But this ordinary countenance
becomes grand and heroic by a horrible hole in the forehead, from which
blood and brains have gushed. Oh, how such a hole in the brow, pierced
by a bullet sent to murder liberty, transfigures a man's visage! A
supernatural radiance appears to stream from this tragical opening,
into which we cannot gaze without having our eyes overflow with tears.
Rudolf was more touched by the unspeakably pathetic monument than any
of the others who reverently surrounded it; for he remembered how
narrowly he, too, had escaped a fate akin to that of the martyr before
whose statue he had unexpectedly wandered. As he followed the path
toward the exit from the cemetery, he again saw himself on the terrible
night of December 3d and 4th, 1851, lying weltering in his blood, with
failing consciousness, upon the wet pavement of the Rue Montmartre, a
bullet in his right hip. The memory of that moment was so vivid, that
he fancied he again felt the pain in his hip and began to limp, as he
had done for months after the wound. In the broad avenue leading to
the main entrance new visions rose before him, made still more intense
by the recollections of the coup d'etat evoked by the sight of Baudin's
grave.
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