“Things are going badly,” said Prudhon.
“To what cause do you attribute our embarrassments?” queried Anthony Thouret.
“The Socialists are at the bottom of the trouble, of course.
“What! the Socialists? But are you not a Socialist yourself?”
“I a Socialist! Well, I never!” ejaculated Prudhon.
“Well, what in the name of goodness, are you, then?”
“I am a financier.”
BLANQUI.
Blanqui got so that he no longer wore a shirt. For twelve years he had worn the same clothes—his prison clothes—rags, which he displayed with sombre pride at his club. He renewed only his boots and his gloves, which were always black.