For the rest, it is too clear our Successive Loan is not filling.  As indeed, in such circumstances, a Loan registered by expunging of Protests was not the likeliest to fill.  Denunciation of Lettres-de-Cachet, of Despotism generally, abates not:  the Twelve Parlements are busy; the Twelve hundred Placarders, Balladsingers, Pamphleteers.  Paris is what, in figurative speech, they call ’flooded with pamphlets (regorge de brochures);’ flooded and eddying again.  Hot deluge,—­from so many Patriot ready-writers, all at the fervid or boiling point; each ready-writer, now in the hour of eruption, going like an Iceland Geyser!  Against which what can a judicious friend Morellet do; a Rivarol, an unruly Linguet (well paid for it),—­spouting cold!

Now also, at length, does come discussion of the Protestant Edict:  but only for new embroilment; in pamphlet and counter-pamphlet, increasing the madness of men.  Not even Orthodoxy, bedrid as she seemed, but will have a hand in this confusion.  She, once again in the shape of Abbe Lenfant, ’whom Prelates drive to visit and congratulate,’—­raises audible sound from her pulpit-drum. (Lacretelle, iii. 343.  Montgaillard, &c.) Or mark how D’Espremenil, who has his own confused way in all things, produces at the right moment in Parlementary harangue, a pocket Crucifix, with the apostrophe:  “Will ye crucify him afresh?” Him, O D’Espremenil, without scruple;—­considering what poor stuff, of ivory and filigree, he is made of!

To all which add only that poor Brienne has fallen sick; so hard was the tear and wear of his sinful youth, so violent, incessant is this agitation of his foolish old age.  Baited, bayed at through so many throats, his Grace, growing consumptive, inflammatory (with humeur de dartre), lies reduced to milk diet; in exasperation, almost in desperation; with ‘repose,’ precisely the impossible recipe, prescribed as the indispensable. (Besenval, iii. 317.)

On the whole, what can a poor Government do, but once more recoil ineffectual?  The King’s Treasury is running towards the lees; and Paris ‘eddies with a flood of pamphlets.’  At all rates, let the latter subside a little!  D’Orleans gets back to Raincy, which is nearer Paris and the fair frail Buffon; finally to Paris itself:  neither are Freteau and Sabatier banished forever.  The Protestant Edict is registered; to the joy of Boissy d’Anglas and good Malesherbes:  Successive Loan, all protests expunged or else withdrawn, remains open,—­the rather as few or none come to fill it.  States-General, for which the Parlement has clamoured, and now the whole Nation clamours, will follow ’in five years,’—­if indeed not sooner.  O Parlement of Paris, what a clamour was that!  “Messieurs,” said old d’Ormesson, “you will get States-General, and you will repent it.”  Like the Horse in the Fable, who, to be avenged of his enemy, applied to the Man.  The Man mounted; did swift execution on the enemy; but, unhappily, would not dismount!  Instead of five years, let three years pass, and this clamorous Parlement shall have both seen its enemy hurled prostrate, and been itself ridden to foundering (say rather, jugulated for hide and shoes), and lie dead in the ditch.