We may here remark—­for in the course of this narrative we shall more than once see the gaze of some members of the Right turned towards the people, and in this no mistake should be made—­that these monarchical men who talked of popular insurrection and who invoked the faubourgs were a minority in the majority,—­an imperceptible minority.  Antony Thouret proposed to those who were leaders there to go in a body through the working-class neighborhoods with the decree of deposition in their hands.  Brought to bay, they refused.  They declared that they would only protect themselves by organized powers, not by the people.  It is a strange thing to say, but it must be noted, that with their habits of political shortsightedness, the popular armed resistance, even in the name of the Law, seemed sedition to them.  The utmost appearance of revolution which they could endure was a regiment of the National Guard, with their drums at their head; they shrank from the barricade; Right in a blouse was no longer Right, Truth armed with a pike was no longer Truth, Law unpaving a street gave them the impression of a Fury.  In the main, however, and taking them for what they were, and considering their position as politicians, these members of the Right were well-advised.  What would they have done with the people?  And what would the people have done with them?  How would they have proceeded to set fire to the masses?  Imagine Falloux as a tribune, fanning the Faubourg St. Antoine into a flame!

Alas! in the midst of this dense gloom, in these fatal complications of circumstances by which the coup d’etat profited so odiously and so perfidiously, in that mighty misunderstanding which comprised the whole situation, for kindling the revolutionary spark in the heart of the people, Danton himself would not have sufficed.

The coup d’etat entered into this meeting impudently, with its convict’s cap on its head.  It possessed an infamous assurance there, as well as everywhere else.  There were in this majority three hundred Representatives of the People.  Louis Napoleon sent a sergeant to drive them away.  The Assembly, having resisted the sergeant, he sent an officer, the temporary commander of the sixth battalion of the Chasseurs de Vincennes.  This officer, young, fair-haired, a scoffer, half laughing, half threatening, pointed with his finger to the stairs filled with bayonets, and defied the Assembly.  “Who is this young spark?” asked a member of the Right.  A National Guard who was there said, “Throw him out of the window!” “Kick him downstairs!” cried one of the people.

This Assembly, grievous as were its offences against the principles of the Revolution—­and with these wrongs Democracy alone had the right to reproach it—­this Assembly, I repeat, was the National Assembly, that is to say, the Republic incarnate, the living Universal Suffrage, the Majesty of the Nation, upright and visible.  Louis Bonaparte assassinated this Assembly, and moreover insulted it.  A slap on the face is worse than a poniard thrust.