But, suddenly, in the face of _La Parisienne_, and as if to emphasise the hollowness of this imperial poetry, arose _La Curée_, a torch brandished by an unknown poet. This wonderful masterpiece, this iambic poem, burning with the fever of battle and hot sunshine, where Liberty went by with firm step, walking with great strides, with fiery glance and naked breast, was signed Auguste Barbier. We all hailed it with delight. Here was another great poet in our midst; a reinforcement that came to us, as it were, through a trap-door in the midst of the flames, like one of the spirits that take part in the transformation scene of a pantomime. But, whilst the verses of Barbier and even of Hugo roused my enthusiasm, they did not spur me to emulation: I felt so completely indifferent to both prose and poetry, that I realised I must let all this political turmoil have time to subside in me. I should have liked to have rendered France some service: I could not feel that the crisis was past, I felt there was still something to do, in some corner of our great kingdom, and that a fierce storm could not possibly have calmed down suddenly. Finally, I felt disgusted, I might say almost ashamed, of the muddle Paris had made of things. I tried for two or three days to throw myself into something outside my usual life. Apart from my past or my future, I might have obtained another post at the Palais-Royal, and asked for some mission or other, to be sent to Prussia or Russia or Spain; but I would not. I had taken an oath not to re-enter the palace, at least of my own accord. So I turned my thoughts towards la Vendée. There might, perhaps, be work to do there. Charles X. had been seized with momentary hesitation at Saint-Cloud; M. de Vitrolles had talked to him of la Vendée, and he was within an ace of embarking in the venture. At Trianon, M. de Guernon-Ranville was of opinion that there was only one course left to the king, that of retreating to Tours and convoking both Chambers and all the generals and high public functionaries and great dignitaries of the kingdom. Charles had, doubtless, brushed the suggestion aside; no doubt, he was making for Cherbourg and going to embark for England crushed and dazed; but if the ghosts of the victims of Quiberon rose up and forbade him to go to la Vendée, that province was not averse to receiving other members of his family. I therefore considered that it would be prudent and politic and humane to influence la Vendée in an opposite direction. Possibly, also, I looked at it in this light because I wanted to travel in The Vendée. So I went and found General La Fayette. I had not seen him since my expedition to Soissons: he knew I had also taken part in that to Rambouillet. He held out his arms when he caught sight of me. "Ah!" he said "here you are at last! How is it that having seen you during the struggle, I have not seen you since the victory?"