The plan of royalty, if it have any, is that of flying over the frontiers; does not abandon the plan, yet never executes it.  Nevertheless, Mirabeau and the Queen of France have met, have parted with mutual trust.  It is strange, secret as the mysterious, but indisputable.  “Madame,” he has said, “the monarchy is saved.”  Possible—­if Fate intervene not.  Patriotism suspects the design of flight; barking this time not at nothing.  Suspects also the repairing of the castle of Vincennes; General Lafayette has to wrestle persuasively with Saint-Antoine.

On one royal person only can Mirabeau place dependence—­the queen.  Had Mirabeau lived one other year!  But man’s years are numbered, and the tale of Mirabeau’s is complete.  The giant oaken strength of him is wasted; excess of effort, of excitement of all kinds; labour incessant, almost beyond credibility.  “When I am gone,” he has said, “the miseries I have held back will burst from all sides upon France.”  On April 2 he feels that the last of the days has risen for him.  His death is Titanic, as his life has been.  On the third evening is solemn public funeral.  The chosen man of France is gone.

The French monarchy now is, in all human probability, lost.  Many things invite to flight; but if the king fly, will there not be aristocrat Austrian invasion, butchery, replacement of feudalism, wars more than civil?  The king desires to go to St. Cloud, but shall not; patriots will not let the horses go.  But Count Fersen, an alert young Swedish soldier, has business on hand; has a new coach built, of the kind called Berline; has made other purchases.  On the night of Monday, June 20, certain royal individuals are in a glass coach; Fersen is the coachman; out by the Barrier de Clichy, till we find the waiting Berline; then to Bondy, where is a chaise ready; and deft Fersen bids adieu.

With morning, and discovery, National Assembly adopts an attitude of sublime calm; Paris also; yet messages are flying.  Moreover, at Sainte Menehould, on the route of the Berline, suspicious patriots are wondering what certain lounging dragoons mean; while the Berline arrives not.  At last it comes; but Drouet, village postmaster, seeks a likeness; takes horse in swift pursuit.  So rolls on the Berline, and the chase after it; till it comes to a dead stop in Varennes, where Drouet finds it—­in time to stop departure.  Louis, the poor, phlegmatic man, steps out; all step out.  The flight is ended, though not the spurring and riding of that night of spurs.

V.—–­Constitution Will Not March

In the last nights of September, Paris is dancing and flinging fireworks; the edifice of the constitution is completed, solemnly proffered to his majesty, solemnly accepted by him, to the sound of cannon salvoes.  There is to be a new Legislative Assembly, biennial; no members of the Constituent Assembly to sit therein, or for four years to be a minister, or hold a court appointment.  So they vanish.