pass to
the satisfaction of his Majesty; d'Orleans seeming clearly repentant,
determined to turn over a new leaf. And yet, next Sunday, what do we
see? 'Next Sunday,' says Bertrand, 'he came to the King's Levee; but the
Courtiers ignorant of what had passed, the crowd of Royalists who were
accustomed to resort thither on that day specially to pay their court,
gave him the most humiliating reception. They came pressing round him;
managing, as if by mistake, to tread on his toes, to elbow him towards
the door, and not let him enter again. He went downstairs to her
Majesty's Apartments, where cover was laid; so soon as he shewed face,
sounds rose on all sides, "Messieurs, take care of the dishes," as if he
had carried poison in his pockets. The insults which his presence every
where excited forced him to retire without having seen the Royal Family:
the crowd followed him to the Queen's Staircase; in descending, he
received a spitting (crachat) on the head, and some others, on his
clothes. Rage and spite were seen visibly painted on his face:'
(Bertrand-Moleville, i. 177.) as indeed how could they miss to be? He
imputes it all to the King and Queen, who know nothing of it, who are
even much grieved at it; and so descends, to his Chaos again. Bertrand
was there at the Chateau that day himself, and an eye-witness to these
things.

For the rest, Non-jurant Priests, and the repression of them, will
distract the King's conscience; Emigrant Princes and Noblesse will force
him to double-dealing: there must be veto on veto; amid the ever-waxing
indignation of men. For Patriotism, as we said, looks on from without,
more and more suspicious. Waxing tempest, blast after blast, of Patriot
indignation, from without; dim inorganic whirl of Intrigues, Fatuities,
within! Inorganic, fatuous; from which the eye turns away. De Stael
intrigues for her so gallant Narbonne, to get him made War-Minister;
and ceases not, having got him made. The King shall fly to Rouen; shall
there, with the gallant Narbonne, properly 'modify the Constitution.'
This is the same brisk Narbonne, who, last year, cut out from their
entanglement, by force of dragoons, those poor fugitive Royal Aunts:
men say he is at bottom their Brother, or even more, so scandalous is
scandal. He drives now, with his de Stael, rapidly to the Armies, to
the Frontier Towns; produces rose-coloured Reports, not too credible;
perorates, gesticulates; wavers poising himself on the top, for