1834).) Laughter and logic; ballad-singer, pamphleteer; epigram and caricature:  what wind of public opinion is this,—­as if the Cave of the Winds were bursting loose!  At nightfall, President Lamoignon steals over to the Controller’s; finds him ’walking with large strides in his chamber, like one out of himself.’ (Besenval, iii. 209.) With rapid confused speech the Controller begs M. de Lamoignon to give him ’an advice.’  Lamoignon candidly answers that, except in regard to his own anticipated Keepership, unless that would prove remedial, he really cannot take upon him to advise.

‘On the Monday after Easter,’ the 9th of April 1787, a date one rejoices to verify, for nothing can excel the indolent falsehood of these Histoires and Memoires,—­’On the Monday after Easter, as I, Besenval, was riding towards Romainville to the Marechal de Segur’s, I met a friend on the Boulevards, who told me that M. de Calonne was out.  A little further on came M. the Duke d’Orleans, dashing towards me, head to the wind’ (trotting a l’Anglaise), ‘and confirmed the news.’ (Ib. iii. 211.) It is true news.  Treacherous Garde-des-Sceaux Miromenil is gone, and Lamoignon is appointed in his room:  but appointed for his own profit only, not for the Controller’s:  ‘next day’ the Controller also has had to move.  A little longer he may linger near; be seen among the money changers, and even ‘working in the Controller’s office,’ where much lies unfinished:  but neither will that hold.  Too strong blows and beats this tempest of public opinion, of private intrigue, as from the Cave of all the Winds; and blows him (higher Authority giving sign) out of Paris and France,—­over the horizon, into Invisibility, or uuter (utter, outer?) Darkness.

Such destiny the magic of genius could not forever avert.  Ungrateful Oeil-de-Boeuf! did he not miraculously rain gold manna on you; so that, as a Courtier said, “All the world held out its hand, and I held out my hat,”—­for a time?  Himself is poor; penniless, had not a ’Financier’s widow in Lorraine’ offered him, though he was turned of fifty, her hand and the rich purse it held.  Dim henceforth shall be his activity, though unwearied:  Letters to the King, Appeals, Prognostications; Pamphlets (from London), written with the old suasive facility; which however do not persuade.  Luckily his widow’s purse fails not.  Once, in a year or two, some shadow of him shall be seen hovering on the Northern Border, seeking election as National Deputy; but be sternly beckoned away.  Dimmer then, far-borne over utmost European lands, in uncertain twilight of diplomacy, he shall hover, intriguing for ‘Exiled Princes,’ and have adventures; be overset into the Rhine stream and half-drowned, nevertheless save his papers dry.  Unwearied, but in vain!  In France he works miracles no more; shall hardly return thither to find a grave.  Farewell, thou facile sanguine Controller-General, with thy light rash hand, thy suasive mouth of gold:  worse men there have been, and better; but to thee also was allotted a task,—­of raising the wind, and the winds; and thou hast done it.