task which they have undertaken. When they have destroyed the Press,
they have yet to destroy Paris. When Paris is fallen, there remains
France. Let France be annihilated, there still remains the human
spirit--a thing intangible as the light, inaccessible as the sun.


_V.--In Exile_


Nothing is more terrible than exile. I do not say for him who suffers,
but for the tyrant who inflicts it. A solitary figure paces a distant
shore, or rises in the morning to his philosophic labours, or calls on
God among the rocks and trees; his hairs become grey, and then white, in
the slow passing of the years and in his longing for home; his lot is a
sorrowful one; but his innocence is terrible to the crowned miscreant
who sent him there. From 1852 to 1870 I was in exile.

How pleasant are those islands of the Channel, and how like France!
Jersey, perhaps, more charming than Guernsey, prettier if less imposing;
in Jersey the forest has become a garden; the island is like a bouquet
of flowers, of the size of London, a smiling land, an idyll set in the
midst of the sea.

The exile soon learns that, though the tyrant has placed him afar, he
does not release his hold. Many and ingenious are the snares laid for
the banished. A prince calls on you, but though he is of royal blood, he
is also a detective of police. A grave professor stays at your house,
and you surprise him searching your papers. Everything is permitted
against you; you are outside the law, outside of common justice, outside
of respect. They will say that they have your authority to publish your