Henri Rochefort, personal enemy of the Empire, republican humourist of the _Marseillaise_, and the lukewarm socialist of the _Mot d’Ordre_, who could answer to the judge who demanded his name, “I am Henri Rochefort, Comte de Lucey,” has been reproached by some with his titles of nobility, and with the childish pleasure that he takes in affecting the plebeian. It is said of him that he aspires but to descend, but who would condemn him for spurning the petrifactions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain? A man must march with the times. Rochefort has distinguished himself among the young men by the marvellous tact that he has shown in discovering the way to popular favour. If I were allowed to compare a marquis to one of the canine species, I should say that he has a keen scent for popularity; but one must respect rank in a period like ours, when we may go to sleep to the shouts of the _canaille_, and awake to the melodious sounds of “_Vive Henri V!_” “Long live the King!” Born in January, 1830, Henri Rochefort was the son of a marquis, although his father, lately dead, was a _vaudevilliste_ and his mother a _pâtissère_. From such a fusion might have emanated odd tastes, such as preferring truffles to potatoes, but putting the knife into requisition whilst eating green peas. But in his case Mother Nature had intermingled elements so cleverly that Rochefort could be republican and royalist, catholic and atheist, without being accused for all that of being a political weathercock. As a writer of drollery and scandal in the _Charivari_, would it have been well if he had used his title as a badge? Later, when contributing to the _Nain Jaune_, the _Soleil_, the _Evénement_, and the _Figaro_, when everyone would have been enchanted to call him _mon cher Comte_, he never displayed his rank, except when on the ground, face to face with the sword or pistol of Prince Achille Murat or Paul de Cassagnac.