“Well, them, show him to me!”

Patissot shrugged his shoulders.

“Every one can see him; he’s not shut up in a closet!”

Suddenly the fat man grew angry.

“Excuse me, monsieur, he cannot be seen.  I have personally tried more than a hundred times, monsieur.  I have posted myself near the Elysee; he did not come out.  A passer-by informed me that he was playing billiards in the cafe opposite; I went to the cafe opposite; he was not there.  I had been promised that he would go to Melun for the convention; I went to Melun, I did not see him.  At last I became weary.  I did not even see Monsieur Gambetta, and I do not know a single deputy.”

He was, growing excited: 

“A government, monsieur, is made to be seen; that’s what it’s there for, and for nothing else.  One must be able to know that on such and such a day at such an hour the government will pass through such and such a street.  Then one goes there and is satisfied.”

Patissot, now calm, was enjoying his arguments.

“It is true,” he said, “that it is agreeable to know the people by whom one is governed.”

The gentleman continued more gently: 

“Do you know how I would manage the celebration?  Well, monsieur, I would have a procession of gilded cars, like the chariots used at the crowning of kings; in them I would parade all the members of the government, from the president to the deputies, throughout Paris all day long.  In that manner, at least, every one would know by sight the personnel of the state.”

But one of the toughs near the coachman turned around, exclaiming: 

“And the fatted ox, where would you put him?”

A laugh ran round the two benches.  Patissot understood the objection, and murmured: 

“It might not perhaps be very dignified.”

The gentleman thought the matter over and admitted it.

“Then,” he said, “I would place them in view some place, so that every one could see them without going out of his way; on the Triumphal Arch at the Place de l’Etoile, for instance; and I would have the whole population pass before them.  That would be very imposing.”

Once more the tough turned round and said: 

“You’d have to take telescopes to see their faces.”

The gentleman did not answer; he continued: 

“It’s just like the presentation of the flags!  There ought, to be some pretext, a mimic war ought to be organized, and the banners would be awarded to the troops as a reward.  I had an idea about which I wrote to the minister; but he has not deigned to answer me.  As the taking of the Bastille has been chosen for the date of the national celebration, a reproduction of this event might be made; there would be a pasteboard Bastille, fixed up by a scene-painter and concealing within its walls the whole Column of July.  Then, monsieur, the troop would attack.  That would be a magnificent spectacle as well as a lesson, to see the army itself overthrow the ramparts of tyranny.  Then this Bastille would be set fire to and from the midst of the flames would appear the Column with the genius of Liberty, symbol of a new order and of the freedom of the people.”