g, they did their shooting at night; it was shocking, but
there was still some shame; there was a remnant of respect for the
people; they seemed to think that it had still enough life in it to
revolt, if it saw such things. Now they show themselves, they fear
nothing, they guillotine in broad day. Whom do they guillotine? Whom?
the men of the law, and the law is there! Whom? the men of the people!
and the people is there! Nor is this all. There is a man in Europe, who
horrifies Europe: that man sacked Lombardy, he set up the gibbets of
Hungary; he had a woman whipped under the gibbet upon which hung her
husband and her son; we still remember the terrible letter in which
that woman recounts the deed, and says: "My heart has turned to stone."

Last year this man took it into his head to visit England as a tourist,
and, while in London, he took it into his head to visit a brewery, that
of Barclay and Perkins. There he was recognized; a voice whispered: "It
is Haynau!"--"It is Haynau!" repeated the workmen!--It was a fearful
cry; the crowd rushed upon the wretch, tore out his infamous white hair
by handfuls, spat in his face, and thrust him out. Well, this old
bandit in epaulettes, this Haynau, this man who still bears on his
cheek the immense buffet of the English people, it is announced that
"Monseigneur the Prince-President invites him to visit France." It is
quite right; London put an affront on him, Paris owes him an ovation.
It is a reparation. Be it so. We will be there to see. Haynau was
cursed and hooted at the brewery of Barclay and Perkins, he will
receive bouquets at the brewery of Saint-Antoine. The Faubourg
Saint-Antoine will receive an order to conduct itself properly. The
Faubourg Saint-Antoine, mute, motionless, impassive, will see them
pass, triumphant and conversing together, like two friends, through its
old revolutionary streets, one in French, the other in Austrian
uniform,--Louis Bonaparte, the murderer of the boulevard, arm-in-arm
with Haynau, the whipper of women! Go on, add insult to insult,
disfigure this France of ours, fallen flat on the pavement! make her
unrecognizable! crush the faces of the people with your heels!

Oh! inspire me, seek for me, give me, invent for me a means, whatever
it may be, short of a poignard, which I repudiate,--a Brutus for that
man! bah! he is not worthy of even a Louvel!--find me some means of
laying that man low, and of delivering my country! of laying that man
lo