Chapter 22 - Page 2

cross for a vote," was the remark made in the Chamber.
And these reversed roles, a general giving a cross to
a bishop, caused much amusement.

In reality we are in the midst of a quarrel over the
presidency. The candidates are shaking their fists at each
other. The Assembly hoots, growls, murmurs, stamps its feet,
crushes one, applauds the other.

This poor Assembly is a veritable ~fille a soldats~, in love
with a trooper. For the time being it is Cavaignac.

Who will it be to-morrow?

General Cavaignac proved himself to be clever, and
occasionally even eloquent. His defence partook more of the
character of an attack. Frequently he appeared to me to
be sincere because he had for so long excited my suspicion.
The Assembly listened to him for nearly three hours with
rapt attention. Throughout it was evident that he possessed
its confidence. Its sympathy was shown every moment, and
sometimes it manifested a sort of love for him.

Cavaignac, tall and supple, with his short frock-coat, his
military collar, his heavy moustache, his bent brow, his
brusque language, broken up by parentheses, and his
rough gestures, was at times at once as fierce as a soldier
and as passionate as a tribune. Towards the middle of his
discourse he became an advocate, which, as far as I was
concerned, spoiled the man; the harangue became a speech
for the defence. But at its conclusion he roused himself
again with a sort of real indignation. He pounded on the
desk with his fist and overturned the glass of water, much
to the consternation of the ushers, and in terminating he
said:

"I have been speaking for I know not how long; I will
speak again all the evening, all night, all day to-morrow,
if necessary, and it will no longer be as an advocate, but as
a soldier, and you will listen to me!"

The whole Assembly applauded him enthusiastically.

M. Barthélemy Saint Hilaire, who attacked Cavaignac,
was an orator cold, rigid, somewhat dry and by no means
equal to the task, his anger being without fierceness and
his hatred without passion. He began by reading a
memoir, which always displeases assemblies. The Assembly,
which was secretly ill-disposed and angry, was eager to
crush him. It only wanted pretexts; he furnished it with
motives. The grave defect in his memoir was that serious
accusations were built upon petty acts, a surcharge that
caused the whole system to bend. This little pallid man
who continually raised one leg behind him and leaned
forward with his two hands on the edge of the tribune as
though he were gazing down into a well, made those who
did not hiss laugh. Amid the uproar of the Assembly he
affected to write at