Good day, Babet!”And to the ventriloquist:—“Your health, Claquesous.”At that moment, he caught sight of the ruffians’prisoner. who, ever since the entrance of the po-lice, had not uttered a word, and had held his headdown.“Untie the gentleman!” said Javert, “and let noone go out!”That said, he seated himself with sovereign dig-nity before the table, where the candle and thewriting-materials still remained, drew a stampedpaper from his pocket, and began to prepare hisreport.When he had written the first lines, which areformulas that never vary, he raised his eyes:—“Let the gentleman whom these gentlemen boundstep forward.”The policemen glanced round them.“Well,” said Javert, “where is he?”The prisoner of the ruffians, M. Leblanc, M.Urbain Fabre, the father of Ursule or the Lark,had disappeared.The door was guarded, but the window was not.As soon as he had found himself released fromhis bonds, and while Javert was drawing up hisreport, he had taken advantage of confusion, thecrowd, the darkness, and of a moment when thegeneral attention was diverted from him, to dashout of the window.An agent sprang to the opening and looked out.He saw no one outside.The rope ladder was still shaking.“The devil!” ejaculated Javert between his teeth,“he must have been the most valuable of the lot.”

She had thrown off her shawl, but retained herbonnet; her husband, who was crouching behindher, was almost hidden under the discarded shawl,and she was shielding him with her body, as sheelevated the paving-stone above her head with thegesture of a giantess on the point of hurling a rock.“Beware!” she shouted.All crowded back towards the corridor. A broadopen space was cleared in the middle of the gar-ret.The Thenardier woman cast a glance at the ruffi-ans who had allowed themselves to be pinioned,and muttered in hoarse and guttural accents:—“The cowards!”Javert smiled, and advanced across the open spacewhich the Thenardier was devouring with her eyes.“Don’t come near me,” she cried, “or I’ll crushyou.”“What a grenadier!” ejaculated Javert; “you’vegot a beard like a man, mother, but I have clawslike a woman.”And he continued to advance.The Thenardier, dishevelled and terrible, set herfeet far apart, threw herself backwards, and hurledthe paving-stone at Javert’s head. Javert ducked,the stone passed over him, struck the wall be-hind, knocked off a huge piece of plastering, and,rebounding from angle to angle across the hovel,now luckily almost empty, rested at Javert’s feet.At the same moment, Javert reached theThenardier couple. One of his big hands descendedon the woman’s shoulder; the other on thehusband’s head.“The handcuffs!” he shouted.The policemen trooped in in force, and in a fewseconds Javert’s order had been executed.The Thenardier female, overwhelmed, stared ather pinioned hands, and at those of her husband,who had dropped to the floor, and exclaimed,weeping:—“My daughters!”“They are in the jug,” said Javert.In the meanwhile, the agents had caught sight ofthe drunken man asleep behind the door, and wereshaking him:—He awoke, stammering:—“Is it all over, Jondrette?”“Yes,” replied Javert.The six pinioned ruffians were standing, and stillpreserved their spectral mien; all three besmeared

of paces into the room, with arms folded, his caneunder one arm, his sword in its sheath.“Halt there,” said he. “You shall not go out bythe window, you shall go through the door. It’sless unhealthy. There are seven of you, there arefifteen of us. Don’t let’s fall to collaring eachother like men of Auvergne.”Bigrenaille drew out a pistol which he had keptconcealed under his blouse, and put it inThenardier’s hand, whispering in the latter’sear:—“It’s Javert. I don’t dare fire at that man. Do youdare?”“Parbleu!” replied Thenardier.“Well, then, fire.”Thenardier took the pistol and aimed at Javert.Javert, who was only three paces from him,stared intently at him and contented himself withsaying:—“Come now, don’t fire. You’ll miss fire.”Thenardier pulled the trigger. The pistol missedfire.“Didn’t I tell you so!” ejaculated Javert.Bigrenaille flung his bludgeon at Javert’s feet.“You’re the emperor of the fiends! I surrender.”“And you?” Javert asked the rest of the ruffians.They replied:—“So do we.”Javert began again calmly:—“That’s right, that’s good, I said so, you are nicefellows.”“I only ask one thing,” said Bigrenaille, “and thatis, that I may not be denied tobacco while I am inconfinement.”“Granted,” said Javert.And turning round and calling behind him:—“Come in now!”A squad of policemen, sword in hand, and agentsarmed with bludgeons and cudgels, rushed in atJavert’s summons. They pinioned the ruffians.This throng of men, sparely lighted by the singlecandle, filled the den with shadows.“Handcuff them all!” shouted Javert.“Come on!” cried a voice which was not the voiceof a man, but of which no one would ever havesaid: “It is a woman’s voice.”The Thenardier woman had entrenched herselfin one of the angles of the window, and it wasshe who had just given vent to this roar.The policemen and agents recoiled.

●●●●● Victor Hugo

“I saw it pass,” said Bigrenaille.Thenardier rapidly unfolded the paper and held itclose to the candle.“It’s in Eponine’s handwriting. The devil!”He made a sign to his wife, who hastily drewnear, and showed her the line written on the sheetof paper, then he added in a subdued voice:—“Quick! The ladder! Let’s leave the bacon in themousetrap and decamp!”“Without cutting that man’s throat?” asked, theThenardier woman.“We haven’t the time.”“Through what?” resumed Bigrenaille.“Through the window,” replied Thenardier. “SincePonine has thrown the stone through the window,it indicates that the house is not watched on thatside.”The mask with the ventriloquist’s voice depositedhis huge key on the floor, raised both arms in theair, and opened and clenched his fists, three timesrapidly without uttering a word.This was the signal like the signal for clearingthe decks for action on board ship.The ruffians who were holding the prisoner re-leased him; in the twinkling of an eye the ropeladder was unrolled outside the window, and sol-idly fastened to the sill by the two iron hooks.The prisoner paid no attention to what was goingon around him. He seemed to be dreaming orpraying.As soon as the ladder was arranged, Thenardiercried:“Come! the bourgeoise first!”And he rushed headlong to the window.But just as he was about to throw his leg over,Bigrenaille seized him roughly by the collar.“Not much, come now, you old dog, after us!”“After us!” yelled the ruffians.“You are children,” said Thenardier, “we are los-ing time. The police are on our heels.”“Well,” said the ruffians, “let’s draw lots to seewho shall go down first.”Thenardier exclaimed:—“Are you mad! Are you crazy! What a pack ofboobies! You want to waste time, do you? Drawlots, do you? By a wet finger, by a short straw!With written names! Thrown into a hat!—”“Would you like my hat?” cried a voice on thethreshold.All wheeled round. It was Javert.He had his hat in his hand, and was holding it outto them with a smile.

BOOK EIGHTH.— THE WICKED POOR MANCHAPTER XX

THE TRAPContinued From Last Week

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CHAPTER XIONE SHOULD ALWAYS BEGINBY ARRESTING THE VICTIMS

At nightfall, Javert had posted his men and hadgone into ambush himself between the trees ofthe Rue de la Barrieredes–Gobelins which facedthe Gorbeau house, on the other side of the boule-vard. He had begun operations by opening “hispockets,” and dropping into it the two young girlswho were charged with keeping a watch on theapproaches to the den. But he had only “caged”Azelma. As for Eponine, she was not at her post,she had disappeared, and he had not been able toseize her. Then Javert had made a point and hadbent his ear to waiting for the signal agreed upon.The comings and goings of the fiacres had greatlyagitated him. At last, he had grown impatient, and,sure that there was a nest there, sure of being in“luck,” having recognized many of the ruffianswho had entered, he had finally decided to go up-stairs without waiting for the pistol-shot.It will be remembered that he had Marius’ pass-key.He had arrived just in the nick of time.The terrified ruffians flung themselves on the armswhich they had abandoned in all the corners atthe moment of flight. In less than a second, theseseven men, horrible to behold, had grouped them-selves in an attitude of defence, one with his meat-axe, another with his key, another with his blud-geon, the rest with shears, pincers, and hammers.Thenardier had his knife in his fist. The Thenardierwoman snatched up an enormous paving-stonewhich lay in the angle of the window and servedher daughters as an ottoman.Javert put on his hat again, and advanced a couple

CHAPTER XIITHE LITTLE ONE WHO WAS CRYING

IN VOLUME TWO

On the day following that on which these eventstook place in the house on the Boulevard del’Hopital, a child, who seemed to be coming fromthe direction of the bridge of Austerlitz, was as-cending the side-alley on the right in the directionof the Barriere de Fontainebleau.Night had fully come.This lad was pale, thin, clad in rags, with linentrousers in the month of February, and was sing-ing at the top of his voice.At the corner of the Rue du Petit–Banquier, a bentold woman was rummaging in a heap of refuseby the light of a street lantern; the child jostledher as he passed, then recoiled, exclaiming:—“Hello! And I took it for an enormous, enormousdog!”He pronounced the word enormous the secondtime with a jeering swell of the voice which mightbe tolerably well represented by capitals: “anenormous, ENORMOUS dog.”The old woman straightened herself up in a fury.“Nasty brat!” she grumbled. “If I hadn’t beenbending over, I know well where I would haveplanted my foot on you.”The boy was already far away.“Kisss! kisss!” he cried. “After that, I don’t thinkI was mistaken!”The old woman, choking with indignation, nowrose completely upright, and the red gleam of thelantern fully lighted up her livid face, all hollowedinto angles and wrinkles, with crow’s-feet meet-ing the corners of her mouth.Her body was lost in the darkness, and only herhead was visible. One would have pronounced hera mask of Decrepitude carved out by a light fromthe night.The boy surveyed her.“Madame,” said he, “does not possess that styleof beauty which pleases me.”He then pursued his road, and resumed his song:—“Le roi Coupdesabot

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From Page 17 dor.Right overthrowing the fact. Hence the brilliancyof the Revolution of 1830, hence, also, its mild-ness. Right triumphant has no need of being vio-lent.Right is the just and the true.The property of right is to remain eternally beau-tiful and pure. The fact, even when most neces-sary to all appearances, even when most thor-oughly accepted by contemporaries, if it exist onlyas a fact, and if it contain only too little of right,or none at all, is infallibly destined to become, inthe course of time, deformed, impure, perhaps,even monstrous. If one desires to learn at oneblow, to what degree of hideousness the fact canattain, viewed at the distance of centuries, let himlook at Machiavelli. Machiavelli is not an evilgenius, nor a demon, nor a miserable and cow-ardly writer; he is nothing but the fact. And he isnot only the Italian fact; he is the European fact,the fact of the sixteenth century. He seems hid-eous, and so he is, in the presence of the moralidea of the nineteenth.This conflict of right and fact has been going onever since the origin of society. To terminate thisduel, to amalgamate the pure idea with the hu-mane reality, to cause right to penetrate pacifi-cally into the fact and the fact into right, that isthe task of sages.

evening of a long and toilsome day; we have madeour first change with Mirabeau, the second withRobespierre, the third with Bonaparte; we areworn out. Each one demands a bed.Devotion which is weary, heroism which hasgrown old, ambitions which are sated, fortuneswhich are made, seek, demand, implore, solicit,what? A shelter. They have it. They take posses-sion of peace, of tranquillity, of leisure; behold,they are content. But, at the same time certainfacts arise, compel recognition, and knock at thedoor in their turn. These facts are the products ofrevolutions and wars, they are, they exist, theyhave the right to install themselves in society, andthey do install themselves therein; and most ofthe time, facts are the stewards of the householdand fouriers32 who do nothing but prepare lodg-ings for principles.32 In olden times, fouriers were the officials whopreceded the Court and allotted the lodgings.This, then, is what appears to philosophical poli-ticians:—At the same time that weary men demand re-pose, accomplished facts demand guarantees.Guarantees are the same to facts that repose is tomen.This is what England demanded of the Stuartsafter the Protector; this is what France demandedof the Bourbons after the Empire.These guarantees are a necessity of the times.They must be accorded. Princes “grant” them,but in reality, it is the force of things which givesthem. A profound truth, and one useful to know,which the Stuarts did not suspect in 1662 andwhich the Bourbons did not even obtain a glimpseof in 1814.The predestined family, which returned to Francewhen Napoleon fell, had the fatal simplicity tobelieve that it was itself which bestowed, and thatwhat it had bestowed it could take back again;that the House of Bourbon possessed the right di-vine, that France possessed nothing, and that thepolitical right conceded in the charter of LouisXVIII. was merely a branch of the right divine,was detached by the House of Bourbon and gra-ciously given to the people until such day as itshould please the King to reassume it. Still, theHouse of Bourbon should have felt, from the dis-pleasure created by the gift, that it did not comefrom it.This house was churlish to the nineteenth cen-tury. It put on an ill-tempered look at every devel-opment of the nation. To make use of a trivialword, that is to say, of a popular and a true word,it looked glum. The people saw this.It thought it possessed strength because the Em-pire had been carried away before it like a theat-rical stage-setting. It did not perceive that it had,itself, been brought in in the same fashion. It didnot perceive that it also lay in that hand whichhad removed Napoleon.It thought that it had roots, because it was the past.It was mistaken; it formed a part of the past, butthe whole past was France. The roots of Frenchsociety were not fixed in the Bourbons, but in thenations. These obscure and lively roots constituted,not the right of a family, but the history of a people.They were everywhere, except under the throne.The House of Bourbon was to France the illustri-ous and bleeding knot in her history, but was nolonger the principal element of her destiny, andthe necessary base of her politics. She could getalong without the Bourbons; she had done withoutthem for two and twenty years; there had been abreak of continuity; they did not suspect the fact.And how should they have suspected it, they whofancied that Louis XVII. reigned on the 9th ofThermidor, and that Louis XVIII. was reigning atthe battle of Marengo? Never, since the origin ofhistory, had princes been so blind in the presenceof facts and the portion of divine authority whichfacts contain and promulgate. Never had that pre-tension here below which is called the right ofkings denied to such a point the right from on high.A capital error which led this family to lay itshand once more on the guarantees “granted” in1814, on the concessions, as it termed them. Sad.A sad thing! What it termed its concessions wereour conquests; what it termed our encroachmentswere our rights.When the hour seemed to it to have come, theRestoration, supposing itself victorious overBonaparte and well-rooted in the country, that isto say, believing itself to be strong and deep,abruptly decided on its plan of action, and riskedits stroke. One morning it drew itself up beforethe face of France, and, elevating its voice, itcontested the collective title and the individual rightof the nation to sovereignty, of the citizen to lib-erty. In other words, it denied to the nation that

which made it a nation, and to the citizen thatwhich made him a citizen.This is the foundation of those famous acts whichare called the ordinances of July. The Restorationfell.It fell justly. But, we admit, it had not been abso-lutely hostile to all forms of progress. Great thingshad been accomplished, with it alongside.Under the Restoration, the nation had grown ac-customed to calm discussion, which had been lack-ing under the Republic, and to grandeur in peace,which had been wanting under the Empire. Francefree and strong had offered an encouraging spec-tacle to the other peoples of Europe. The Revolu-tion had had the word under Robespierre; the can-non had had the word under Bonaparte; it wasunder Louis XVIII. and Charles X. that it was theturn of intelligence to have the word. The windceased, the torch was lighted once more. On thelofty heights, the pure light of mind could be seenflickering. A magnificent, useful, and charmingspectacle. For a space of fifteen years, those greatprinciples which are so old for the thinker, so newfor the statesman, could be seen at work in per-fect peace, on the public square; equality beforethe law, liberty of conscience, liberty of speech,liberty of the press, the accessibility of all apti-tudes to all functions. Thus it proceeded until 1830.The Bourbons were an instrument of civilizationwhich broke in the hands of Providence.The fall of the Bourbons was full of grandeur, noton their side, but on the side of the nation. Theyquitted the throne with gravity, but without author-ity; their descent into the night was not one ofthose solemn disappearances which leave a som-bre emotion in history; it was neither the spectralcalm of Charles I., nor the eagle scream of Na-poleon. They departed, that is all. They laid downthe crown, and retained no aureole. They wereworthy, but they were not august. They lacked, ina certain measure, the majesty of their misfor-tune. Charles X. during the voyage fromCherbourg, causing a round table to be cut overinto a square table, appeared to be more anxiousabout imperilled etiquette than about the crum-bling monarchy. This diminution saddened devotedmen who loved their persons, and serious menwho honored their race. The populace was admi-rable. The nation, attacked one morning withweapons, by a sort of royal insurrection, felt it-self in the possession of so much force that it didnot go into a rage. It defended itself, restraineditself, restored things to their places, the govern-ment to law, the Bourbons to exile, alas! and thenhalted! It took the old king Charles X. from be-neath that dais which had sheltered Louis XIV.and set him gently on the ground. It touched theroyal personages only with sadness and precau-tion. It was not one man, it was not a few men, itwas France, France entire, France victorious andintoxicated with her victory, who seemed to becoming to herself, and who put into practice, be-fore the eyes of the whole world, these grave wordsof Guillaume du Vair after the day of the Barri-cades:—“It is easy for those who are accustomed to skimthe favors of the great, and to spring, like a birdfrom bough to bough, from an afflicted fortune toa flourishing one, to show themselves harsh to-wards their Prince in his adversity; but as for me,the fortune of my Kings and especially of my af-flicted Kings, will always be venerable to me.”The Bourbons carried away with them respect,but not regret. As we have just stated, their mis-fortune was greater than they were. They fadedout in the horizon.The Revolution of July instantly had friends andenemies throughout the entire world. The firstrushed toward her with joy and enthusiasm, theothers turned away, each according to his nature.At the first blush, the princes of Europe, the owlsof this dawn, shut their eyes, wounded and stupe-fied, and only opened them to threaten. A frightwhich can be comprehended, a wrath which canbe pardoned. This strange revolution had hardlyproduced a shock; it had not even paid to van-quished royalty the honor of treating it as an en-emy, and of shedding its blood. In the eyes of des-potic governments, who are always interested inhaving liberty calumniate itself, the Revolutionof July committed the fault of being formidableand of remaining gentle. Nothing, however, wasattempted or plotted against it. The most discon-tented, the most irritated, the most trembling, sa-luted it; whatever our egotism and our rancor maybe, a mysterious respect springs from events inwhich we are sensible of the collaboration of someone who is working above man.The Revolution of July is the triumph of right over-throwing the fact. A thing which is full of splen-

S’en allait a la chasse,A la chasse aux corbeaux —”At the end of these three lines he paused. He hadarrived in front of No. 50–52, and finding the doorfastened, he began to assault it with resoundingand heroic kicks, which betrayed rather the man’sshoes that he was wearing than the child’s feetwhich he owned.In the meanwhile, the very old woman whom hehad encountered at the corner of the Rue du Petit–Banquier hastened up behind him, uttering clam-orous cries and indulging in lavish and exagger-ated gestures.“What’s this? What’s this? Lord God! He’s bat-tering the door down! He’s knocking the housedown.”The kicks continued.The old woman strained her lungs.“Is that the way buildings are treated nowadays?”All at once she paused.She had recognized the gamin.“What! so it’s that imp!”“Why, it’s the old lady,” said the lad. “Good day,Bougonmuche. I have come to see my ancestors.”The old woman retorted with a composite gri-mace, and a wonderful improvisation of hatredtaking advantage of feebleness and ugliness, whichwas, unfortunately, wasted in the dark:—“There’s no one here.”“Bah!” retorted the boy, “where’s my father?”“At La Force.”“Come, now! And my mother?”“At Saint–Lazare.”“Well! And my sisters?”“At the Madelonettes.”The lad scratched his head behind his ear, staredat Ma’am Bougon, and said:—“Ah!”Then he executed a pirouette on his heel; a mo-ment later, the old woman, who had remained onthe door-step, heard him singing in his clear, youngvoice, as he plunged under the black elm-trees, inthe wintry wind:—“Le roi Coupdesabot31S’en allait a la chasse,A la chasse aux corbeaux,Monte sur deux echasses.Quand on passait dessous,On lui payait deux sous.”31 King Bootkick went a-hunting after crows,mounted on two stilts. When one passed beneaththem, one paid him two sous.

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VOLUME IV.SAINT-DENIS.

THE IDYL IN THE RUE PLUMET AND THEEPIC IN THE RUE SAINT-DENIS.

CHAPTER IWELL CUT

1831 and 1832, the two years which are immedi-ately connected with the Revolution of July, formone of the most peculiar and striking moments ofhistory. These two years rise like two mountainsmidway between those which precede and thosewhich follow them. They have a revolutionarygrandeur. Precipices are to be distinguished there.The social masses, the very assizes of civiliza-tion, the solid group of superposed and adheringinterests, the century-old profiles of the ancientFrench formation, appear and disappear in themevery instant, athwart the storm clouds of sys-tems, of passions, and of theories. These appear-ances and disappearances have been designatedas movement and resistance. At intervals, truth,that daylight of the human soul, can be descriedshining there.This remarkable epoch is decidedly circumscribedand is beginning to be sufficiently distant from usto allow of our grasping the principal lines evenat the present day.We shall make the attempt.The Restoration had been one of those intermedi-ate phases, hard to define, in which there is fa-tigue, buzzing, murmurs, sleep, tumult, and whichare nothing else than the arrival of a great nationat a halting-place.These epochs are peculiar and mislead the politi-cians who desire to convert them to profit. In thebeginning, the nation asks nothing but repose; itthirsts for but one thing, peace; it has but oneambition, to be small. Which is the translation ofremaining tranquil. Of great events, great haz-ards, great adventures, great men, thank God, wehave seen enough, we have them heaped higherthan our heads. We would exchange Caesar forPrusias, and Napoleon for the King of Yvetot.“What a good little king was he!” We havemarched since daybreak, we have reached the

CHAPTER IIBADLY SEWED

But the task of sages is one thing, the task of clevermen is another. The Revolution of 1830 came to asudden halt.As soon as a revolution has made the coast, theskilful make haste to prepare the shipwreck.The skilful in our century have conferred on them-selves the title of Statesmen; so that this word,statesmen, has ended by becoming somewhat ofa slang word. It must be borne in mind, in fact,that wherever there is nothing but skill, there isnecessarily pettiness. To say “the skilful” amountsto saying “the mediocre.”In the same way, to say “statesmen” is some-times equivalent to saying “traitors.” If, then, weare to believe the skilful, revolutions like the Revo-lution of July are severed arteries; a prompt liga-ture is indispensable. The right, too grandly pro-claimed, is shaken. Also, right once firmly fixed,the state must be strengthened. Liberty once as-sured, attention must be directed to power.Here the sages are not, as yet, separated from theskilful, but they begin to be distrustful. Power, verygood. But, in the first place, what is power? Inthe second, whence comes it? The skilful do notseem to hear the murmured objection, and theycontinue their manoeuvres.According to the politicians, who are ingenious inputting the mask of necessity on profitable fic-tions, the first requirement of a people after a revo-lution, when this people forms part of a monar-chical continent, is to procure for itself a dynasty.In this way, say they, peace, that is to say, time todress our wounds, and to repair the house, can behad after a revolution. The dynasty conceals thescaffolding and covers the ambulance. Now, it isnot always easy to procure a dynasty.If it is absolutely necessary, the first man of ge-nius or even the first man of fortune who comesto hand suffices for the manufacturing of a king.You have, in the first case, Napoleon; in the sec-ond, Iturbide.But the first family that comes to hand does notsuffice to make a dynasty. There is necessarilyrequired a certain modicum of antiquity in a race,and the wrinkle of the centuries cannot be impro-vised.If we place ourselves at the point of view of the“statesmen,” after making all allowances, ofcourse, after a revolution, what are the qualitiesof the king which result from it? He may be and itis useful for him to be a revolutionary; that is tosay, a participant in his own person in that revolu-tion, that he should have lent a hand to it, that heshould have either compromised or distinguishedhimself therein, that he should have touched theaxe or wielded the sword in it.What are the qualities of a dynasty? It should benational; that is to say, revolutionary at a distance,not through acts committed, but by reason of ideasaccepted. It should be composed of past and behistoric; be composed of future and be sympa-thetic.All this explains why the early revolutions con-tented themselves with finding a man, Cromwellor Napoleon; and why the second absolutely in-sisted on finding a family, the House of Brunswickor the House of Orleans.

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From Page 18 the bourgeoisie enthusiastic. He had, with his ownhands, demolished the iron cage of Mont–Saint-Michel, built by Louis XI, and used by Louis XV.He was the companion of Dumouriez, he was thefriend of Lafayette; he had belonged to theJacobins’ club; Mirabeau had slapped him on theshoulder; Danton had said to him: “Young man!”At the age of four and twenty, in ‘93, being thenM. de Chartres, he had witnessed, from the depthof a box, the trial of Louis XVI., so well namedthat poor tyrant. The blind clairvoyance of theRevolution, breaking royalty in the King and theKing with royalty, did so almost without noticingthe man in the fierce crushing of the idea, thevast storm of the Assembly–Tribunal, the publicwrath interrogating, Capet not knowing what toreply, the alarming, stupefied vacillation by thatroyal head beneath that sombre breath, the rela-tive innocence of all in that catastrophe, of thosewho condemned as well as of the man con-demned,— he had looked on those things, he hadcontemplated that giddiness; he had seen the cen-turies appear before the bar of the Assembly–Convention; he had beheld, behind Louis XVI.,that unfortunate passer-by who was made respon-sible, the terrible culprit, the monarchy, risethrough the shadows; and there had lingered inhis soul the respectful fear of these immense jus-tices of the populace, which are almost as imper-sonal as the justice of God.The trace left in him by the Revolution was pro-digious. Its memory was like a living imprint ofthose great years, minute by minute. One day, inthe presence of a witness whom we are not per-mitted to doubt, he rectified from memory thewhole of the letter A in the alphabetical list of theConstituent Assembly.Louis Philippe was a king of the broad daylight.While he reigned the press was free, the tribunewas free, conscience and speech were free. Thelaws of September are open to sight. Althoughfully aware of the gnawing power of light on privi-leges, he left his throne exposed to the light. His-tory will do justice to him for this loyalty.Louis Philippe, like all historical men who havepassed from the scene, is today put on his trial bythe human conscience. His case is, as yet, only inthe lower court.The hour when history speaks with its free andvenerable accent, has not yet sounded for him;the moment has not come to pronounce a definitejudgment on this king; the austere and illustrioushistorian Louis Blanc has himself recently soft-ened his first verdict; Louis Philippe was electedby those two almosts which are called the 221and 1830, that is to say, by a half-Parliament, anda half-revolution; and in any case, from the supe-rior point of view where philosophy must placeitself, we cannot judge him here, as the readerhas seen above, except with certain reservationsin the name of the absolute democratic principle;in the eyes of the absolute, outside these two rights,the right of man in the first place, the right of thepeople in the second, all is usurpation; but whatwe can say, even at the present day, that aftermaking these reserves is, that to sum up the whole,and in whatever manner he is considered, LouisPhilippe, taken in himself, and from the point ofview of human goodness, will remain, to use theantique language of ancient history, one of the bestprinces who ever sat on a throne.What is there against him? That throne. Take awayLouis Philippe the king, there remains the man.And the man is good. He is good at times even tothe point of being admirable. Often, in the midstof his gravest souvenirs, after a day of conflictwith the whole diplomacy of the continent, he re-turned at night to his apartments, and there, ex-hausted with fatigue, overwhelmed with sleep,what did he do? He took a death sentence andpassed the night in revising a criminal suit, con-sidering it something to hold his own against Eu-rope, but that it was a still greater matter to res-cue a man from the executioner. He obstinatelymaintained his opinion against his keeper of theseals; he disputed the ground with the guillotinefoot by foot against the crown attorneys, thosechatterers of the law, as he called them. Some-times the pile of sentences covered his table; heexamined them all; it was anguish to him to aban-don these miserable, condemned heads. One day,he said to the same witness to whom we haverecently referred: “I won seven last night.” Dur-ing the early years of his reign, the death penaltywas as good as abolished, and the erection of ascaffold was a violence committed against theKing. The Greve having disappeared with the el-der branch, a bourgeois place of execution wasinstituted under the name of the Barriere–Saint-

Let us return to 1830. 1830, in its deviation, hadgood luck. In the establishment which entitled it-self order after the revolution had been cut short,the King amounted to more than royalty. LouisPhilippe was a rare man.The son of a father to whom history will accordcertain attenuating circumstances, but also asworthy of esteem as that father had been of blame;possessing all private virtues and many public vir-tues; careful of his health, of his fortune, of hisperson, of his affairs, knowing the value of aminute and not always the value of a year; sober,serene, peaceable, patient; a good man and a goodprince; sleeping with his wife, and having in hispalace lackeys charged with the duty of showingthe conjugal bed to the bourgeois, an ostentationof the regular sleeping-apartment which had be-come useful after the former illegitimate displaysof the elder branch; knowing all the languages ofEurope, and, what is more rare, all the languagesof all interests, and speaking them; an admirablerepresentative of the “middle class,” but outstrip-ping it, and in every way greater than it; possess-ing excellent sense, while appreciating the bloodfrom which he had sprung, counting most of allon his intrinsic worth, and, on the question of hisrace, very particular, declaring himself Orleansand not Bourbon; thoroughly the first Prince ofthe Blood Royal while he was still only a SereneHighness, but a frank bourgeois from the day hebecame king; diffuse in public, concise in private;reputed, but not proved to be a miser; at bottom,one of those economists who are readily prodigalat their own fancy or duty; lettered, but not verysensitive to letters; a gentleman, but not a cheva-lier; simple, calm, and strong; adored by his fam-ily and his household; a fascinating talker, an un-deceived statesman, inwardly cold, dominated byimmediate interest, always governing at the short-est range, incapable of rancor and of gratitude,making use without mercy of superiority on me-diocrity, clever in getting parliamentary majori-ties to put in the wrong those mysterious unanimi-ties which mutter dully under thrones; unreserved,sometimes imprudent in his lack of reserve, butwith marvellous address in that imprudence; fer-tile in expedients, in countenances, in masks;making France fear Europe and Europe France!Incontestably fond of his country, but preferringhis family; assuming more domination than au-thority and more authority than dignity, a disposi-tion which has this unfortunate property, that as itturns everything to success, it admits of ruse anddoes not absolutely repudiate baseness, but whichhas this valuable side, that it preserves politicsfrom violent shocks, the state from fractures, andsociety from catastrophes; minute, correct, vigi-lant, attentive, sagacious, indefatigable; contra-dicting himself at times and giving himself thelie; bold against Austria at Ancona, obstinateagainst England in Spain, bombarding Antwerp,and paying off Pritchard; singing the Marseillaisewith conviction, inaccessible to despondency, tolassitude, to the taste for the beautiful and theideal, to daring generosity, to Utopia, to chime-ras, to wrath, to vanity, to fear; possessing all theforms of personal intrepidity; a general at Valmy;a soldier at Jemappes; attacked eight times byregicides and always smiling. Brave as a grena-dier, courageous as a thinker; uneasy only in theface of the chances of a European shaking up,and unfitted for great political adventures; alwaysready to risk his life, never his work; disguisinghis will in influence, in order that he might beobeyed as an intelligence rather than as a king;endowed with observation and not with divina-tion; not very attentive to minds, but knowing men,that is to say requiring to see in order to judge;prompt and penetrating good sense, practical wis-dom, easy speech, prodigious memory; drawingincessantly on this memory, his only point of re-semblance with Caesar, Alexander, and Napoleon;knowing deeds, facts, details, dates, propernames, ignorant of tendencies, passions, the di-verse geniuses of the crowd, the interior aspira-tions, the hidden and obscure uprisings of souls,in a word, all that can be designated as the invis-ible currents of consciences; accepted by the sur-face, but little in accord with France lower down;extricating himself by dint of tact; governing toomuch and not enough; his own first minister; ex-cellent at creating out of the pettiness of realitiesan obstacle to the immensity of ideas; mingling agenuine creative faculty of civilization, of orderand organization, an indescribable spirit of pro-ceedings and chicanery, the founder and lawyerof a dynasty; having something of Charlemagneand something of an attorney; in short, a lofty andoriginal figure, a prince who understood how tocreate authority in spite of the uneasiness of

France, and power in spite of the jealousy of Eu-rope. Louis Philippe will be classed among theeminent men of his century, and would be rankedamong the most illustrious governors of historyhad he loved glory but a little, and if he had hadthe sentiment of what is great to the same degreeas the feeling for what is useful.Louis Philippe had been handsome, and in his oldage he remained graceful; not always approvedby the nation, he always was so by the masses;he pleased. He had that gift of charming. Helacked majesty; he wore no crown, although a king,and no white hair, although an old man; his man-ners belonged to the old regime and his habits tothe new; a mixture of the noble and the bourgeoiswhich suited 1830; Louis Philippe was transitionreigning; he had preserved the ancient pronuncia-tion and the ancient orthography which he placedat the service of opinions modern; he loved Po-land and Hungary, but he wrote les Polonois, andhe pronounced les Hongrais. He wore the uniformof the national guard, like Charles X., and the rib-bon of the Legion of Honor, like Napoleon.He went a little to chapel, not at all to the chase,never to the opera. Incorruptible by sacristans, bywhippers-in, by ballet-dancers; this made a partof his bourgeois popularity. He had no heart. Hewent out with his umbrella under his arm, andthis umbrella long formed a part of his aureole.He was a bit of a mason, a bit of a gardener, some-thing of a doctor; he bled a postilion who hadtumbled from his horse; Louis Philippe no morewent about without his lancet, than did Henri IV.without his poniard. The Royalists jeered at thisridiculous king, the first who had ever shed bloodwith the object of healing.For the grievances against Louis Philippe, thereis one deduction to be made; there is that whichaccuses royalty, that which accuses the reign, thatwhich accuses the King; three columns which allgive different totals. Democratic right confiscated,progress becomes a matter of secondary interest,the protests of the street violently repressed, mili-tary execution of insurrections, the rising passedover by arms, the Rue Transnonain, the counselsof war, the absorption of the real country by thelegal country, on half shares with three hundredthousand privileged persons,— these are the deedsof royalty; Belgium refused, Algeria too harshlyconquered, and, as in the case of India by theEnglish, with more barbarism than civilization,the breach of faith, to Abd-el-Kader, Blaye, Deutzbought, Pritchard paid,— these are the doings ofthe reign; the policy which was more domesticthan national was the doing of the King.As will be seen, the proper deduction having beenmade, the King’s charge is decreased.This is his great fault; he was modest in the nameof France.Whence arises this fault?We will state it.Louis Philippe was rather too much of a paternalking; that incubation of a family with the objectof founding a dynasty is afraid of everything anddoes not like to be disturbed; hence excessive ti-midity, which is displeasing to the people, whohave the 14th of July in their civil and Austerlitzin their military tradition.Moreover, if we deduct the public duties whichrequire to be fulfilled first of all, that deep ten-derness of Louis Philippe towards his family wasdeserved by the family. That domestic group wasworthy of admiration. Virtues there dwelt side byside with talents. One of Louis Philippe’s daugh-ters, Marie d’Orleans, placed the name of her raceamong artists, as Charles d’Orleans had placed itamong poets. She made of her soul a marble whichshe named Jeanne d’Arc. Two of Louis Philippe’sdaughters elicited from Metternich this eulogium:“They are young people such as are rarely seen,and princes such as are never seen.”This, without any dissimulation, and also withoutany exaggeration, is the truth about Louis Philippe.To be Prince Equality, to bear in his own personthe contradiction of the Restoration and the Revo-lution, to have that disquieting side of the revolu-tionary which becomes reassuring in governingpower, therein lay the fortune of Louis Philippe in1830; never was there a more complete adapta-tion of a man to an event; the one entered into theother, and the incarnation took place. LouisPhilippe is 1830 made man. Moreover, he had inhis favor that great recommendation to the throne,exile. He had been proscribed, a wanderer, poor.He had lived by his own labor. In Switzerland,this heir to the richest princely domains in Francehad sold an old horse in order to obtain bread. AtReichenau, he gave lessons in mathematics, whilehis sister Adelaide did wool work and sewed.These souvenirs connected with a king rendered

Royal houses resemble those Indian fig-trees,each branch of which, bending over to the earth,takes root and becomes a fig-tree itself. Eachbranch may become a dynasty. On the sole con-dition that it shall bend down to the people.Such is the theory of the skilful.Here, then, lies the great art: to make a little ren-der to success the sound of a catastrophe in orderthat those who profit by it may tremble from italso, to season with fear every step that is taken,to augment the curve of the transition to the pointof retarding progress, to dull that aurora, to de-nounce and retrench the harshness of enthusiasm,to cut all angles and nails, to wad triumph, tomuffle up right, to envelop the giant-people in flan-nel, and to put it to bed very speedily, to impose adiet on that excess of health, to put Hercules onthe treatment of a convalescent, to dilute the eventwith the expedient, to offer to spirits thirsting forthe ideal that nectar thinned out with a potion, totake one’s precautions against too much success,to garnish the revolution with a shade.1830 practised this theory, already applied to En-gland by 1688.1830 is a revolution arrested midway. Half ofprogress, quasi-right. Now, logic knows not the“almost,” absolutely as the sun knows not thecandle.Who arrests revolutions half-way? The bourgeoi-sie?Why?Because the bourgeoisie is interest which hasreached satisfaction. Yesterday it was appetite,today it is plenitude, tomorrow it will be satiety.The phenomenon of 1814 after Napoleon was re-produced in 1830 after Charles X.The attempt has been made, and wrongly, to makea class of the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie is sim-ply the contented portion of the people. The bour-geois is the man who now has time to sit down. Achair is not a caste.But through a desire to sit down too soon, onemay arrest the very march of the human race.This has often been the fault of the bourgeoisie.One is not a class because one has committed afault. Selfishness is not one of the divisions of thesocial order.Moreover, we must be just to selfishness. Thestate to which that part of the nation which is calledthe bourgeoisie aspired after the shock of 1830was not the inertia which is complicated with in-difference and laziness, and which contains a littleshame; it was not the slumber which presupposesa momentary forgetfulness accessible to dreams;it was the halt.The halt is a word formed of a singular doubleand almost contradictory sense: a troop on themarch, that is to say, movement; a stand, that isto say, repose.The halt is the restoration of forces; it is reposearmed and on the alert; it is the accomplished factwhich posts sentinels and holds itself on its guard.The halt presupposes the combat of yesterday andthe combat of tomorrow.It is the partition between 1830 and 1848.What we here call combat may also be desig-nated as progress.The bourgeoisie then, as well as the statesmen,required a man who should express this word Halt.An Although–Because. A composite individual-ity, signifying revolution and signifying stability,in other terms, strengthening the present by theevident compatibility of the past with the future.This man was “already found.” His name wasLouis Philippe d’Orleans.The 221 made Louis Philippe King. Lafayetteundertook the coronation.He called it the best of republics. The town-hallof Paris took the place of the Cathedral of Rheims.This substitution of a half-throne for a wholethrone was “the work of 1830.”When the skilful had finished, the immense viceof their solution became apparent. All this hadbeen accomplished outside the bounds of abso-lute right. Absolute right cried: “I protest!” then,terrible to say, it retired into the darkness.

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CHAPTER IIILOUIS PHILIPPE

Revolutions have a terrible arm and a happy hand,they strike firmly and choose well. Even incom-plete, even debased and abused and reduced tothe state of a junior revolution like the Revolutionof 1830, they nearly always retain sufficient provi-dential lucidity to prevent them from fallingamiss. Their eclipse is never an abdication.Nevertheless, let us not boast too loudly; revolu-tions also may be deceived, and grave errors havebeen seen.

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born armed peace, that ruinous expedient of civi-lization which in the harness of the European cabi-nets is suspicious in itself. The Royalty of Julyreared up, in spite of the fact that it caught it inthe harness of European cabinets. Metternichwould gladly have put it in kicking-straps. Pushedon in France by progress, it pushed on the monar-chies, those loiterers in Europe. After having beentowed, it undertook to tow.Meanwhile, within her, pauperism, the proletariat,salary, education, penal servitude, prostitution, thefate of the woman, wealth, misery, production,consumption, division, exchange, coin, credit, therights of capital, the rights of labor,— all thesequestions were multiplied above society, a ter-rible slope.Outside of political parties properly so called,another movement became manifest. Philosophi-cal fermentation replied to democratic fermenta-tion. The elect felt troubled as well as the masses;in another manner, but quite as much.Thinkers meditated, while the soil, that is to say,the people, traversed by revolutionary currents,trembled under them with indescribably vagueepileptic shocks. These dreamers, some isolated,others united in families and almost in commun-ion, turned over social questions in a pacific butprofound manner; impassive miners, who tran-quilly pushed their galleries into the depths of avolcano, hardly disturbed by the dull commotionand the furnaces of which they caught glimpses.This tranquillity was not the least beautiful spec-tacle of this agitated epoch.These men left to political parties the question ofrights, they occupied themselves with the ques-tion of happiness.The well-being of man, that was what they wantedto extract from society.They raised material questions, questions of agri-culture, of industry, of commerce, almost to thedignity of a religion. In civilization, such as it hasformed itself, a little by the command of God, agreat deal by the agency of man, interests com-bine, unite, and amalgamate in a manner to forma veritable hard rock, in accordance with a dy-namic law, patiently studied by economists, thosegeologists of politics. These men who groupedthemselves under different appellations, but whomay all be designated by the generic title of so-cialists, endeavored to pierce that rock and tocause it to spout forth the living waters of humanfelicity. To Be Continued Next Week

been offered to him, and he had accepted it; con-vinced, wrongly, to be sure, but convinced never-theless, that the offer was in accordance with rightand that the acceptance of it was in accordancewith duty. Hence his possession was in good faith.Now, we say it in good conscience, Louis Philippebeing in possession in perfect good faith, and thedemocracy being in good faith in its attack, theamount of terror discharged by the social conflictsweighs neither on the King nor on the democracy.A clash of principles resembles a clash of ele-ments.The ocean defends the water, the hurricane de-fends the air, the King defends Royalty, the de-mocracy defends the people; the relative, whichis the monarchy, resists the absolute, which is therepublic; society bleeds in this conflict, but thatwhich constitutes its suffering today will consti-tute its safety later on; and, in any case, thosewho combat are not to be blamed; one of the twoparties is evidently mistaken; the right is not, likethe Colossus of Rhodes, on two shores at once,with one foot on the republic, and one in Royalty;it is indivisible, and all on one side; but those whoare in error are so sincerely; a blind man is nomore a criminal than a Vendean is a ruffian. Letus, then, impute to the fatality of things alone theseformidable collisions. Whatever the nature ofthese tempests may be, human irresponsibility ismingled with them.Let us complete this exposition.The government of 1840 led a hard life immedi-ately. Born yesterday, it was obliged to fight to-day.Hardly installed, it was already everywhere con-scious of vague movements of traction on the ap-paratus of July so recently laid, and so lacking insolidity.Resistance was born on the morrow; perhapseven, it was born on the preceding evening. Frommonth to month the hostility increased, and frombeing concealed it became patent.The Revolution of July, which gained but littleacceptance outside of France by kings, had beendiversely interpreted in France, as we have said.God delivers over to men his visible will in events,an obscure text written in a mysterious tongue.Men immediately make translations of it; trans-lations hasty, incorrect, full of errors, of gaps, andof nonsense. Very few minds comprehend the di-vine language. The most sagacious, the calmest,

the most profound, decipher slowly, and when theyarrive with their text, the task has long been com-pleted; there are already twenty translations onthe public place. From each remaining springs aparty, and from each misinterpretation a faction;and each party thinks that it alone has the truetext, and each faction thinks that it possesses thelight.Power itself is often a faction.There are, in revolutions, swimmers who goagainst the current; they are the old parties.For the old parties who clung to heredity by thegrace of God, think that revolutions, having sprungfrom the right to revolt, one has the right to revoltagainst them. Error. For in these revolutions, theone who revolts is not the people; it is the king.Revolution is precisely the contrary of revolt.Every revolution, being a normal outcome, con-tains within itself its legitimacy, which false revo-lutionists sometimes dishonor, but which remainseven when soiled, which survives even whenstained with blood.Revolutions spring not from an accident, but fromnecessity. A revolution is a return from the ficti-tious to the real. It is because it must be that it is.None the less did the old legitimist parties assailthe Revolution of 1830 with all the vehemencewhich arises from false reasoning. Errors makeexcellent projectiles. They strike it cleverly in itsvulnerable spot, in default of a cuirass, in its lackof logic; they attacked this revolution in its roy-alty. They shouted to it: “Revolution, why thisking?” Factions are blind men who aim correctly.This cry was uttered equally by the republicans.But coming from them, this cry was logical. Whatwas blindness in the legitimists was clearness ofvision in the democrats. 1830 had bankrupted thepeople. The enraged democracy reproached it withthis.Between the attack of the past and the attack ofthe future, the establishment of July struggled. Itrepresented the minute at loggerheads on the onehand with the monarchical centuries, on the otherhand with eternal right.In addition, and beside all this, as it was no longerrevolution and had become a monarchy, 1830 wasobliged to take precedence of all Europe. To keepthe peace, was an increase of complication. Aharmony established contrary to sense is oftenmore onerous than a war. From this secret con-flict, always muzzled, but always growling, was

Jacques; “practical men” felt the necessity of aquasi-legitimate guillotine; and this was one ofthe victories of Casimir Perier, who representedthe narrow sides of the bourgeoisie, over LouisPhilippe, who represented its liberal sides. LouisPhilippe annotated Beccaria with his own hand.After the Fieschi machine, he exclaimed: “Whata pity that I was not wounded! Then I might havepardoned!” On another occasion, alluding to theresistance offered by his ministry, he wrote inconnection with a political criminal, who is oneof the most generous figures of our day: “His par-don is granted; it only remains for me to obtainit.” Louis Philippe was as gentle as Louis IX. andas kindly as Henri IV.Now, to our mind, in history, where kindness isthe rarest of pearls, the man who is kindly almosttakes precedence of the man who is great.Louis Philippe having been severely judged bysome, harshly, perhaps, by others, it is quite natu-ral that a man, himself a phantom at the presentday, who knew that king, should come and testifyin his favor before history; this deposition, what-ever else it may be, is evidently and above allthings, entirely disinterested; an epitaph pennedby a dead man is sincere; one shade may consoleanother shade; the sharing of the same shadowsconfers the right to praise it; it is not greatly to befeared that it will ever be said of two tombs inexile: “This one flattered the other.”

Page 88 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, June 5, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

CHAPTER IVCRACKS BENEATH THE FOUNDATION

At the moment when the drama which we arenarrating is on the point of penetrating into thedepths of one of the tragic clouds which envelopthe beginning of Louis Philippe’s reign, it wasnecessary that there should be no equivoque, andit became requisite that this book should offersome explanation with regard to this king.Louis Philippe had entered into possession of hisroyal authority without violence, without any di-rect action on his part, by virtue of a revolution-ary change, evidently quite distinct from the realaim of the Revolution, but in which he, the Ducd’Orleans, exercised no personal initiative. Hehad been born a Prince, and he believed himselfto have been elected King. He had not served thismandate on himself; he had not taken it; it had

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