“I can make nothing of my French correspondents in general,” said the duke, after perusing a long letter, “but M. le Comte writes like Cagliostro.  He has evidently some prodigious secret, which he is determined to envelope in still deeper secrecy.  He tells me that La Fayette has fled; but when, where, or for what purpose, is all equally an enigma.  In one sentence of his letter he would persuade me that all France is disorganized, and in the next, that it is more resolved to resist than ever.  Paris is prepared to rise at the first sight of the white flag, and Paris is sending out six thousand men every three hours to join the republican force in the field.  Paris is in despair.  Paris is in furious exultation.  How am I to understand all this?  Even in his postscript he tells me, in one breath, that the whole of the strong places in our front are filled with national guards, and that no less than seven corps of troops of the line are prepared to fight us in the plains of Champagne; and that we have only to push on to take the towns—­charge the troops of the line to see them disperse—­and advance within ten leagues of Paris to extinguish the rebellion, set the royal family free, and restore the monarchy.”

The mysterious letter was handed round our circle in succession, and seemed equally beyond comprehension to us all.  We had yet to learn the temperament of a capital, where every half-hour produced a total change of the popular mind.  The letter, fantastically expressed as it was, conveyed the true condition of the hour.  The picture was true, but the countenance changed every moment.  He might as well have given the colours of cloud.

I had now entered on a course of adventure the most exciting of all others, and at the most exciting time of life.  But all the world round me was in a state of excitement.  Every nation of Europe was throwing open its armoury, and preparing its weapons for the field.  The troops invading France were palpably no more than the advanced guards of Prussia and Austria.  Even with all my inexperience, I foresaw that the war would differ from all the past; that it would be, not a war of tactics, but a war of opinion; that not armies, but the people marshalled into hosts, would be ultimately the deciders of the victory; and that on whichever side the popular feeling was more serious, persevering, and intense, there the triumph would be gained.  I must still confess, however, in disparagement to my military sagacity, that I was totally unprepared for the gallant resistance of the French recruits.  What can they do without officers?—­ten thousand of whom had been noblesse, and were now emigrants?  What can they do without a commissariat, what can they do without pay, and who is to pay them in a bankrupt nation?  Those were the constant topics at headquarters.  We were marching to an assured victory.  France was at an end.  We should remodel the Government, and teach the sans culottes the hazard of trying the trade of politicians.