eive that he cried "Silence!" to history.

And then without even reckoning the fatal remembrance which at such a
moment would have crushed a man endowed in the highest degree with great
military qualities, General Oudinot, in other respects an excellent
officer, and a worthy son of his brave father, possessed none of those
striking qualities which in the critical hour of revolution stir the
soldier and carry with them the people. At that instant to win back an
army of a hundred thousand men, to withdraw the balls from the cannons'
mouths, to find beneath the wine poured out to the Praetorians the true
soul of the French soldier half drowned and nearly dead, to tear the flag
from the _coup d'etat_ and restore it to the Law, to surround the
Assembly with thunders and lightnings, it would have needed one of those
men who exist no longer; it would have needed the firm hand, the calm
oratory, the cold and searching glance of Desaix, that French Phocion; it
would have needed the huge shoulders, the commanding stature, the
thundering voice, the abusive, insolent, cynical, gay, and sublime
eloquence of Kleber, that military Mirabeau. Desaix, the countenance of a
just man, or Kleber, the face of the lion! General Oudinot, little,
awkward, embarrassed, with an indecisive and dull gaze, red cheeks, low
forehead, with grizzled and lank hair, polite tone of voice, a humble
smile, without oratory, without gesture, without power, brave before the
enemy, timid before the first comer, having assuredly the bearing of a
soldier, but having also the bearing of a priest; he caused the mind to
hesitate between the sword and the taper; he had in his eyes a sort of
"Amen!"

He had the best intentions in the world, but what could he do? Alone,
without prestige, without true glory, without personal authority, and
dragging Rome after him! He felt all this himself, and he was as it were
paralyzed by it. As soon as they had appointed him he got upon a chair
and thanked the Assembly, doubtless with a firm heart, but with
hesitating speech. When the little fair-haired officer dared to look him
in the face and insult him, he, holding the sword of the people, he,
General of the sovereign Assembly, he only knew how to stammer out such
wretched phrases as these, "I have just declared to you that we are
unable, 'unless compelled and constrained,' to obey the order which
prohibits us from remaining assembled together." He spoke of obeying, he
who ought to