gallows?  Let the Hereditary Representative consider it well:  The Decree of Priests?  The Camp of Twenty Thousand?—­By Heaven, he answers, Veto!  Veto!—­Strict Roland hands in his Letter to the King; or rather it was Madame’s Letter, who wrote it all at a sitting; one of the plainest-spoken Letters ever handed in to any King.  This plain-spoken Letter King Louis has the benefit of reading overnight.  He reads, inwardly digests; and next morning, the whole Patriot Ministry finds itself turned out.  It is the 13th of June 1792. (Madame Roland, ii. 115.)

Dumouriez the many-counselled, he, with one Duranthon, called Minister of Justice, does indeed linger for a day or two; in rather suspicious circumstances; speaks with the Queen, almost weeps with her:  but in the end, he too sets off for the Army; leaving what Un-Patriot or Semi-Patriot Ministry and Ministries can now accept the helm, to accept it.  Name them not:  new quick-changing Phantasms, which shift like magic-lantern figures; more spectral than ever!

Unhappy Queen, unhappy Louis!  The two Vetos were so natural:  are not the Priests martyrs; also friends?  This Camp of Twenty Thousand, could it be other than of stormfullest Sansculottes?  Natural; and yet, to France, unendurable.  Priests that co-operate with Coblentz must go elsewhither with their martyrdom:  stormful Sansculottes, these and no other kind of creatures, will drive back the Austrians.  If thou prefer the Austrians, then for the love of Heaven go join them.  If not, join frankly with what will oppose them to the death.  Middle course is none.

Or alas, what extreme course was there left now, for a man like Louis?  Underhand Royalists, Ex-Minister Bertrand-Moleville, Ex-Constituent Malouet, and all manner of unhelpful individuals, advise and advise.  With face of hope turned now on the Legislative Assembly, and now on Austria and Coblentz, and round generally on the Chapter of Chances, an ancient Kingship is reeling and spinning, one knows not whitherward, on the flood of things.

Chapter 2.5.XII.

Procession of the Black Breeches.

But is there a thinking man in France who, in these circumstances, can persuade himself that the Constitution will march?  Brunswick is stirring; he, in few days now, will march.  Shall France sit still, wrapped in dead cerements and grave-clothes, its right hand glued to its left, till the Brunswick Saint-Bartholomew arrive; till France be as Poland, and its Rights of Man become a Prussian Gibbet?

Verily, it is a moment frightful for all men.  National Death; or else some preternatural convulsive outburst of National Life;—­that same, daemonic outburst!  Patriots whose audacity has limits had, in truth, better retire like Barnave; court private felicity at Grenoble.  Patriots, whose audacity has no limits must sink down into the obscure; and, daring and defying all things, seek salvation in stratagem,