“Les mensonges, la haine au dard froid et visqueux, Habitent ce repaire; Tu t’en vas! De quel droit, étant plus renard qu’eux Et plus qu’elle vipère?” And Monsieur Félix Pyat will remain, in spite of the thousand and one good reasons he would find to make a short tour in Belgium. His colleagues will try persuasion, if necessary—“You are good, you are great, you are pure; what would become of us without you?” and they will hold on to him to the end, like cowards who in the midst of danger cling to their companions, shrieking out, “We will die together!” and embrace them convulsively to prevent their escape. NOTES: [68] A writer in the _Vengeur_. [69] For translation, see Appendix 7. LXV. An anonymous writer, who is no other, it is said, than the citizen Delescluze, has just published the following:— “The Commune has assured to itself the receipt of a sum of 600,000 francs a day—eighteen millions a month.” There was once upon a time a French forger, named Collé, celebrated for the extent and importance of his swindling, and who possessed, it was said, a very large fortune. When questioned upon the subject, he used to answer: “I have assured to myself a receipt of a hundred francs a day—three thousand francs a month.” Between Collé and the Commune there exists a difference, however: in the first place, Collé affected a particular liking for the clergy, whose various garbs he used frequently to assume, and the Commune cannot endure _curés_ and secondly, while Collé, in assuring himself a receipt of three thousand francs a month, had done all that was possible for him to do, the Commune puts up with a miserable eighteen millions, when it might have ensured to itself a great deal more. It is astounding, and, I may add, little in accordance with its dignity, that it should be satisfied with so moderate an allowance. You show too much modesty; it is not worth while being victorious for so little. Eighteen millions—a mere nothing! Your delicacy might be better understood were you more scrupulous as to the choice of your means. Thank Heaven! you do not err on that score. Come! a little more energy, if you please. “But!” sighs the Commune, “I have done my best, it seems to me. Thanks to Jourde,[70] who throws Law into the shade, and to Dereure,[71] the shoemaker—Financier and Cobbler of La Fontaine’s Fable—I pocket daily the gross value of the sale of tobacco, which is a pretty speculation enough, since I have had to pay neither the cost of the raw materials nor of the manufacture. I have besides this, thanks to what I call the ‘regular income from the public departments,’ a good number of little revenues which do not cost me much and bring me in a good deal. Now there’s the Post, for instance. I take good care to despatch none of the letters that are confided to me, but I manage to secure the price of the postage by an arrangement with my employés. This shows cleverness and tact, I think. Finally, in addition to this, I get the