There are in Paris, in its suburbs of Paris that the wind of riot stirred up formerly so easily,

there are streets, houses, cesspools where families, entire families live pell-mell,

men, women, young girls, children, having for bed, having for blanket, I almost said for clothing,

only infectious heaps of rags in fermentation, gathered in the mud of the corner of the posts,

sort of manure of cities, where creatures bury themselves all alive to escape the cold of winter.

There is a fact.