Thus Paris; sublimely calmed, in its bereavement.  But from the Messageries Royales, in all Mail-bags, radiates forth far-darting the electric news:  Our Hereditary Representative is flown.  Laugh, black Royalists:  yet be it in your sleeve only; lest Patriotism notice, and waxing frantic, lower the Lanterne!  In Paris alone is a sublime National Assembly with its calmness; truly, other places must take it as they can:  with open mouth and eyes; with panic cackling, with wrath, with conjecture.  How each one of those dull leathern Diligences, with its leathern bag and ‘The King is fled,’ furrows up smooth France as it goes; through town and hamlet, ruffles the smooth public mind into quivering agitation of death-terror; then lumbers on, as if nothing had happened!  Along all highways; towards the utmost borders; till all France is ruffled,—­roughened up (metaphorically speaking) into one enormous, desperate-minded, red-guggling Turkey Cock!

For example, it is under cloud of night that the leathern Monster reaches Nantes; deep sunk in sleep.  The word spoken rouses all Patriot men:  General Dumouriez, enveloped in roquelaures, has to descend from his bedroom; finds the street covered with ’four or five thousand citizens in their shirts.’ (Dumouriez, Memoires, ii. 109.) Here and there a faint farthing rushlight, hastily kindled; and so many swart-featured haggard faces, with nightcaps pushed back; and the more or less flowing drapery of night-shirt:  open-mouthed till the General say his word!  And overhead, as always, the Great Bear is turning so quiet round Bootes; steady, indifferent as the leathern Diligence itself.  Take comfort, ye men of Nantes:  Bootes and the steady Bear are turning; ancient Atlantic still sends his brine, loud-billowing, up your Loire-stream; brandy shall be hot in the stomach:  this is not the Last of the Days, but one before the Last.—­The fools!  If they knew what was doing, in these very instants, also by candle-light, in the far North-East!

Perhaps we may say the most terrified man in Paris or France is—­who thinks the Reader?—­seagreen Robespierre.  Double paleness, with the shadow of gibbets and halters, overcasts the seagreen features:  it is too clear to him that there is to be ‘a Saint-Bartholomew of Patriots,’ that in four-and-twenty hours he will not be in life.  These horrid anticipations of the soul he is heard uttering at Petion’s; by a notable witness.  By Madame Roland, namely; her whom we saw, last year, radiant at the Lyons Federation!  These four months, the Rolands have been in Paris; arranging with Assembly Committees the Municipal affairs of Lyons, affairs all sunk in debt;—­communing, the while, as was most natural, with the best Patriots to be found here, with our Brissots, Petions, Buzots, Robespierres; who were wont to come to us, says the fair Hostess, four evenings in the week.  They, running about, busier than ever this day, would fain have comforted the seagreen man:  spake of Achille du Chatelet’s Placard; of a Journal to be called The Republican; of preparing men’s minds for a Republic.  “A Republic?” said the Seagreen, with one of his dry husky unsportful laughs, “What is that?” (Madame Roland, ii. 70.) O seagreen Incorruptible, thou shalt see!