distorted,
approach the bed, singing like the robbers in Fra Diavolo: "Ad.... vance
... ad ... vance ... with ... pru ... dence ...!" The first, Monsieur
Thiers, carries a heavy club and a dark lantern; Jules Favre, the
second, brandishes a knife, and the third, carries nothing, but wears a
peacock's feather in his hat, and.... I have never seen Monsieur
Picard, but they tell me that it is he.

The young Republic again, with shoulders bare and the style of face of a
_petite dame_ of the Rue Bossuet. She comes to beg Monsieur Thiers,
cobbler and cookshop-keeper, who "finds places for pretenders out of
employ, and changes their old boots for new at the most reasonable
prices," to have her shoes mended. "Wait a bit! wait a bit!" says the
cobbler to himself, "I'll manage 'em so as to put an end to her
walking."

Here is a green monkey perched on the extreme height of a microscopic
tribune. At the end of his tail he wears a crown; on his head is a
Phrygian cap. It is Monsieur Thiers of course. "Gentlemen," says he, "I
assure you that I am republican, and that I adore the vile multitude."
But underneath is written: "We'll pluck the Gallic cock!" The author of
this is also Monsieur Faustin. I have here a special reproach to add to
what I have already said of these objectionable stupidities. I do not
like the manner in which the author takes off Monsieur Thiers; he quite
forgets the old and well-known resemblance of the chief of the executive
power to Monsieur Prud'homme, or what is the same thing, to Prud'homme's
inventor, Henri Monnier. One day Gil Perez the actor, met Henri Monnier
on the Boulevard Montmartre. "Well, old fellow!" cried he, "are you
back? When are you and I going to get at our practical jokes again?"
Henri Monnier looked profoundly astonished; it was Monsieur Thiers!

The next one is signed Pilotel. Pilotel, the savage commissioner! He who
arrested Monsieur Chaudey, and who pocketed eight hundred and fifteen
francs found in Monsieur Chaudey's drawers. Ah! Pilotel, if by some
unlucky adventure you were to succumb behind a barricade, you would cry
like Nero: "Qualis artifex pereo!" But let us leave the author to
criticise the work. A Gavroche, not the Gavroche of the _Miserables_,
but the boy of Belleville, chewing tobacco like a Jack-tar, drunk as a
Federal, in a purple blouse, green trousers, his hands in his pockets,
his cap on the nape of his neck; squat, violent, and brutish. With an
impudent jerk of t