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(Victor Hugo fought against the dictator,
first on the barricades, then in scathing
poetry like this - "Souvenir de la nuit du 4".)

She took him to the hearth to warm him up, 
not noticing his legs, already stiff. 
Alas! Our mortal fires can't give back breath 
to those who've felt the icy hand of Death. 
She bent her head and took his little feet. 
"And isn't this a thing to break your heart?" 
she cried. "He wasn't even eight years old! 
The teachers in that school thought well of him. 
I tell you, Sir, if I should need a letter, 
he'd write it for me. Are they terrorists? 
Sweet Jesus! Are they killing children now? 
I watched him play this morning, at the door. 
This gentle little creature. I am old, 
it would be nothing if I had to die. 
So couldn't Monsieur Bonaparte shoot me, 
instead?" She stopped. Her sobbing took control. 
Emotions mastered once again, she said, 
"What am I going to do, alone? Tell me. 
He's all that I had left of his poor mother. 
What did they kill him for? I wish someone 
would walk in and explain it all to me. 
Some shout for the Republic, that I know, 
but not this little scrap of life. Not him!" 
We stood there glumly, speechless, hats in hands, 
helpless before this grief which couldn't be eased. 

I'm sorry, Ma'am. You don't know politics. 
But Monsieur Bonaparte is full of tricks. 
A commoner like you, he feels that since 
he has the name, he ought to be a prince. 
He likes fine horses, servants, palaces, 
and Sandras, Julies, Saras, Lucy's, Alices. 
Of course, he'll save the Church, the Bank, 
protect the Family, and folks of Rank. 
But first, he needs Saint-Cloud's unblemished lawns, 
where second-rates can come and grovel, fawn, 
and flatter him. Such things just have to be. 
That's why old women who can barely see 
must sit up, weeping in the dark and cold,
to sew the winding-sheets of seven-year-olds.
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