“Dictate the Proclamation to us.”

I had dictated to Baudin, “Louis Napoleon Bonaparte is a traitor.”  Jules Favre requested the erasure of the word Napoleon, that name of glory fatally powerful with the People and with the Army, and that there should be written, “Louis Bonaparte is a traitor.”

“You are right,” said I to him.

A discussion followed.  Some wished to strike out the word “Prince.”  But the Assembly was impatient.  “Quick! quick!” they cried out.  “We are in December, the days are short,” repeated Joigneaux.

Twelve copies were made at the same time in a few minutes.  Schoelcher, Rey, Xavier Durrieu, and Milliere each took one, and set out in search of a printing office.

As they went out a man whom I did not know, but who was greeted by several Representatives, entered and said, “Citizens, this house is marked.  Troops are on the way to surround you.  You have not a second to lose.”

Numerous voices were raised,—­

“Very well!  Let them arrest us!”

“What does it matter to us?”

“Let them complete their crime.”

“Colleagues,” said I, “let us not allow ourselves to be arrested.  After the struggle, as God pleases; but before the combat,—­No!  It is from us that the people are awaiting the initiative.  If we are taken, all is at an end.  Our duty is to bring on the battle, our right is to cross swords with the coup d’etat.  It must not be allowed to capture us, it must seek us and not find us.  We must deceive the arm which it stretches out against us, we must remain concealed from Bonaparte, we must harass him, weary him, astonish him, exhaust him, disappear and reappear unceasingly, change our hiding-place, and always fight him, be always before him, and never beneath his hand.  Let us not leave the field.  We have not numbers, let us have daring.”

They approved of this.  “It is right,” said they, “but where shall we go?”

Labrousse said,—­

“Our former colleague of the Constituent Assembly, Beslay, offers us his house.”

“Where does he live?”

“No. 33, Rue de la Cerisaie, in the Marais.”

“Very well,” answered I, “let us separate.  We will meet again in two hours at Beslay’s, No. 33, Rue de la Cerisaie.”

All left; one after another, and in different directions.  I begged Charamaule to go to my house and wait for me there, and I walked out with Noel Parfait and Lafon.

We reached the then still uninhabited district which skirts the ramparts.  As we came to the corner of the Rue Pigalle, we saw at a hundred paces from us, in the deserted streets which cross it, soldiers gliding all along the houses, bending their steps towards the Rue Blanche.