Actually, there runs a whisper through the best informed Upper-Circles, or a nod still more potentous than whispering, of his Majesty’s flying to Metz; of a Bond (to stand by him therein) which has been signed by Noblesse and Clergy, to the incredible amount of thirty, or even of sixty thousand.  Lafayette coldly whispers it, and coldly asseverates it, to Count d’Estaing at the Dinner-table; and d’Estaing, one of the bravest men, quakes to the core lest some lackey overhear it; and tumbles thoughtful, without sleep, all night. (Brouillon de Lettre de M. d’Estaing a la Reine in Histoire Parlementaire, iii. 24.) Regiment Flandre, as we said, is clearly arrived.  His Majesty, they say, hesitates about sanctioning the Fourth of August; makes observations, of chilling tenor, on the very Rights of Man!  Likewise, may not all persons, the Bakers’-queues themselves discern on the streets of Paris, the most astonishing number of Officers on furlough, Crosses of St. Louis, and such like?  Some reckon ‘from a thousand to twelve hundred.’  Officers of all uniforms; nay one uniform never before seen by eye:  green faced with red!  The tricolor cockade is not always visible:  but what, in the name of Heaven, may these black cockades, which some wear, foreshadow?

Hunger whets everything, especially Suspicion and Indignation.  Realities themselves, in this Paris, have grown unreal:  preternatural.  Phantasms once more stalk through the brain of hungry France.  O ye laggards and dastards, cry shrill voices from the Queues, if ye had the hearts of men, ye would take your pikes and secondhand firelocks, and look into it; not leave your wives and daughters to be starved, murdered, and worse!—­Peace, women!  The heart of man is bitter and heavy; Patriotism, driven out by Patrollotism, knows not what to resolve on.

The truth is, the Oeil-de-Boeuf has rallied; to a certain unknown extent.  A changed Oeil-de-Boeuf; with Versailles National Guards, in their tricolor cockades, doing duty there; a Court all flaring with tricolor!  Yet even to a tricolor Court men will rally.  Ye loyal hearts, burnt-out Seigneurs, rally round your Queen!  With wishes; which will produce hopes; which will produce attempts!

For indeed self-preservation being such a law of Nature, what can a rallied Court do, but attempt and endeavour, or call it plot,—­with such wisdom and unwisdom as it has?  They will fly, escorted, to Metz, where brave Bouille commands; they will raise the Royal Standard:  the Bond-signatures shall become armed men.  Were not the King so languid!  Their Bond, if at all signed, must be signed without his privity.—­Unhappy King, he has but one resolution:  not to have a civil war.  For the rest, he still hunts, having ceased lockmaking; he still dozes, and digests; is clay in the hands of the potter.  Ill will it fare with him, in a world where all is helping itself; where, as has been written, ‘whosoever is not hammer must be stithy;’ and ’the very hyssop on the wall grows there, in that chink, because the whole Universe could not prevent its growing!’