On the Sixth of October gone a year, King Louis, escorted by Demoiselle Theroigne and some two hundred thousand, made a Royal Progress and Entrance into Paris, such as man had never witnessed:  we prophesied him Two more such; and accordingly another of them, after this Flight to Metz, is now coming to pass.  Theroigne will not escort here, neither does Mirabeau now ‘sit in one of the accompanying carriages.’  Mirabeau lies dead, in the Pantheon of Great Men.  Theroigne lies living, in dark Austrian Prison; having gone to Liege, professionally, and been seized there.  Bemurmured now by the hoarse-flowing Danube; the light of her Patriot Supper-Parties gone quite out; so lies Theroigne:  she shall speak with the Kaiser face to face, and return.  And France lies how!  Fleeting Time shears down the great and the little; and in two years alters many things.

But at all events, here, we say, is a second Ignominious Royal Procession, though much altered; to be witnessed also by its hundreds of thousands.  Patience, ye Paris Patriots; the Royal Berline is returning.  Not till Saturday:  for the Royal Berline travels by slow stages; amid such loud-voiced confluent sea of National Guards, sixty thousand as they count; amid such tumult of all people.  Three National-Assembly Commissioners, famed Barnave, famed Petion, generally-respectable Latour-Maubourg, have gone to meet it; of whom the two former ride in the Berline itself beside Majesty, day after day.  Latour, as a mere respectability, and man of whom all men speak well, can ride in the rear, with Dame Tourzel and the Soubrettes.

So on Saturday evening, about seven o’clock, Paris by hundreds of thousands is again drawn up:  not now dancing the tricolor joy-dance of hope; nor as yet dancing in fury-dance of hate and revenge; but in silence, with vague look of conjecture and curiosity mostly scientific.  A Sainte-Antoine Placard has given notice this morning that ’whosoever insults Louis shall be caned, whosoever applauds him shall be hanged.’  Behold then, at last, that wonderful New Berline; encircled by blue National sea with fixed bayonets, which flows slowly, floating it on, through the silent assembled hundreds of thousands.  Three yellow Couriers sit atop bound with ropes; Petion, Barnave, their Majesties, with Sister Elizabeth, and the Children of France, are within.

Smile of embarrassment, or cloud of dull sourness, is on the broad phlegmatic face of his Majesty:  who keeps declaring to the successive Official-persons, what is evident, “Eh bien, me voila, Well, here you have me;” and what is not evident, “I do assure you I did not mean to pass the frontiers;” and so forth:  speeches natural for that poor Royal man; which Decency would veil.  Silent is her Majesty, with a look of grief and scorn; natural for that Royal Woman.  Thus lumbers and creeps the ignominious Royal Procession, through many streets, amid a silent-gazing people:  comparable, Mercier thinks, (Nouveau Paris,