And above all the innermost circle, the Holy of Holies, the private Council, the smug den where they drink—­where they eat—­where they laugh—­where they sleep—­where they play—­where they cheat—­where they call Highnesses “Thou,”—­where they wallow!  Oh! what ignominies!  It is them!  It is there!  Dishonor, baseness, shame, and opprobrium are there!  Oh History!  A hot iron for all these faces.

It is there that they amuse themselves, and that they jest, and that they banter, and that they make sport of France!  It is there that they pocket hap-hazard, amid great shouts of laughter, the millions of louis and the millions of votes!  See them, look at them!  They have treated the Law like a girl, they are content!  Right is slaughtered, Liberty is gagged, the flag is dishonored, the people are under their feet.  They are happy!  And who are they?  What are these men?  Europe knows not.  One fine morning it saw them come out of a crime.  Nothing more.  A parcel of rascals who vainly tried to become celebrated, and who have remained anonymous.  Look! they are all there!  See them, I tell you!  Look at them, I tell you!  Recognize them if you can.  Of what sex are they?  To what species do they belong?  Who is this one?  Is he a writer?  No; he is a dog.  He gobbles human flesh.  And that one?  Is he a dog?  No, he is a courtier—­he has blood on his paw.

New men, that is what they term them.  New, in truth!  Unlooked-for, strange, unprecedented, monstrous!  Perjury, iniquity, robbery, assassination, erected into ministerial departments, swindling applied to universal suffrage, government under false pretences, duty called crime, crime called duty, cynicism laughing in the midst of atrocity,—­it is of all this that their newness is compounded.

Now, all is well, they have succeeded, they have a fair wind, they enjoy themselves to the full.  They have cheated France, they are dividing the spoil.  France is a bag, and they put their hand in it.  Rummage, for Heaven’s sake!  Take, while you are there; help yourselves, draw out, plunder, steal!  One wants money, another wants situations, another wants a decorative collar round his neck, another a plume in his hat, another embroidery on his sleeve, another women, another power; another news for the Bourse, another a railway, another wine.  I should think, indeed, that they are well satisfied.  Picture to yourself a poor devil who, three years ago, borrowed ten sous of his porter, and who to-day, leaning voluptuously on the Moniteur, has only to sign a decree to take a million.  To make themselves perfectly happy, to be able to devour the finances of the State, to live at the expense of the Treasury like a son of the family, this is what is called their policy.  Their ambition has a true name, it is gluttony.