raise their bonnets on
their bayonets, with shouts. Sweet is reconcilement to the heart of man.
Lafayette has sworn Flandre; he swears the remaining Bodyguards, down in
the Marble Court; the people clasp them in their arms:--O, my brothers,
why would ye force us to slay you? Behold there is joy over you, as
over returning prodigal sons!--The poor Bodyguards, now National and
tricolor, exchange bonnets, exchange arms; there shall be peace and
fraternity. And still "Vive le Roi;" and also "Le Roi a Paris," not now
from one throat, but from all throats as one, for it is the heart's wish
of all mortals.

Yes, The King to Paris: what else? Ministers may consult, and National
Deputies wag their heads: but there is now no other possibility. You
have forced him to go willingly. "At one o'clock!" Lafayette gives
audible assurance to that purpose; and universal Insurrection, with
immeasurable shout, and a discharge of all the firearms, clear and
rusty, great and small, that it has, returns him acceptance. What a
sound; heard for leagues: a doom peal!--That sound too rolls away, into
the Silence of Ages. And the Chateau of Versailles stands ever since
vacant, hushed still; its spacious Courts grassgrown, responsive to
the hoe of the weeder. Times and generations roll on, in their confused
Gulf-current; and buildings like builders have their destiny.

Till one o'clock, then, there will be three parties, National Assembly,
National Rascality, National Royalty, all busy enough. Rascality
rejoices; women trim themselves with tricolor. Nay motherly Paris has
sent her Avengers sufficient 'cartloads of loaves;' which are shouted
over, which are gratefully consumed. The Avengers, in return, are
searching for grain-stores; loading them in fifty waggons; that so a
National King, probable harbinger of all blessings, may be the evident
bringer of plenty, for one.

And thus has Sansculottism made prisoner its King; revoking his
parole. The Monarchy has fallen; and not so much as honourably: no,
ignominiously; with struggle, indeed, oft repeated; but then with unwise
struggle; wasting its strength in fits and paroxysms; at every new
paroxysm, foiled more pitifully than before. Thus Broglie's whiff
of grapeshot, which might have been something, has dwindled to the
pot-valour of an Opera Repast, and O Richard, O mon Roi. Which again we
shall see dwindle to a Favras' Conspiracy, a thing to be settled by the
hanging of one Chevalier.

Poor Mon