Royalty never executes the evasion-plan, yet never abandons it; living in variable hope; undecisive, till fortune shall decide.  In utmost secresy, a brisk Correspondence goes on with Bouille; there is also a plot, which emerges more than once, for carrying the King to Rouen:  (See Hist.  Parl. vii. 316; Bertrand-Moleville, &c.) plot after plot, emerging and submerging, like ’ignes fatui in foul weather, which lead no whither.  About ‘ten o’clock at night,’ the Hereditary Representative, in partie quarree, with the Queen, with Brother Monsieur, and Madame, sits playing ‘wisk,’ or whist.  Usher Campan enters mysteriously, with a message he only half comprehends:  How a certain Compte d’Inisdal waits anxious in the outer antechamber; National Colonel, Captain of the watch for this night, is gained over; post-horses ready all the way; party of Noblesse sitting armed, determined; will His Majesty, before midnight, consent to go?  Profound silence; Campan waiting with upturned ear.  “Did your Majesty hear what Campan said?” asks the Queen.  “Yes, I heard,” answers Majesty, and plays on. “’Twas a pretty couplet, that of Campan’s,” hints Monsieur, who at times showed a pleasant wit:  Majesty, still unresponsive, plays wisk.  “After all, one must say something to Campan,” remarks the Queen.  “Tell M. d’Inisdal,” said the King, and the Queen puts an emphasis on it, “that the King cannot consent to be forced away.”—­“I see!” said d’Inisdal, whisking round, peaking himself into flame of irritancy:  “we have the risk; we are to have all the blame if it fail,” (Campan, ii. 105.)—­and vanishes, he and his plot, as will-o’-wisps do.  The Queen sat till far in the night, packing jewels:  but it came to nothing; in that peaked frame of irritancy the Will-o’-wisp had gone out.

Little hope there is in all this.  Alas, with whom to fly?  Our loyal Gardes-du-Corps, ever since the Insurrection of Women, are disbanded; gone to their homes; gone, many of them, across the Rhine towards Coblentz and Exiled Princes:  brave Miomandre and brave Tardivet, these faithful Two, have received, in nocturnal interview with both Majesties, their viaticum of gold louis, of heartfelt thanks from a Queen’s lips, though unluckily ‘his Majesty stood, back to fire, not speaking;’ (Campan, ii. 109-11.) and do now dine through the Provinces; recounting hairsbreadth escapes, insurrectionary horrors.  Great horrors; to be swallowed yet of greater.  But on the whole what a falling off from the old splendour of Versailles!  Here in this poor Tuileries, a National Brewer-Colonel, sonorous Santerre, parades officially behind her Majesty’s chair.  Our high dignitaries, all fled over the Rhine:  nothing now to be gained at Court; but hopes, for which life itself must be risked!  Obscure busy men frequent the back stairs; with hearsays, wind projects, un fruitful fanfaronades.  Young Royalists, at the Theatre de Vaudeville, ‘sing couplets;’ if that could do any thing.  Royalists enough,