As for the Parisian populace, even when a man grown, it is always the
street Arab; to paint the child is to paint the city; and it is for
that reason that we have studied this eagle in this arrant sparrow. It
is in the faubourgs, above all, we maintain, that the Parisian race
appears; there is the pure blood; there is the true physiognomy; there
this people toils and suffers, and suffering and toil are the two faces
of man. There exist there immense numbers of unknown beings, among whom
swarm types of the strangest, from the porter of la Râpée to the
knacker of Montfaucon. _Fex urbis_, exclaims Cicero; _mob_, adds Burke,
indignantly; rabble, multitude, populace. These are words and quickly
uttered. But so be it. What does it matter? What is it to me if they do
go barefoot! They do not know how to read; so much the worse. Would you
abandon them for that? Would you turn their distress into a
malediction? Cannot the light penetrate these masses? Let us return to
that cry: Light! and let us obstinately persist therein! Light! Light!
Who knows whether these opacities will not become transparent? Are not
revolutions transfigurations? Come, philosophers, teach, enlighten,
light up, think aloud, speak aloud, hasten joyously to the great sun,
fraternize with the public place, announce the good news, spend your
alphabets lavishly, proclaim rights, sing the Marseillaises, sow
enthusiasms, tear green boughs from the oaks. Make a whirlwind of the
idea. This crowd may be rendered sublime. Let us learn how to make use
of that vast conflagration of principles and virtues, which sparkles,
bursts forth and quivers at certain hours. These bare feet, these bare
arms, these rags, these ignorances, these abjectnesses, these
darknesses, may be employed in the conquest of the ideal. Gaze past the
people, and you will perceive truth. Let that vile sand which you
trample under foot be cast into the furnace, let it melt and seethe
there, it will become a splendid crystal, and it is thanks to it that
Galileo and Newton will discover stars.