ath had the audacity to plot his fall;
because his plighted word conspired against him.

The day after his triumph, he was heard to say: "The second Sunday in
May is dead." No! it is probity that is dead! it is honour that is
dead! it is the name of Emperor that is dead!

How the man sleeping in the chapel of St. Jerome must shudder, how he
must despair! Behold the gradual rise of unpopularity about his great
figure; and it is this ill-omened nephew who has placed the ladder. The
great recollections are beginning to fade, the bad ones are returning.
People dare no longer speak of Jena, Marengo, and Wagram. Of what do
they speak? Of the Duc d'Enghien, of Jaffa, of the 18th Brumaire. They
forget the hero, and see only the despot. Caricature is beginning to
sport with Caesar's profile. And what a creature beside him! Some there
are who confound the nephew with the uncle, to the delight of the
Elysee, but to the shame of France! The parodist assumes the airs of a
stage manager. Alas! a splendour so infinite could not be tarnished
save by this boundless debasement! Yes! worse than Hudson Lowe! Hudson
Lowe was only a jailor, Hudson Lowe was only an executioner. The man
who has really assassinated Napoleon is Louis Bonaparte; Hudson Lowe
killed only his life, Louis Bonaparte is killing his glory.

Ah! the villain! he takes everything, he abuses everything, he sullies
everything, he dishonours everything. He selects, for his ambuscade the
month, the day, of Austerlitz. He returns from Satory as one would
return from Aboukir. He conjures out of the 2nd of December I know not
what bird of night, and perches it on the standard of France, and
exclaims: "Soldiers, behold the eagle." He borrows the hat from
Napoleon, and the plume from Murat. He has his imperial etiquette, his
chamberlains, his aides-de-camp, his courtiers. Under the Emperor, they
were kings, under him they are lackeys. He has his own policy, his own
13th Vendemiaire, his own 18th Brumaire. Yes, he risks comparison! At
the Elysee, Napoleon the Great has disappeared: they say, "_Uncle
Napoleon_." The man of destiny has outdone Geronte. The perfect man
is not the first, but this one. It is evident that the first came only
to make the second's bed. Louis Bonaparte, in the midst of his valets
and concubines, to satisfy the necessities of the table and the
chamber, mingles the coronation, the oath, the Legion of Honour, the
camp of Boulogne, the Column Vendome, Lodi, Ar