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in his presence, and dares not withdraw her Ambassador from him; the
kings, surrounded by their armies, look at him smilingly, with their
hearts full of fear. Where will he begin? With Belgium? With
Switzerland? With Piedmont? Europe expects to be overrun. He is capable
of all, and he dreams of all.
Well, then! Before this master, this triumpher, this conqueror, this
dictator, this Emperor, this all-powerful, there rises a solitary man, a
wanderer, despoiled, ruined, prostrate, proscribed, and attacks him.
Louis Napoleon has ten thousand cannons, and five hundred thousand
soldiers; the writer has his pen and his ink-stand. The writer is
nothing, he is a grain of dust, he is a shadow, he is an exile without a
refuge, he is a vagrant without a passport, but he has by his side and
fighting with him two powers, Right, which is invincible, and Truth,
which is immortal.
Assuredly, for this struggle to the death, for this formidable duel,
Providence could have chosen a more illustrious champion, a grander
athlete. But what matter men, there, where it is the idea with combats!
Such as it is, it is good, let us repeat, that this spectacle should be
given to the world. What is this in truth? It is intellect, an atom
which resists strength--a colossus.
I have only one stone in my sling, but that stone is a good one; that
stone is justice.
I attack Louis Bonaparte at this hour, when he is erect; at this hour,
when he is master. He is in his zenith. So much the better; it is that
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