These preliminary operations being terminated, Lafon took aside Michel de Bourges and myself, and told us that the ex-Constituent Proudhon had inquired for one of us two, that he had remained downstairs nearly a quarter of an hour, and that he had gone away, saying that he would wait for us in the Place de la Bastille.

Proudhon, who was at that time undergoing a term of three years’ imprisonment at St. Pelagie for an offence against Louis Bonaparte, was granted leave of absence from tine to time.  Chance willed it that one of these liberty days had fallen on the 2d of December.

This is an incident which one cannot help noting.  On the 2d of December Proudhon was a prisoner by virtue of a lawful sentence, and at the same moment at which they illegally imprisoned the inviolable Representatives, Proudhon, whom they could have legitimately detained, was allowed to go out.  Proudhon had profited by his liberty to come and find us.

I knew Proudhon from having seen him at the Conciergerie, where my two sons were shut up, and my two illustrious friends, Auguste Vacquerie and Paul Meurice, and those gallant writers, Louis Jourdan, Erdan, and Suchet.  I could not help thinking that on that day they would assuredly not have given leave of absence to these men.

Meanwhile Xavier Durrieu whispered to me, “I have just left Proudhon.  He wishes to see you.  He is waiting for you down below, close by, at the entrance to the Place.  You will find him leaning on the parapet of the canal.”

“I am going,” said I.

I went downstairs.

I found in truth, at the spot mentioned, Proudhon, thoughtful, leaning with his two elbows on the parapet.  He wore that broad-brimmed hat in which I had often seen him striding alone up and down the courtyard of the Conciergerie.

I went up to him.

“You wish to speak to me.”

“Yes,” and he shook me by the hand.

The corner where we were standing was lonely.  On the left there was the Place de la Bastille, dark and gloomy; one could see nothing there, but one could feel a crowd; regiments were there in battle array; they did not bivouac, they were ready to march; the muffled sound of breathing could be heard; the square was full of that glistening shower of pale sparks which bayonets give forth at night time.  Above this abyss of shadows rose up black and stark the Column of July.

Proudhon resumed,—­

“Listen.  I come to give you a friendly warning.  You are entertaining illusions.  The People are ensnared in this affair.  They will not stir.  Bonaparte will carry them with him.  This rubbish, the restitution of universal suffrage, entraps the simpletons.  Bonaparte passes for a Socialist.  He has said, ‘I will be the Emperor of the Rabble.’  It is a piece of insolence.  But insolence has a chance of success when it has this at its service.”

And Proudhon pointed with his finger to the sinister gleam of the bayonets.  He continued,—­