shaded in broad gypsy-hat, and leaning on the arm of a servant, also of the Runner or Courier sort, stands aside to let it pass, and has even the whim to touch a spoke of it with her badine,—­light little magic rod which she calls badine, such as the Beautiful then wore.  The flare of Lafayette’s Carriage, rolls past:  all is found quiet in the Court-of-Princes; sentries at their post; Majesties’ Apartments closed in smooth rest.  Your false Chambermaid must have been mistaken?  Watch thou, Gouvion, with Argus’ vigilance; for, of a truth, treachery is within these walls.

But where is the Lady that stood aside in gypsy hat, and touched the wheel-spoke with her badine?  O Reader, that Lady that touched the wheel-spoke was the Queen of France!  She has issued safe through that inner Arch, into the Carrousel itself; but not into the Rue de l’Echelle.  Flurried by the rattle and rencounter, she took the right hand not the left; neither she nor her Courier knows Paris; he indeed is no Courier, but a loyal stupid ci-devant Bodyguard disguised as one.  They are off, quite wrong, over the Pont Royal and River; roaming disconsolate in the Rue du Bac; far from the Glass-coachman, who still waits.  Waits, with flutter of heart; with thoughts—­which he must button close up, under his jarvie surtout!

Midnight clangs from all the City-steeples; one precious hour has been spent so; most mortals are asleep.  The Glass-coachman waits; and what mood!  A brother jarvie drives up, enters into conversation; is answered cheerfully in jarvie dialect:  the brothers of the whip exchange a pinch of snuff; (Weber, ii. 340-2; Choiseul, p. 44-56.) decline drinking together; and part with good night.  Be the Heavens blest! here at length is the Queen-lady, in gypsy-hat; safe after perils; who has had to inquire her way.  She too is admitted; her Courier jumps aloft, as the other, who is also a disguised Bodyguard, has done:  and now, O Glass-coachman of a thousand,—­Count Fersen, for the Reader sees it is thou,—­drive!

Dust shall not stick to the hoofs of Fersen:  crack! crack! the Glass-coach rattles, and every soul breathes lighter.  But is Fersen on the right road?  Northeastward, to the Barrier of Saint-Martin and Metz Highway, thither were we bound:  and lo, he drives right Northward!  The royal Individual, in round hat and peruke, sits astonished; but right or wrong, there is no remedy.  Crack, crack, we go incessant, through the slumbering City.  Seldom, since Paris rose out of mud, or the Longhaired Kings went in Bullock-carts, was there such a drive.  Mortals on each hand of you, close by, stretched out horizontal, dormant; and we alive and quaking!  Crack, crack, through the Rue de Grammont; across the Boulevard; up the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin,—­these windows, all silent, of Number 42, were Mirabeau’s.  Towards the Barrier not of Saint-Martin, but of Clichy on the utmost North!  Patience, ye royal Individuals; Fersen understands what he is about.  Passing up