lourens much resembled hers. The patriot could act the part of a
sister of charity. At other times, an enthusiast in search of a social
Eldorado, he would put himself at the service of the most forlorn cause;
never was anyone so imprudent. He was of a most active and critical
disposition: it was impossible for him to remain quiet. When he was not
seemingly employed, he was agitating something in the shade. His
friendship for Rochefort was great. These two turbulent spirits, one
with his pen, the other with his physical activity, remind us each of
the other. Both ran to extremes, Rochefort in his literary invectives,
Flourens in his hairbreadth adventures. Although they were often allied,
these two, they were sometimes opposed. Have you never seen two young
artists in a studio performing the old trick, one making a speech, while
the other, with his head and body hidden in the folds of a cloak,
stretches forth his arms and executes the most extravagant gestures?
Rochefort and Flourens performed this farce in politics, the former
talking, the latter gesticulating; but on the day of the burial of
Victor Noir they went different ways. On that day Rochefort, to do him
justice, saved a large multitude of men from terrible danger. Flourens,
always the same, wished the body to be carried to Pere Lachaise; on the
road there must have been a collision; that was what he desired, but he
was defeated. The tongue prevailed, a hundred thousand cries of
vengeance filled the air, but they were only cries, and no mischief was
done, except to a few graves in the Neuilly cemetery. Flourens awaited a
better occasion, but by no means passively. He was a man of barricades;
he did not seem to think that paving-stones were made to walk on, he
only cared to see them heaped up across a street for the protection of
armed patriots. Although he always wore the dress of a gentleman, he was
not one of those black-coated individuals who incite the men to
rebellion and keep out of the way while the fight is going on; he helped
to defend the barricades he had ordered to be thrown up. Wherever there
was a chance of being killed, he was sure to be; and in the midst of all
this he never lost his placid expression, nor the politeness of a
gentleman, nor the look of extreme youth which beamed from his eyes, and
must have been on his face even when he fell under the cruel blows of
the gendarmes. Now he is dead. He is judged harshly, he is condemned,
but he cannot