He added,—­

“This explosion will awaken the people.”

“But,” several cried out, “suppose it does not awaken them?”

“We shall die.”

“I am on your side,” said I to him.

We each pressed the other’s hand.  But objections burst forth.

No one trembled, but all criticised the proposal.  Would it not be madness?  And useless madness?  Would it not be to play the last card of the Republic without any possible chance of success?  What good fortune for Bonaparte!  To crush with one blow all that remained of those who were resisting and of those who were combating!  To finish with them once for all!  We were beaten, granted, but was it necessary to add annihilation to defeat?  No possible chance of success.  The brains of an army cannot be blown out.  To do what Charamaule advised would be to open the tomb, nothing more.  It would be a magnificent suicide, but it would be a suicide.  Under certain circumstances it is selfish to be merely a hero.  A man accomplishes it at once, he becomes illustrious, he enters into history, all that is very easy.  He leaves to others behind him the laborious work of a long protest, the immovable resistance of the exile, the bitter, hard life of the conquered who continues to combat the victory.  Some degree of patience forms a part of politics.  To know how to await revenge is sometimes more difficult than to hurry on its catastrophe.  There are two kinds of courage—­bravery and perseverance; the first belongs to the soldier, the second belongs to the citizen.  A hap-hazard end, however dauntless, does not suffice.  To extricate oneself from the difficulty by death, it is only too easily done:  what is required, what is the reverse of easy, is to extricate one’s country from the difficulty.  No, said those high-minded men, who opposed Charamaule and myself, this to-day which you propose to us is the suppression of to-morrow; take care, there is a certain amount of desertion in suicide....

The word “desertion” grievously wounded Charamaule.  “Very well,” said he,
“I abandon the idea.”

This scene was exceedingly grand, and Quinet later on, when in exile, spoke to me of it with deep emotion.

We separated.  We did not meet again.

I wandered about the streets.  Where should I sleep?  That was the question.  I thought that No. 19, Rue Richelieu would probably be as much watched as No. 15.  But the night was cold, and I decided at all hazards to re-enter this refuge, although perhaps a hazardous one.  I was right to trust myself to it.  I supped on a morsel of bread, and I passed a very good night.  The next morning at daybreak on waking I thought of the duties which awaited me.  I thought that I was abut to go out, and that I should probably not come back to the room; I took a little bread which remained, and I crumbled it on the window-sill for the birds.

CHAPTER X.