And now, the imperial carnival dances above that grave.
Is this all?
Can it be that this is the end?
Does God allow and acquiesce in such burials?
Believe it not.

Some day, beneath the feet of Bonaparte, between the marble pavements of the Elysee or the Tuileries, this grave will suddenly re-open, and those bodies will come forth, one after another, each with its wound, the young man stricken to the heart, the old man shaking his aged head pierced by a ball, the mother put to the sword, with her infant killed in her arms,--all of them upstanding, pallid, terrible to see, and with bleeding eyes fixed on their assassin.
Awaiting that day, and even now, history has begun to try you, Louis Bonaparte.

History rejects your official list of the dead, and your _pieces justificatives_.
History asserts that they lie, and that you lie.
You have tied a bandage over the eyes of France and put a gag in her mouth.

Wherefore?
Was it to do righteous deeds?
No, but crimes.

The evil-doer is afraid of the light.
You shot people by night, on the Champ-de-Mars, at the Prefecture, at the Palais de Justice, on the squares, on the quays, everywhere.
You say you did not.
I say you did.
In dealing with you we have a right to surmise, to suspect, and to accuse.
What you deny, we have a right to believe; your denial is equivalent to affirmation.
Your 2nd of December is pointed at by the public conscience.