n of its heroism, this
pitiful Assembly died a grand death.

CHAPTER XVIII.

PAGE WRITTEN AT BRUSSELS

Well then, yes, I will kick open the door of this Palace, and I will
enter with you, History! I will seize by the collar all the
perpetrators, continually caught red-handed in the commission of all
these outrages! I will suddenly illuminate this cavern of night with the
broad daylight of truth!

Yes, I will bring in the daylight! I will tear down the curtain, I will
open the window, I will show to every eye such as it really is,
infamous, horrible, wealthy, triumphant, joyous, gilded,
besmirched--this Elysee! this Court! this group! this heap! call it what
you will! this galley-crew! where writhe and crawl, and pair and breed
every baseness, every indignity, every abomination: filibusters,
buccaneers, swearers of oaths, Signers of the Cross, spies, swindlers,
butchers, executioners, from the brigand who vends his sword, to the
Jesuit who sells his God second-hand! This sink where Baroche elbows
Teste! where each brings his own nastiness! Magnan his epaulets;
Montalembert his religion, Dupin his person!

And above all the innermost circle, the Holy of Holies, the private
Council, the smug den where they drink--where they eat--where they
laugh--where they sleep--where they play--where they cheat--where they
call Highnesses "Thou,"--where they wallow! Oh! what ignominies! It is
them! It is there! Dishonor, baseness, shame, and opprobrium are there!
Oh History! A hot iron for all these faces.

It is there that they amuse themselves, and that they jest, and that
they banter, and that they make sport of France! It is there that they
pocket hap-hazard, amid great shouts of laughter, the millions of louis
and the millions of votes! See them, look at them! They have treated the
Law like a girl, they are content! Right is slaughtered, Liberty is
gagged, the flag is dishonored, the people are under their feet. They
are happy! And who are they? What are these men? Europe knows not. One
fine morning it saw them come out of a crime. Nothing more. A parcel of
rascals who vainly tried to become celebrated, and who have remained
anonymous. Look! they are all there! See them, I tell you! Look at them,
I tell you! Recognize them if you can. Of what sex are they? To what
species do they belong? Who is this one? Is he a writer? No; he is a
dog. He gobbles human flesh. And that one? Is he a dog? No, he is a
courtier--he has