Nay, already, in the afternoon, behold is not this your Sorceress Dubarry with the handkerchief at her eyes, mounting D’Aiguillon’s chariot; rolling off in his Duchess’s consolatory arms?  She is gone; and her place knows her no more.  Vanish, false Sorceress; into Space!  Needless to hover at neighbouring Ruel; for thy day is done.  Shut are the royal palace-gates for evermore; hardly in coming years shalt thou, under cloud of night, descend once, in black domino, like a black night-bird, and disturb the fair Antoinette’s music-party in the Park:  all Birds of Paradise flying from thee, and musical windpipes growing mute. (Campan, i. 197.) Thou unclean, yet unmalignant, not unpitiable thing!  What a course was thine:  from that first trucklebed (in Joan of Arc’s country) where thy mother bore thee, with tears, to an unnamed father:  forward, through lowest subterranean depths, and over highest sunlit heights, of Harlotdom and Rascaldom—­to the guillotine-axe, which shears away thy vainly whimpering head!  Rest there uncursed; only buried and abolished:  what else befitted thee?

Louis, meanwhile, is in considerable impatience for his sacraments; sends more than once to the window, to see whether they are not coming.  Be of comfort, Louis, what comfort thou canst:  they are under way, those sacraments.  Towards six in the morning, they arrive.  Cardinal Grand-Almoner Roche-Aymon is here, in pontificals, with his pyxes and his tools; he approaches the royal pillow; elevates his wafer; mutters or seems to mutter somewhat;—­and so (as the Abbe Georgel, in words that stick to one, expresses it) has Louis ’made the amende honorable to God;’ so does your Jesuit construe it.—­“Wa, Wa,” as the wild Clotaire groaned out, when life was departing, “what great God is this that pulls down the strength of the strongest kings!” (Gregorius Turonensis, Histor. lib. iv. cap. 21.)

The amende honorable, what ‘legal apology’ you will, to God:—­but not, if D’Aiguillon can help it, to man.  Dubarry still hovers in his mansion at Ruel; and while there is life, there is hope.  Grand-Almoner Roche-Aymon, accordingly (for he seems to be in the secret), has no sooner seen his pyxes and gear repacked, then he is stepping majestically forth again, as if the work were done!  But King’s Confessor Abbe Moudon starts forward; with anxious acidulent face, twitches him by the sleeve; whispers in his ear.  Whereupon the poor Cardinal must turn round; and declare audibly; “That his Majesty repents of any subjects of scandal he may have given (a pu donner); and purposes, by the strength of Heaven assisting him, to avoid the like—­for the future!” Words listened to by Richelieu with mastiff-face, growing blacker; answered to, aloud, ’with an epithet,’—­which Besenval will not repeat.  Old Richelieu, conqueror of Minorca, companion of Flying-Table orgies, perforator of bedroom walls, (Besenval, i. 159-172.  Genlis; Duc de Levis, &c.) is thy day also done?