The second more, ask for recommendation votes! In the past two days, my friend has come and played with him, so I've been consuming drafts, and I'm afraid I won't be able to make up for the update

A down-and-out figure sits in the corner of a small restaurant, out of place with the hustle and bustle of the crowd around him.

He wore a shabby jacket, his beard covering most of his face, and his blank gaze looked into the distance.

In the eyes of others, he was a sloppy tramp, except that ten years later, he and his followers would launch the first proletarian revolution in Paris, the Paris Commune.

And that movement would be the beginning of a violent revolution by the working class.

Louis Auguste Blanqui, who had just returned to Paris after his release from the Mezcarra prison.

As a revolutionary who devoted his life to the struggle for the imperial system, Blanqui experienced defeats unimaginable to ordinary people. The riots and uprisings he led were suppressed, and he spent most of his time in a small, dark prison for more than Chinese New Year's Eve years, from 1831 to 1860.

However, the days after his freedom were not happy, and during his time in Paris, Blanqui discovered that his son was a man of little sight, and knew him so little that he wanted to abandon the political struggle and live with him as a petty burgher.

Even more desperate, Blanqui's manuscript kept with his mother, the fruit of years of labor, had been burned in accordance with his mother's will when she died in 1858, and Blanqui was left to wander the streets of Paris with nothing to do.

Decadence, frustration and despair, pushed him to the brink of crumbling.

Sitting opposite him was his friend Barthlemy, who, after Blanqui's return to Paris, had been on the move, forging alliances with the Proudhonists in an attempt to reach an alliance against the tyranny of the Second Empire.

Although Blanqui's ideas were incompatible with Proudhon, because the other side believed that neither capitalism nor socialism was the ultimate form of social development, and that a "mutual" society based on "individual possession" was the best social model.

At this time, Proudhon was in exile in Belgium under the repressive policies of Napoleon III, so Blanqui could only cooperate with his followers.

Incidentally, it was the Proudhonists who were reluctant to take over the Banque de France in the Paris Commune Committee, which was mentioned in high school history textbooks, and which led the capitalist reactionaries to gain financial support and encircle the Paris Commune.

"I'm sorry, Blanqui."

Bartlemi held his coffee in both hands and said ashamedly, "I have contacted the Proudhonists, but they do not want to cooperate with us and form a united front. Now Paris has tightened its regulation, including censorship and policing. It's hard enough to stir up the populace again. And now the police department is constantly watching your family for any movement. ”

Bartlemi said in a serious tone, "You may end up in prison again. ”

Blanqui took a deep breath and said, "I'm ready to spend the rest of my life in prison, and this time I'm back in Paris to get something done." Then I will leave for England. ”

"Britain?"

Hearing this, Battellmi paused for a moment.

Blanqui took a slow sip of coffee and said helplessly, "There are many French politicians who have taken refuge in London, and I will see if I can cooperate with them, get aid funds, and wait until I return to Paris to prepare for revolutionary activities and rebuild a community." ”

Blanqui lowered his voice, as if telling a cryptic secret.

"Good luck then, my friend."

Seeing that he had made up his mind, it was difficult to stop anything, and he also had a hunch that Blanqui's revolutionary cause might be far away, but he still couldn't bear to encourage him.

"Let's go, I'd like to see this place one last time."

Bartlemi followed Blanqui into the bustling streets.

Blanqui lowered the brim of his hat and tried to hide the face as much as possible, so that no one would focus on a scruffy tramp.

He reached the end of St. Anthony's Street and came to a sudden stop.

In the midst of the indifferent crowd, the poetry on the walls caught his attention.

Blanqui stopped, and Bartlemi, who followed him, asked, "What's wrong?" My friend. ”

Blanqui did not answer him, but gazed at the poems on the wall and whispered, "Meanness is the pass of the mean"

In the depths of Blanqui's heart, he suddenly felt some kind of touch, hitting the weakest of the atrium.

instantly dispelled the haze that lingered in my heart.

"Noble is the epitaph of the noble."

His voice was small at first, but as the verses were read aloud, they began to grow louder.

Full of deep emotions, all the anguish in my heart was vented.

"I came into this world with nothing but paper, rope and figure. In order to read out the voices of those who were sentenced before the trial. Tell you, world, I--no--phase--believe! Even if you have a thousand challengers under your feet, count me as the thousandth and onest. I don't believe that the sky is blue, I don't believe in the echo of thunder, I don't believe that dreams are fake, I don't believe that death has no retribution...... Hahaha. ”

At the moment when I finished reading, I suddenly realized something, and suddenly laughed out loud.

It seems that he wants to vent all the suffering he has suffered over the years.

"Hey, Blanqui......"

Battelmi had tried to stop him, fearing that his overkill would attract the attention of the patrolling police. Blanqui, however, turned his head, and the confusion in his eyes was swept away.

He waved his hand and said to Bartlemi behind him, "I'm fine, when I saw this poem, I suddenly figured out a lot of things." I don't know who the author is, but if I have the opportunity in the future, I will thank him in person. ”

He repeated the opening sentence of the poem.

"Meanness is the passport of the mean, and nobility is the epitaph of the noble."

The unbridled laughter attracted the attention of the others, and the people around looked at the man in front of them with a puzzled and strange gaze, and more and more people gathered in this direction, and they looked at the man at the same time, and also turned their eyes to the poem.

Proudhon's revolutionaries, who were active in the lower middle classes, looked at the poem with astonishment.

They are isolated souls, and when the mainstream of literature is still singing the praises of the conservative Bonaparte dictatorship, when the awakened literati are still defending the idea of exploitation by the big capitalist republicans, no one has ever gazed with a straight eye at the souls who are struggling in the mud at the bottom of society.

I did not expect that when they were fighting against the emperors of Napoleon III, there would be literati willing to stand up and use a way that hit the soul to give a weak cry for those revolutionary aspirants who were hanged, imprisoned, and expelled.

He did not leave a name, just an abbreviation of a name, a symbol of resistance.

Meanness is the pass of the mean

Noble is the epitaph of the noble

Author: G.