let everything pass by. To-day a
street.

There was the Abbe M----, later on Bishop of Nancy, who emphasized with a
smile the oaths of Louis Bonaparte.

There were the frequenters of a famous box at the Opera, Montg---- and
Sept----, placing at the service of an unscrupulous prince the deep side
of frivolous men.

There was Romieu--the outline of a drunkard behind a Red spectre.

There was Malitourne--not a bad friend, coarse and sincere.

There was Cuch----, whose name caused hesitation amongst the ushers at
the saloon doors.

There was Suin--a man able to furnish excellent counsel for bail actions.

There was Dr. Veron--who had on his cheek what the other men of the
Elysee had in their hearts.

There was Mocquart--once a handsome member of the Dutch Court. Mocquart
possessed romantic recollections. He might by age, and perhaps otherwise,
have been the father of Louis Bonaparte. He was a lawyer. He had shown
himself quick-witted about 1829, at the same time as Romieu. Later on he
had published something, I no longer remember what, which was pompous and
in quarto size, and which he sent to me. It was he who in May, 1847, had
come with Prince de la Moskowa to bring me King Jerome's petition to the
Chamber of Peers. This petition requested the readmittance of the
banished Bonaparte family into France. I supported it; a good action, and
a fault which I would again commit.

There was Billault, a semblance of an orator, rambling with facility, and
making mistakes with authority, a reputed statesman. What constitutes the
statesman is a certain superior mediocrity.

There was Lavalette, completing Morny and Walewski.

There was Bacciochi.

And yet others.

It was at the inspiration of these intimate associates that during his
Presidency Louis Bonaparte, a species of Dutch Machiavelli, went hither
and thither, to the Chamber and elsewhere, to Tours, to Ham, to Dijon,
snuffling, with a sleepy air, speeches full of treason.

The Elysee, wretched as it was, holds a place in the age. The Elysee, has
engendered catastrophes and ridicule.

One cannot pass it over in silence.

The Elysee was the disquieting and dark corner of Paris. In this bad
spot, the denizens were little and formidable. They formed a family
circle--of dwarfs. They had their maxim: to enjoy themselves. They lived
on public death. There they inhaled shame, and they throve on that which
kills others. It was there that was reared up with art, purpo