the Rue de Clichy, he alights for one moment at Madame Sullivan’s:  “Did Count Fersen’s Coachman get the Baroness de Korff’s new Berline?”—­“Gone with it an hour-and-half ago,” grumbles responsive the drowsy Porter.—­“C’est bien.”  Yes, it is well;—­though had not such hour-and half been lost, it were still better.  Forth therefore, O Fersen, fast, by the Barrier de Clichy; then Eastward along the Outward Boulevard, what horses and whipcord can do!

Thus Fersen drives, through the ambrosial night.  Sleeping Paris is now all on the right hand of him; silent except for some snoring hum; and now he is Eastward as far as the Barrier de Saint-Martin; looking earnestly for Baroness de Korff’s Berline.  This Heaven’s Berline he at length does descry, drawn up with its six horses, his own German Coachman waiting on the box.  Right, thou good German:  now haste, whither thou knowest!—­And as for us of the Glass-coach, haste too, O haste; much time is already lost!  The august Glass-coach fare, six Insides, hastily packs itself into the new Berline; two Bodyguard Couriers behind.  The Glass-coach itself is turned adrift, its head towards the City; to wander whither it lists,—­and be found next morning tumbled in a ditch.  But Fersen is on the new box, with its brave new hammer-cloths; flourishing his whip; he bolts forward towards Bondy.  There a third and final Bodyguard Courier of ours ought surely to be, with post-horses ready-ordered.  There likewise ought that purchased Chaise, with the two Waiting-maids and their bandboxes to be; whom also her Majesty could not travel without.  Swift, thou deft Fersen, and may the Heavens turn it well!

Once more, by Heaven’s blessing, it is all well.  Here is the sleeping Hamlet of Bondy; Chaise with Waiting-women; horses all ready, and postillions with their churn-boots, impatient in the dewy dawn.  Brief harnessing done, the postillions with their churn-boots vault into the saddles; brandish circularly their little noisy whips.  Fersen, under his jarvie-surtout, bends in lowly silent reverence of adieu; royal hands wave speechless in expressible response; Baroness de Korff’s Berline, with the Royalty of France, bounds off:  for ever, as it proved.  Deft Fersen dashes obliquely Northward, through the country, towards Bougret; gains Bougret, finds his German Coachman and chariot waiting there; cracks off, and drives undiscovered into unknown space.  A deft active man, we say; what he undertook to do is nimbly and successfully done.

A so the Royalty of France is actually fled?  This precious night, the shortest of the year, it flies and drives!  Baroness de Korff is, at bottom, Dame de Tourzel, Governess of the Royal Children:  she who came hooded with the two hooded little ones; little Dauphin; little Madame Royale, known long afterwards as Duchess d’Angouleme.  Baroness de Korff’s Waiting-maid is the Queen in gypsy-hat.  The royal Individual in round hat and peruke, he is Valet, for the time being.  That other hooded Dame, styled Travelling-companion, is kind Sister Elizabeth; she had sworn, long since, when the Insurrection of Women was, that only death should part her and them.  And so they rush there, not too impetuously, through the Wood of Bondy:—­over a Rubicon in their own and France’s History.