Now they show themselves, they fear nothing, they guillotine in broad day.

Whom do they guillotine?
Whom?
the men of the law, and the law is there! Whom?
the men of the people! and the people is there! Nor is this all.

There is a man in Europe, who horrifies Europe: that man sacked Lombardy, he set up the gibbets of Hungary; he had a woman whipped under the gibbet upon which hung her husband and her son; we still remember the terrible letter in which that woman recounts the deed, and says: "My heart has turned to stone." Last year this man took it into his head to visit England as a tourist, and, while in London, he took it into his head to visit a brewery, that of Barclay and Perkins.

There he was recognized; a voice whispered: "It is Haynau!"-- "It is Haynau!" repeated the workmen!--It was a fearful cry; the crowd rushed upon the wretch, tore out his infamous white hair by handfuls, spat in his face, and thrust him out.

Well, this old bandit in epaulettes, this Haynau, this man who still bears on his cheek the immense buffet of the English people, it is announced that "Monseigneur the Prince-President invites him to visit France." It is quite right; London put an affront on him, Paris owes him an ovation.
It is a reparation.