He is at least beside the sea; let its infinity bring him wisdom.  The eternal rioting of the surges against the rocks is as the agitation of impostures against the truth.  It is a vain convulsion; the foam gains nothing by it, the granite loses nothing, and only sparkles the more bravely in the sun.

But exile has this great advantage—­one is free to contemplate, to think, to suffer.  To be alone, and yet to feel that one is with all humanity; to consolidate oneself as a citizen, and to purify oneself as a philosopher; to be poor, and begin again to work for one’s living, to meditate on what is good and to contrive for what is better; to be angry in the public cause, but to crush all personal enmity; to breathe the vast, living winds of the solitudes; to compose a deeper indignation with a profounder peace—­these are the opportunities of exile.  I accustomed myself to say, “If, after a revolution, Bonaparte should knock at my door and ask shelter, let never a hair of his head be injured.”

Yes, an exile becomes a well-wisher.  He loves the roses, and the birds’ nests, and the flitting hither and thither of the butterflies.  He mingles with the sweet joys of the creatures, and learns a changeless faith in some secret and infinite goodness.  The green glades are his chosen dwelling and his life is April; he reclines amazed at the mysteries of a tuft of grass; he studies the ant-hills of tiny republicans; he learns to know the birds by their songs; he watches the children playing barefoot in the edge of the sea.

Against this dangerous man governments are taking the most strenuous precautions.  Victoria offers to hand over the exiles to Napoleon, and messages of compliment are passed from one throne to the other.  But that gift did not take place.  The English royalist Press applauded, but the people of London would have none of it.  The great city muttered thunder.  Majesty clothed in probity—­that is the character of the English nation.  That good and proud people showed their indignation, and Palmerston and Bonaparte had to be content with the expulsion of the exiles.

During the whole long night of my exile I never lost Paris from my view.  When Europe and even France were in darkness, Paris was never hidden.  That is because Paris is the frontier of the future, the visible frontier of the unknown.  All of to-morrow that can be seen to-day is in Paris.  The eyes that are searching for progress come to rest on Paris, for Paris is the city of light.

VI.—­After the Exile

This triology, “Before, During, and After the Exile,” is no work of mine, it is the doing of Napoleon III.  He it is who has divided my life in this way, observing, as one might say, the rules of art.  Returning to my country on September 5, 1870, I found the sky more gloomy and my duty more clamant than ever.