“How stupid he is!” said Piscatory.

“How sharp he is!” said Falloux.

The first officer of the National Guard who appeared in uniform, seemed to be recognized by two members of the Right, who said, “It is M. de Perigord!” They made a mistake, it was M. Guilbot, major of the third battalion of the Tenth Legion.  He declared that he was ready to march on the first order from his Colonel, General Lauriston.  General Lauriston went down into the courtyard, and came up a moment afterwards, saying, “They do not recognize my authority.  I have just resigned,” Moreover, the name of Lauriston was not familiar to the soldiers.  Oudinot was better known in the army.  But how?

At the moment when the name of Oudinot was pronounced, a shudder ran through this meeting, almost exclusively composed of members of the Right.  In fact at this critical time, at this fatal name of Oudinot, reflections crowded upon each other in every mind.

What was the coup d’etat?

It was the “Roman expedition at home.”  Which was undertaken against whom?  Against those who had undertaken the “Roman expedition abroad.”  The National Assembly of France, dissolved by violence, could find only one single General to defend it in its dying hour.  And whom?  Precisely he, who in the name of the National Assembly of France had dissolved by violence the National Assembly of Rome.  What power could Oudinot, the strangler of a Republic, possess to save a Republic?  Was it not evident that his own soldiers would answer him, “What do you want with us?  That which we have done at Rome we now do at Paris.”  What a story is this story of treason!  The French Legislature had written the first chapter with the blood of the Roman Constituent Assembly:  Providence wrote the second chapter with the blood of the French Legislature, Louis Bonaparte holding the pen.

In 1849, Louis Bonaparte had assassinated the sovereignty of the People in the person of its Roman Representatives; in 1851 he assassinated it in the person of its French Representatives.  It was logical, and although it was infamous, it was just.  The Legislative Assembly bore at the same time the weight of two crimes; it was the accomplice of the first, the victim of the second.  All these men of the majority felt this, and were humbled.  Or rather it was the same crime, the crime of the Second of July, 1849, ever erect, ever alive, which had only changed its name, which now called itself the Second of December, and which, the offspring of this Assembly, stabbed it to the heart.  Nearly all crimes are parricidal.  On a certain day they recoil upon those who have committed them, and slay them.

At this moment, so full of anxiety, M. de Falloux must have glanced round for M. de Montalembert.  M. de Montalembert was at the Elysee.

When Tamisier rose and pronounced this terrifying word, “The Roman Question?” distracted M. de Dampierre shouted to him, “Silence!  You kill us!”