Here are two men, a working-man and a prince.

The prince commits a crime, he enters the Tuileries; the working-man does his duty, he ascends the scaffold.

Who set up the working-man's scaffold?
The prince! Yes, this man who, had he been beaten in December, could have escaped the death penalty only by the omnipotence of progress, and by an enlargement, too liberal certainly, of the principle that human life is sacred; this man, this Louis Bonaparte, this prince who carries the practices of Poulmann and Soufflard into politics, he it is who rebuilds the scaffold! Nor does he tremble! Nor does he turn pale! Nor does he feel that it is a fatal ladder, that he is at liberty to refrain from erecting it, but that, when once it is erected, he is not at liberty to take it down, and that he who sets it up for another, afterwards finds it for himself.

It knows him again, and says to him, "Thou didst place me here, and I have awaited thee." No, this man does not reflect, he has longings, he has whims, and they must be satisfied.

They are the longings of a dictator.