Thus have three weeks passed.  For three weeks, the Third-Estate Carroccio, with far-seen Gonfalon, has stood stockstill, flouting the wind; waiting what force would gather round it.

Fancy can conceive the feeling of the Court; and how counsel met counsel, the loud-sounding inanity whirled in that distracted vortex, where wisdom could not dwell.  Your cunningly devised Taxing-Machine has been got together; set up with incredible labour; and stands there, its three pieces in contact; its two fly-wheels of Noblesse and Clergy, its huge working-wheel of Tiers-Etat.  The two fly-wheels whirl in the softest manner; but, prodigious to look upon, the huge working-wheel hangs motionless, refuses to stir!  The cunningest engineers are at fault.  How will it work, when it does begin?  Fearfully, my Friends; and to many purposes; but to gather taxes, or grind court-meal, one may apprehend, never.  Could we but have continued gathering taxes by hand!  Messeigneurs d’Artois, Conti, Conde (named Court Triumvirate), they of the anti-democratic Memoire au Roi, has not their foreboding proved true?  They may wave reproachfully their high heads; they may beat their poor brains; but the cunningest engineers can do nothing.  Necker himself, were he even listened to, begins to look blue.  The only thing one sees advisable is to bring up soldiers.  New regiments, two, and a battalion of a third, have already reached Paris; others shall get in march.  Good were it, in all circumstances, to have troops within reach; good that the command were in sure hands.  Let Broglie be appointed; old Marshal Duke de Broglie; veteran disciplinarian, of a firm drill-sergeant morality, such as may be depended on.

For, alas, neither are the Clergy, or the very Noblesse what they should be; and might be, when so menaced from without:  entire, undivided within.  The Noblesse, indeed, have their Catiline or Crispin D’Espremenil, dusky-glowing, all in renegade heat; their boisterous Barrel-Mirabeau; but also they have their Lafayettes, Liancourts, Lameths; above all, their D’Orleans, now cut forever from his Court-moorings, and musing drowsily of high and highest sea-prizes (for is not he too a son of Henri Quatre, and partial potential Heir-Apparent?)—­on his voyage towards Chaos.  From the Clergy again, so numerous are the Cures, actual deserters have run over:  two small parties; in the second party Cure Gregoire.  Nay there is talk of a whole Hundred and Forty-nine of them about to desert in mass, and only restrained by an Archbishop of Paris.  It seems a losing game.

But judge if France, if Paris sat idle, all this while!  Addresses from far and near flow in:  for our Commons have now grown organic enough to open letters.  Or indeed to cavil at them!  Thus poor Marquis de Breze, Supreme Usher, Master of Ceremonies, or whatever his title was, writing about this time on some ceremonial matter, sees no harm in winding up with a ’Monsieur, yours with sincere attachment.’—­“To