Flourens is dead: we heard that last night for certain. A National
Guard had previously brought back the colonel’s horse from Bougival,
but it was only a few hours ago that we heard any details. An attempt
was made to take him prisoner at Rueil. A gendarme called out to him to
surrender, he replied by a pistol shot; another gendarme advanced, and
wounded him in the side, a third cleft his skull with a sabre out. Some
people do not believe in the pistol shot, and talk of assassination.
How many such events are there, the truth of which will never be
clearly proved! One thing certain is, that Flourens is dead. His body
was recognised at Versailles by some one in the service of Garnier
frères. His mother started this morning to fetch the corpse of her son.
It is strange that one is so painfully affected by the violent death of
this man. He has been mixed up in all the revolutionary attempts of the
last few years, and ought to be particularly obnoxious to all peaceful
and order-loving citizens; but the truth is, his was a sincerely ardent
and enthusiastic spirit. He was a thorough believer in the principles
he maintained. Whatever may be the religion he professes, the apostle
inspires esteem, and the martyr compassion. This apostle, this martyr,
was born to affluence; son of an illustrious savant, he may be almost
said to have been born to hereditary distinction. He was still quite
young when he threw himself heart and soul into politics. There was
fighting in Crete, and so off he went. There he revolted against the
revolt itself, got imprisoned, escaped, outwitted the gendarmes, got
retaken: his adventures sound like a legend or romance. It is because
he was so romantic, that he is so interesting. He returned to France
full of generous impulses. He was as prodigal of his money as he had
been of his blood. In the bitter cold winters he fed and clothed the
poor of Belleville, going from attic to attic with money and
consolation. You remember what Victor Hugo says of the sublime Pauline
Roland. The spirit of Flourens much resembled hers. The patriot could
act the part of a sister of charity. At other times, an enthusiast in
search of a social Eldorado, he would put himself at the service of the
most forlorn cause; never was anyone so imprudent. He was of a most
active and critical disposition: it was impossible for him to remain
quiet. When he was not seemingly employed, he was agitating something
in the shade. His friendship for Rochefort was great. These two
turbulent spirits, one with his pen, the other with his physical
activity, remind us each of the other. Both ran to extremes, Rochefort
in his literary invectives, Flourens in his hairbreadth adventures.
Although they were often allied, these two, they were sometimes
opposed. Have you never, seen two young artists in a studio performing
the old trick, one making a speech, while the other, with his head and
body hidden in the folds of a cloak, stretches forth his arms and
executes the most extravagant gestures? Rochefort and Flourens
performed this farce in politics, the former talking, the latter
gesticulating; but on the day of the burial of Victor Noir they went
different ways. On that day Rochefort, to do him justice, saved a large
multitude of men from terrible danger. Flourens, always the same,
wished the body to be carried to Père Lachaise; on the road there must
have been a collision; that was what he desired, but he was defeated.
The tongue prevailed, a hundred thousand cries of vengeance filled the
air, but they were only cries, and no mischief was done, except to a
few graves in the Neuilly cemetery. Flourens awaited a better occasion,
but by no means passively. He was a man of barricades; he did not seem
to think that paving-stones were made to walk on, he only cared to see
them heaped up across a street for the protection of armed patriots.
Although he always wore the dress of a gentleman, he was not one of
those black-coated individuals who incite the men to rebellion and keep
out of the way while the fight is going on; he helped to defend the
barricades he had ordered to be thrown up. Wherever there was a chance
of being killed, he was sure to be; and in the midst of all this he
never lost his placid expression, nor the politeness of a gentleman,
nor the look of extreme youth which beamed from his eyes, and must have
been on his face even when he fell under the cruel blows of the
gendarmes. Now he is dead. He is judged harshly, he is condemned, but
he cannot be hated. He was a madman, but he was a hero. The conduct of
Flourens at the Hôtel de Ville in the night of the 31st October is
hardly in keeping with so favourable a view. The French forgive and
forget with facility—let that pass.