Chapter 27 - Page 2

speech was deliberate and cold, but sure,
solid, and calmly pushed difficulties before it.

M. Dufaure succeeded. He was a deputy, then a minister. He
is not a sage. He is a grave and honest man who
has held power without greatness but with probity, and who
speaks from the tribune without brilliancy but with authority.

His person resembles his talent. In appearance he is
dignified, simple and sober. He comes to the Chamber
buttoned up in his dark grey frock-coat, and wearing a
black cravat, and a shirt collar that reaches to his ears.
He has a big nose, thick lips, heavy eyebrows, an intelligent
and severe eye, and grey, ill-combed hair.

CHANGARNIER.

Changarnier looks like an old academician, just as Soult
looks like an old archbishop.

Changarnier is sixty-four or sixty-five years old, and tall
and thin. He has a gentle voice, a graceful and formal air,
a chestnut wig like M. Pasquier's, and a lady-killing smile
like M. Brifaut's.

With that he is a curt, bold, expeditious man, resolute,
but cunning and reserved.

At the Chamber he occupies the extreme end of the
fourth bench of the last section on the left, exactly above
M. Ledru-Rollin.

He usually sits with folded arms. The bench on which
Ledru-Rollin and Lamennais sit is perhaps the most habitually
irritated of the Left. While the Assembly shouts,
murmurs, yells, roars, and rages, Changarnier yawns.

LAGRANGE.

Lagrange, it is said, fired the pistol in the Boulevard des
Capucines, fatal spark that heated the passions of the people
and caused the conflagration of February. He is styled:
Political prisoner and Representative of the people.

Lagrange has a grey moustache, a grey beard and long
grey hair. He is overflowing with soured generosity, charitable
violence and a sort of chivalrous demagogy; there is
a love in his heart with which he stirs up hatred; he is
tall, thin, young looking at a distance, old when seen
nearer, wrinkled, bewildered, hoarse, flurried, wan, has a
wild look in his eyes and gesticulates; he is the Don
Quixote of the Mountain. He, also, tilts at windmills; that
is to say, at credit, order, peace, commerce, industry,--all
the machinery that turns out bread. With this, a lack of
ideas; continual jumps from justice to insanity and from
cordiality to threats. He proclaims, acclaims, reclaims and
declaims. He is one of those men who are never taken
seriously, but who sometimes have to be taken tragically.

PRUDHON.

Prudhon was born in 1803. He has thin fair hair that
is ruffled and ill-combed, with a curl on his fine high brow.
He wears spectacles. His gaze is at once troubled,
penetrating and steady. There is